Alice frowned. “I’m sorry, but it still sounds rather far-fetched to me.”
“We do have other information that I’m not at liberty to divulge right now,” I said, reaching for the manila envelope resting on my lap. I took out the beach photo and handed it across the coffee table to Alice. “Can you identify these people for me?”
Alice studied the photo for a moment. “This is Wes,” she said, pointing with her index finger, “Eric, and that’s Rachel standing to his left. The other woman I’m not sure of.” She handed the photo to her aunt. “I may have seen her somewhere, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
“That’s Kate Bell.”
“Sorry, I don’t recall meeting her,” Alice said.
“They made such a lovely young couple,” Mrs. Ramey said, smiling down at the photo.
My eyes widened. “Wes Harrison and Kate Bell?”
Mrs. Ramey looked at me with her head tilted slightly and her brow furrowed. “Oh my, no, dear.” She gave a little chuckle. “Eric and my Bobby.”
I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. I glanced at Alice.
“It was never a secret that Cousin Bobby was gay, Mac.”
I waited until I was well south of the Atlanta-area traffic before calling Frank.
“Would you believe our boy Eric or Travis or whatever the hell you want to call him was banging Robert Ramey?” I said when he answered.
“Would you mind running that by me again, Mac?”
“We already know Travis Hurt was bi. Turns out Ramey was gay.”
“His mother told you that?”
“Yeah. Which probably explains why Hurt and Rachel were doing the brother-sister act. Hurt didn’t want to jeopardize his relationship with Ramey.”
“That makes sense,” Frank said.
“By the way, Ramey’s cousin, Alice, just happened to be romantically involved with Wes Harrison back in the day.”
“Slow down, you’re losing me.”
I gave Frank the gist of what went down at the meeting.
“Damn,” was all he said after I’d spelled it out.
“You mind telling me how the hell Kate could’ve been clueless about what was going on?” I said. “She’s not blind and she sure as hell isn’t stupid.”
“No clue, Mac. From what I know, Ramey spent most of his time at his Atlanta store, and when he was down here to check on his Destin business he mostly rubbed elbows with the Sandestin crowd.”
“I’m not buying it. Kate spent a lot of time palling around with Harrison and Kohler.”
“Don’t forget, this is the Bible Belt, Mac. How good would it have been for Ramey’s business if he traipsed all over town crowing about a homosexual relationship with his local store manager, or vice versa?”
Touché. “Okay, that much I’ll buy.”
“Anything else? I’ve got a client due here in a couple of minutes.”
“Yeah, two guesses who was beneficiary to a million-dollar life insurance policy on Robert Ramey. And here’s a hint: his mother wasn’t one of them.”
“Insurance policy? How did you find out about that?”
“Ramey’s mother blurted it out. Alice about had a conniption fit trying to shut her up. Take a guess.”
“Eric Kohler?”
“Very good, Sherlock. Looks like Ramey wanted to make sure his lover was well taken care of in the event of his untimely demise.”
“Damn.”
“And when Eric Kohler went down with the ship, guess who stood to inherit the money?”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t his favorite charity.”
“Good guess, Frank. I won’t mention any names, but her initials are Rachel Todd.”
CHAPTER 12
There was no sense in putting off the inevitable, so after I hung up with Frank I called Kate at Gillman’s and told her we had a lot to discuss. She invited me over for a late dinner of grilled grouper that evening, provided I do the grilling. Of course I agreed, after I’d swallowed the lump in my throat. Normally I’d jump at any chance to be with Kate, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be my cojones sizzling on the Weber along with the fish. I looked forward to telling Kate about Travis Hurt like I would a vasectomy with no anesthesia.
Around eight-fifteen I showered and trimmed my beard and moustache. Figuring I might as well look spiffy at my inquisition, I put on a new pair of Dockers and a matching polo shirt. I stopped by Gulf Groceries & Gifts on the way and bought a bottle of Kate’s favorite white wine, Kendall-Jackson chardonnay, and a single red rose. I hoped the meager peace offerings would help defuse the situation when the crapola hit the fan.
The weather was mild for the third week of April, so we decided to eat on the deck. Kate fixed our plates with grilled fillets, potatoes, and tossed salad while I opened the wine and poured her a glass. I’d been sipping Dewar’s on the rocks while performing my chefly duties, so I refilled my tumbler before sitting down to eat. I enjoy the taste of good Scotch, but it also bolsters the courage better than wine or beer.
“Okay, you said we’d talk while we eat,” Kate said, lifting a forkful of grouper to her mouth.
I took a sip of Dewar’s. “Why don’t we wait till after? It’s not polite to talk with food in your mouth.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Mac.”
I knew that look all too well. “Okay, but you’re not going to like it. Promise you won’t get pissed at me. I’m only the messenger here.”
She set her fork down and picked up her wineglass. “Promise.”
Kate didn’t sound very convincing. I pushed a bite of potato around my plate with my fork and then picked up the tumbler for another slug. “Remember when Dr. Garrett at Sacred Word Missions told us he didn’t think Rachel had a brother or half-brother?”
Kate set the wineglass down. “Of course.”
“Turns out he was right. Rachel did grow up in an orphanage like Garrett said, and she was adopted by the Todds when she was thirteen. And by the way, the orphanage is in Waxahachie, where Eric said they were from.”
It was Kate’s turn to play with her food. She stared down at her plate a moment before looking up. “Why on earth would they have pretended to be related?”
I reached across the table and took Kate’s hand in mine. “It gets worse. You sure you want to hear this?”
Kate bit her lower lip as she nodded.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Okay, here goes. Eric was also living in the same orphanage. Him and Rachel met up and had a thing going. He—”
“Thing?” Kate’s jaw clenched and her nostrils flared. “What sort of thing?”
I had to force the words out. “They were having sex.”
Kate jerked her hand away from mine and covered her eyes with both palms. “Dang... no, not... dang, shit! Shit!”
“I’m sorry, Kate,” I muttered, my throat tightening.
“Eric had sex with a thirteen-year-old girl? I don’t believe it.”
I blew out another breath. “Actually, it started when she was twelve.”
Kate’s hands slid up and grabbed a double handful of hair. “Shit!”
I waited while she repeated the first real expletive I could remember her saying. After a few seconds she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, Mac. What else did you find out?”
“You’re going to need more wine,” I said, tilting the bottle to Kate’s glass. “Okay. The guy you knew as Eric Kohler wasn’t Eric Kohler. His name was Travis Hurt. The real Eric Kohler grew up in the same orphanage with Rachel and Travis. He—”
“Wait, wait!” Kate’s hands covered her eyes again. She held them there for a couple of seconds and then looked at me. “What?”
“The Eric you knew was actually Travis Hurt. The real Eric Kohler was killed during the invasion of Iraq about a year after he left the orphanage. Travis Hurt most likely stole Eric Kohler’s identity to cover up his criminal record.”
In the subdued lighting of the tiki torches I saw Kate�
�s face turn pale. I got up and put an arm around her shoulders. “How could I have been such fool, Mac?” she said. “I really liked the guy. How can anybody be such a bad judge of character?”
I didn’t have an answer.
After Kate calmed down I told her everything I’d found out during my Texas trip, including Hurt’s bisexual exploits at the orphanage and the possibility that he and Rachel might’ve been responsible for the fatal fire that made Rachel an instant millionaire and rendered her an orphan for the second time. I also gave her a quick briefing on my Atlanta trip, including Alice Spence’s history of dating Wes Harrison whenever she was in Destin. But I did hold back one delicate detail.
By then Kate had slugged down over half the bottle of Kendall-Jackson and was well on her way to getting drunk. I figured now was as good a time as any to deliver the coup de grâce. “While I was at Mrs. Ramey’s I showed her and Alice the photo of you and the others on the beach,” I said. “Out of the blue Mrs. Ramey commented about how they made such a lovely young couple. At first I thought she meant you and Wes, but it turned out she was talking about Eric and her son.”
Kate’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t say anything. A couple of seconds later she turned the bottle of chardonnay up to her lips, foregoing the glass. After a long swig she wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and repeated her new favorite word, “Shit.”
I wished to hell we’d never gone to O’Malley’s Theater that night. Harrison, Kohler, and Ramey would all be safely resting in Davy Jones’ Locker and none of this crap would be happening. A week went by, and Kate didn’t answer or return my calls. The two times she answered the phone when I called Gillman’s Marina she hung up as soon as she heard my voice. So much for not killing the messenger.
I missed her. I was willing to apologize and take the blame to make things right between us, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, at least the way I saw things. But she evidently wasn’t interested, at least not anytime soon. I’m no psychologist, but she was clearly in denial. I guess I’d blown the image she had of Harrison and Kohler that she’d been clinging to. The torch she was carrying for Wes Harrison was hotter than I’d thought.
The last day of April I received a call from Frank. I’d spent the afternoon surf fishing for pompano but had struck out. Earlier in the week I’d twisted an ankle stumbling down the steps of my trailer, burned a finger while grilling chicken, and had two flat tires on my Silverado. So when the phone rang just as the ten o’clock news was coming on, I figured it couldn’t be good news.
“What in the hell did you do to get Katie so upset?” Frank said, loud enough to blow the wax out my ear.
I took a sip of Dewar’s. “What’s with the shouting, Frank? I told her the truth about what I learned in Waxahachie and Atlanta.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. When did you talk to her?”
“This morning. She’s here at her parents’ place for the weekend. Jim and Mary got back from Arizona a couple of days ago.”
“So, am I fired?”
“I didn’t say that. Just give Katie some space until this blows over.”
“Blows over? Hell, Frank, it’s been over a decade and she’s still gaga over Wes Harrison!”
“Calm down, Mac. I’ve known Katie all her life. She loves you.”
I laughed. “Yeah, tell it to the Marines.”
“Katie’s always been high-spirited, but she loves you. Believe it.”
I topped off my Scotch. “So, do I keep working or what?”
“You’re still on the payroll. How are the lessons coming along?”
“Like a three-legged turtle through quicksand.”
“Well, keep at it. By the way, I’ve got some interesting dope on the diamonds and paperwork Katie found.”
“Shoot.”
“No time right now. I’m meeting with a client in a few minutes. I’ll be in touch soon.”
I’d just clicked off when somebody rapped on the door.
CHAPTER 13
“Hey, McClellan.”
A smiling Dakota stepped past me and inside the camper carrying a small purse tucked under one arm and a brown paper sack in the opposite hand. She found her way to the kitchen nook and set the sack on the counter with a thud.
“Brought you a little present.” She dropped the purse on the counter and lifted a bottle of Dewar’s out of the sack like a magician pulling a rabbit from a top hat. She held up the bottle. “I believe this is your brand?”
Dakota was dressed a little less conservatively than on her previous visit. Okay, a lot less. She wore a sleeveless button-up blouse knotted in front between her bejeweled belly button and rib cage. No bra; I could tell right off because she’d conveniently left the top three or four buttons undone. The denim shorts weren’t quite as tight or short as her beachwear the day I’d met her with J.D. outside The Green Parrot, but they weren’t in any danger of falling off without considerable effort, either. Oh, and flip-flops.
I must’ve stared a little too long. “You like?” She grinned and placed her free hand on a hip that she thrust out just enough for effect.
I gathered myself and pointed to the Scotch. “Yeah, thanks. How’d you know I like Dewar’s?”
“I’ve got my connections. I know a lot about you, McClellan. How about a drink for your guest? Neat.”
Just then I noticed her hair. The bleached blonde was now a strawberry blonde, damn near the same color as Alice Spence’s hair. “What’s with the new hair color?”
Dakota threw back her head and laughed. “A gentleman shouldn’t ask a lady about such things, but since I’m hoping you’re not a gentleman tonight I’ll tell you. I saw a woman at work with the color and I liked it. End of story. Now, how about that drink?”
Who the hell was this young vixen, and what was she up to? I made a mental note to talk to J.D. “Looks to me like you’ve already had a few.”
She frowned. “A couple of beers is all.”
“You sure you ought to mess with the hard stuff?”
Dakota’s eyes darted below my beltline for a teasing second and then locked on mine. She flashed a smile, and the tip of her tongue jutted between her teeth. “You already checked my ID, McClellan. I’m sure I can handle it.”
I woke up at daybreak with the damndest hangover I’d had since my first liberty in J’ville when I was a newly assigned PFC rifleman stationed at Camp Lejeune. It was a hell of a way to welcome the merry month of May.
I groaned and grabbed both temples as I sat up on the sofa where I’d spent the night. My mouth tasted like a herd of goats had crapped in it. The first thing that caught my eye was the empty bottle of Dewar’s on the coffee table. Dakota and I had damn sure made good use of her gift.
Dakota... crap! My mind was in a fog. I stood up, relieved to find my shorts and skivvies were still intact. Then I noticed a phone number scrawled on the back of my right hand, followed by “Call me.” I eased toward the bedroom and glanced in. Empty. Dakota and what little clothes she’d scattered about the trailer were gone. The way she was kicking back the Scotch last night, the girl sure had one hell of a strong constitution to be up and out of here this early.
I made it back to the sofa and sat down. For a minute guilt grabbed me. I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened or hadn’t happened. Gradually the fog lifted and it came back to me. I’d poured her a drink, and we’d sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table to talk. She mostly evaded my questions when I tried to find out more about her personal life and what she planned to do with her future. About the only thing she spilled, besides her last shot of Dewar’s, was that her mother had never married her father—“The son of a bitch ran out on us while I was still in diapers”—and that her mother had been in and out of rehab for drugs and alcohol during most of Dakota’s high school years. She and J.D. practically grew up together and were more like big brother and little sister than cousins.
One thing seemed certain: Dakota was o
bviously not harboring any love for her long-lost dad. Maybe that’s why she seemed so intent on targeting me. Was she somehow attracted to me as a father figure, or was I just a convenient sugar daddy?
After a few drinks Dakota got all giddy and started pawing at me. My willpower just about bottomed out fending her off, especially after she sashayed around the kitchen kicking the flip-flops across the room and peeling off her clothes piece by piece in an impromptu striptease. She got down to her pink panties that barely fit the description and then tried to drag me to the bedroom. I retrieved her blouse and attempted to cover her with it, but she snatched it out of my hands and flung it across the room. I tried to keep my eyes off the vitals, but the combination of Dewar’s and testosterone won that battle. The girl had one hell of a nice body, there was no denying that.
I finally gave up mimicking a sea anchor and decided the best course was to follow her into the bedroom. Dakota yanked back the sheets and hit the sack. She reached under the covers and wiggled out of the wisp of pink material and tossed it on the floor at the foot of the bed. She patted the mattress next to her. I slipped off my shoes and climbed in beside her, still wearing my shirt and shorts.
“C’mon, McClellan,” she said, slurring the words, “you gotta get naked if you wanna do me.”
I won’t say I wasn’t tempted, because I was. Everything told me to go for it. Dakota wasn’t jailbait, but Kate’s face kept popping up in my mind.
Dakota kept bugging me to get undressed, so finally I tugged off my shirt. That seemed enough to appease her. She rolled over, draped an arm around my shoulders, and snuggled tight against me. A few seconds later she was asleep.
I went to the bathroom, slugged down a double-shot of Alka-Seltzer, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. There was a rolled-up slip of paper inside the handle of the coffee decanter. I unrolled it. It was a note written in a nice cursive hand:
Deadly Ruse Page 9