Black Widow df-15

by Randy Wayne White

  “You haven’t heard from him?”

  “Nope. Almost a month it’s been.”

  Sounding more distant, Bernie told me, “Then there’s your answer.”

  10

  An electronic clatter awoke me at a little after 4 p.m. Vance’s phone. It was on the nightstand with my glasses.

  Caller ID flashed Beryl… Beryl… Beryl.

  A determined woman.

  I gave her time to leave a message, then checked. None from Beryl, but four I’d missed during my short run and swim. One from Michael, two from Elliot, all brief: Call me!

  The fourth was longer. A woman’s voice, furtive, talking as if she feared being overheard. “Hey, it’s me. I just heard about your wife. My God, it’s terrible and all, but they say she’s gonna be okay. So maybe we can actually, like, spend some time together, you know? Call me at the club.”

  Georgia accent. Valley Girl rhythms. Club was a nightclub. The word becomes a proper noun when referring to a country club, spoken with affected emphasis. So she was a waitress, a hostess, a stripper, or a regular at a favorite bar. A woman Vance knew well enough that her name should have been logged in caller ID. But it wasn’t.

  Vance, who was desperately jealous of his wife, had a girlfriend on the side. An opportunist. She was looking forward to the free time Corey’s near-suicide provided them.

  As I wrote the number in the Medusa notebook, the phone next to my bookshelf began to ring. It’s an old black desk model with buttons. No caller ID-same as the cheap answering machine. But because I recognized the woman’s voice when she began her message, I rushed to answer.

  It was Beryl. She couldn’t get Vance, so she was calling me.

  I answered, “Beryl?”

  She said, “Why the surprise? You knew it was me, or you wouldn’t have picked up. Eavesdropped on any good conversations lately, Dr. Ford?”

  I replied, “Nope. But not because I haven’t tried,” pleased with the secret honesty. She caught it.

  “I believe you. I think you’re one of those people who ducks the truth by telling the truth. The innocent-looking type. You know the kind I mean? When actually they’re hell-raisers.”

  “This morning you accused me of being a drug mobster. Now I’m an innocent type? I feel like I let you down.”

  “What I said was, ‘drug lord or government assassin.’ ” Beryl listened a beat, as if I might reply. When I didn’t, she added, “And I don’t know you well enough to be disappointed. Shay gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t.

  Beryl had just left the hospital, she said. Corey was conscious and doing better. Corey’s mother and father also were doing better. Their attorney had delayed questioning by the police.

  “They called their lawyer after talking to Shay. She-the lawyer-had a private talk with Corey. The overdose was accidental. Corey knows how important that is. Her parents are really relieved, but they’re also very pissed off at Vance-as in pushing for prosecution.”

  Shay was doing well, too, Beryl added. She would be released soon, possibly tomorrow.

  I said, “Smart girl, your pal, Shay. Savvy and tough.”

  Beryl became more businesslike. “From what Shay tells me, she’s got a very savvy godfather, too. I hope it’s true, because she told me something surprising. It was something you could’ve told me at breakfast, but didn’t. I thought we were supposed to be confidants, Dr. Ford.”

  “Drop the prefix,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help me open up.”

  “Okay… Ford. I just found out you plan to pay a visit to our favorite island. That you’re going there to try and solve our little problem. You know-the thing that doesn’t exist, and the night that never happened?”

  I replied, “I have to be in the area anyway, so why not?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “It happens to be true. I’m working on a project that has to do with jellyfish. There’s a rare species found in that section of the Caribbean, so I have to go anyway. Not very interesting, but it’s what I do.”

  “True?” Her signature question, I realized.

  I echoed, “True.”

  “Then you are going.”

  “Yes-but not for fun. When I’m not holed up working, reading journals and making notes, I’ll use the free time to talk to authorities and ask a few questions. I doubt if there’s much I can do.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow. Sunday at the latest.”

  Beryl asked, “Do you want company?” She said it so coolly, it took a second to register.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. I can help. I know details you don’t. Who, what, when, where-it’ll save a lot of time. And I am motivated.”

  “You sound mad, not motivated.”

  “I’m both. You said Shay-shay’s tough? Have you ever asked her about me?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe she’ll tell you the truth.” That hint of animus again-Beryl and Shay weren’t as buddy-buddy as I’d believed.

  I said, “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Okay. I’ll skip the personal history and give you the short version: I don’t like being manipulated, and I won’t tolerate being bullied. I’m not some naive airhead. I’m a big girl, reasonably intelligent, and I’m good at getting what I want. Can’t we at least talk about it over drinks?”

  Whew.

  Tempting, but I couldn’t.

  I said, “Sorry, Beryl. The problem is-”

  “I know, I know, you always travel alone. Shay told me you’d say that. But know what else she said? She said your marina has a party every Friday night. And if I really wanted to convince you, I should show up whether you invited me or not, and have an honest talk. Shay says you’re big on honesty.”

  When I started to speak, the woman interrupted again. “Tonight’s Friday. Maybe I’ll be at the party, maybe I won’t. But I’ll tell you this, Ford-I don’t need your permission to go to Saint Arc. If I decide to go, I’m going.”

  “But, Beryl-”

  She hung up.

  I wandered around the lab, too wired to sleep, too much on my mind to work. Tried different scenarios that included an auburn-haired female who left a wake of staring men when exiting a room, and whom the bad guys already knew.

  Beryl was right. I travel alone. How could I explain carrying weapons and night-vision gear to a woman who’d grown up in a privileged, protected world?

  No way.

  To get my mind off it, I went to the computer, sat, and researched techniques for restoring charred paper. Found an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences that was useful, and e-mailed the two experts it quoted, and a third expert who was mentioned in the footnotes.

  A handwritten letter of personal interest was damaged by fire before I had a chance to read it. I have no interest in restoration, but I would like to know the letter’s contents. Would you be willing to advise me on methods of data recovery…?

  Next, I compiled background material on Saint Arc.

  Officially named Saint Joan of Arc, this tiny island in the Eastern Caribbean chain is eight miles long and four miles wide, and a member of the French Commonwealth. The island is one of four French overseas departments in the Caribbean. The others are Martinique, French Guiana, and Guadeloupe-all former French colonies.

  Because of this, Saint Arc is governed by French law and its citizens are legally French citizens, although France seldom interferes with the local government.

  First inhabitants were Arawak who mixed with escaped slaves called Maroons (derived from the Spanish, Cimarron, meaning “untamed” or “wild”). Later, pirates used the island as a base. Saint Arc remained unsettled by Europeans, and was a lawless stronghold until the mid-1700s, when a French weapons manufacturer began purchasing bird guano, used in the making of gunpowder.

  In the 1770s, when England took control of nearby Saint Lucia, Loyalists fleeing the American Revolution were
commonly awarded land grants by the crown as a reward. The growing population of Loyalists soon spilled over onto nearby Saint Arc. Today, tourists are often surprised to discover that a large percentage of native islanders are white…

  Escaped slaves, pirates, gunpowder. On an island with that kind of history, blackmail would be considered a benign enterprise.

  I went for a short run, stopped at the beach at the end of Tarpon Bay Road, and swam two laps around the NO WAKE buoys before returning to the computer. I still had to book a flight.

  I could fly Air Jamaica out of Miami, switch planes in Montego Bay, and be on Saint Arc by early tomorrow afternoon, depending on whether I took a boat or a private plane from nearby Saint Lucia. Or there was an Avianca flight that stopped in Bogota, but got in two hours later…

  But how the hell could I take the weapons I needed on a commercial flight?

  I’d figure out something, I decided, or buy what I needed locallywhich meant taking another five thousand euros from the floor safe.

  Because Jamaican airports are a nightmare, I booked a commuter flight to Miami, then a first-class seat on Avianca departing 12:35 a.m.

  I’d have to be on the road early, so I finished packing, then cleaned up the mess left by Vance Varigono. As I did, I thought about Shay and her attempt to apologize for not asking me to give her away at the wedding. I hadn’t considered it a slight until Michael mentioned it.

  Now, though, it made sense. There were reasons enough for a success-oriented woman like Shay to keep her distance. My occupation had to be guessed at, though never openly. To Shay’s friends, I was kindly, bookish, and weird.

  But Shay was savvy enough to assemble the truth about me even without the help of concrete details. No wonder she’d asked another man to give her away. No wonder she’d never introduced me to her prospective in-laws. To finesse that without alienating anyone took a hell of a lot of thought and effort. I admired her unsentimental approach.

  Hadn’t I constructed the woman’s caricature to reflect my own conceits?

  It didn’t cause me to doubt her loyalty. I was the man she came running to when she needed help.

  An hour before sunset…

  Through the window, I could see the encampment of buildings that was Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Fishing guides were in for the day, hunkered together at the picnic tables outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop. Probably eating fried conch sandwiches and debating where to fish the next morning.

  The Friday night party was taking shape, too. Mack, the owner, was lugging a tub of beer to the docks. Three new lady live-aboards-Jane, Deanne, and Heidi-were his cheerful, smiling overseers. Guys in Jensen Marina’s beach band, the Trouble Starters, were testing speakers, and it looked like Danny Morgan and Jim Morris were sitting in.

  Big night-the summer solstice. A few people would be wearing Druid robes; almost everyone would be behaving like heathens. A good night for Beryl to crash the party, except for one thing-the woman I’d been dating would be at the party, too.

  Well… sort of dating: Kathleen Rhodes, Ph. D. A fellow marine biologist and a former love interest who seemed determined to make me her current love interest.

  Through the window, I could see the pretty trawler Kathleen called home. The Darwin C. White hull, green trim. It was moored at the deep-water docks between a soggy old Chris Craft, Tiger Lily, and Coach Mike’s thirty-eight-foot-long Sea Ray, Playmaker. The trawler had been at the marina only a few weeks, so still caught the eye.

  I’d met Kathleen a couple of years back when she was a research biologist at Mote Marine. We’d had a relationship so intensely physical that the emotional component never caught up. There were always sparks of one kind or another. It made it easier for both of us when she announced she was leaving Florida to cruise the coast of Mexico. Her farewell letter to me was touching but also uncomfortably honest. It was in the fireproof box along with other important papers.

  Seeing the Darwin C. brought back memories of the nights I’d spent aboard. It brought back the shape and scent of the woman; the qualities of her intellect; and her lucid, scientist’s view of life. But having the boat moored so close to home also made me jumpy.

  Kathleen had arrived unannounced. There are marinas on the islands that are better equipped and easier to access, but she’d chosen Dinkin’s Bay. No accident. Why?

  My marina neighbors include a tight little group of women who aren’t shy with their opinions, especially about female outsiders. The ladies had taken me aside at parties; they’d stood on tiptoes to whisper advice in my ear.

  Kathleen had reached The Age, they told me. The woman was single, childless, and ready to nest. It didn’t matter how many college degrees Dr. Rhodes had, they said. Didn’t matter that she was bright, independent, and financially set. Maternal drive is a powerful force. It was controlling her behavior and her scruples.

  I chided them gently for trivializing their own sex, saying, “You talk like she’s under a primitive spell.” But the lady live-aboards only blinked at me, shaking their heads. How could I be so damn naive?

  “Primitive spell” described the transformation perfectly, they said.

  No wonder I was jumpy.

  I’d taken Kathleen to dinner a couple of times. Went to a concert at Big Arts. But the line that allows old lovers to meet comfortably as friends is a dangerous border. Sex is the only basic human function that can complicate the hell out of a human life.

  So I was taking it slow-too slow for Kathleen, although she hadn’t said it.

  She would, though. Maybe tonight, if Beryl showed up. Two power-house women at one small marina. How smart was that?

  Hmm.

  But Kathleen had no claim. And Beryl hadn’t signaled a romantic interest, and probably wouldn’t. So…

  I went outside and did pull-ups. Did descending sets 15-14-13-12. .. Did them until I couldn’t do any more. Then I showered, changed into clean khaki shorts, and selected a black guayabera shirt recently purchased in Panama.

  Before leaving, I checked myself in the mirror.

  So let the two ladies meet. See what happens…

  Because of the party, cars lined the shell lane that is the terminus of Tarpon Bay Road, but only a black Mercedes was occupied. Two people, front seat. Female with beehive hair on the passenger side.

  I spotted the car while checking for Beryl’s Volvo convertible, but I would’ve noticed anyway. Beryl’s car was parked near the gate. She’d already joined the party. Why hadn’t the couple in the Mercedes?

  I kept an eye on them as I exited the boardwalk, aware I was being watched through tinted glass.

  The driver’s door opened. A man got out: basketball-tall, early thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, blond hair styled to appear thicker. It was Shay’s fiance, Michael Jonquil.

  “Dr. Ford? Have a minute?” As he closed the door, I got a peek at the passenger-his mother.

  I replied, “Of course,” but glanced at my watch to let him know I was in a hurry. I don’t like surprises. Michael could have asked Shay for my number. Why hadn’t he called?

  “It won’t take long. Do you mind sitting in the car?”

  “Why? It’s a nice evening.”

  “My mother would like to speak with you.”

  “No problem.” I turned and smiled at her silhouette: heavy forehead, small chin. “She can roll down the window.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t do.”

  I said, “How about my lab? That’s private.”

  Jonquil said, “So I’ve heard,” meaning something, I didn’t know what. “But she prefers the car.”

  I looked at my watch again. “Well, life’s full of little disappointments. I’ll give you my number, we can arrange a meeting. But if it concerns Shay and it’s important, I guess I could-”

  Jonquil gave a private shake of the head, and silenced me with his eyes. He faced the Mercedes, shrugged-I tried-then told me, “I’ll be right back.”

  I waited as he leaned into the car and spoke to his
mother. I got another quick look at the woman: dark dress, hands on lap, black hair that framed the familiar scowl.

  “Sorry about that,” Jonquil said as returned. He sounded relieved, not disappointed. “Mind if we talk? Confidentially, I mean.”

  “Confidential as in exclude Shay? Sorry, can’t agree to that.”

  “Good for you. Isn’t it irritating how many people say yes automatically? No idea what they’re being asked to keep secret, but it doesn’t matter because their word’s meaningless.” He’d put his hand on my shoulder and turned me so we were walking with our backs to the Mercedes-a politician’s device. “Listen to what I have to say, then decide. Okay?”

  I answered, "Okay,” aware of his mild accent when pronouncing Ws and Os. A man who’d spent his summers in Europe speaking French-Swiss.

  I listened to Jonquil say how shocking it was, Corey’s overdose. And what a close call for Shay. He regretted not getting to know me better, and looked forward to the two of us hanging out. When he sensed my impatience, he got serious.

  “Truth is, I’m glad you didn’t talk to Mother. It’s good for her not to get her way occasionally.”

  I said, “If it’s only occasionally, you’re mother has lived an unusual life.”

  “You couldn’t be more right. She comes from old money, she and her six sisters. Royal bloodlines-I suspect you know what that means in Europe. On the paternal side, her grandfather was an international industrialist. My own father was a brilliant man, Dr. Ford. I wish you could’ve met him. But the fortune that he… well, let’s say the success my father enjoyed doesn’t compare to mother’s family. My aunts are strong women. They didn’t approve of my father. Some of mother’s family still don’t, even though it’s been two years since he died.”

  I said, “Then your engagement to Shay must be quite a shock. Does your mother know Shay’s background?”

  “The investigators she hired gave a full report. A father who was a convicted felon. A mother who, as you know, was a…” He hesitated, then left the sentence unfinished. “So of course Mother doesn’t approve. But I think she’s come to admire Shay in her own way.