by DOUG KEELER
Chapter Three
Sitting in the car, I slid the envelope out of my pants. I flipped it over a couple of times, shook it, smelled it, then slit it open with my ignition key. Inside was a handwritten note on a sheet of pricey-looking stationery. The note was some kind of poem or limerick. It said:
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
Hidden in Bourbon Field
Beneath the largest tree just like Sam McGee
Three hundred pounds concealed
Strange things done in the midnight sun...what the hell was that all about? I’ve been known to do some strange things myself, and I could certainly be accused of hiding out in a bottle of scotch from time to time, but this made absolutely no sense. And what exactly is a field of bourbon? I know bourbon is made from fermented corn. I read the poem a couple more times, but the damn thing didn’t seem to have any relevance to the case. Frustrated, I slid the poem back in the envelope and locked it in my glove box.
I still had a few hours before I met Caroline for lunch. When a person goes missing, the clues are often hidden within the hours and days that preceded their disappearance. My mind turned to Sapelo. Claire worked there, and it was the first thing Cavanaugh mentioned. Was the key to finding her located out on the island?
I knew I wouldn’t get out there today. I needed to start calling hospitals. I cranked the motor and sat listening to it idle for a moment, then peeled out.
~ ~ ~
The 5 Spot was packed, which didn’t surprise me. It’s a popular eatery, particularly with the locals. It’s located in the Habersham Village shopping center, about a ten-minute drive from downtown.
I looked around and didn’t see Caroline. This didn’t surprise me either. While I waited for her to show, I took a seat at the bar, nursed a beer, and munched on some pretzels.
Earlier, I’d phoned every hospital between Brunswick, a small city south of Sapelo Island, to Charleston. But I found no trace of Claire. Next I swung by The Book Lady Bookstore. I picked up two books, one on Sapelo, the other on R.J. Reynolds. And in addition to the books, I bought an aerial map of coastal Georgia. The map was laminated, which is a good thing if you had it sitting on top of a bar like I did.
Printed on the back of the map were all kinds of interesting facts. Officially, Georgia has seventeen barrier islands, sometimes referred to as the Golden Isles. And only four of the seventeen can be reached by car: Tybee, Jekyll, St. Simons and Sea Island. The rest, including Sapelo, must be reached by boat. This has left Georgia’s coast unspoiled and undeveloped. Lucky us. How many Hilton Heads do we need anyway? Am I right?
Here’s another map fact: at the dawn of the twentieth century, tycoons, robber barons and captains of industry escaped the cold winters of the north by flocking to the Georgia coast for the mild, sub-tropical weather. I read their names: Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Ford, Pulitzer, Rockefeller, DuPont, Goodyear, and Morgan.
According to the map, in 1910, under the tutelage of Wall Street king J.P. Morgan, The Federal Reserve was secretly conceived on Jekyll Island. Who knew?
Looking at the map, I noticed Sapelo sat smack in the middle of Georgia’s coastline. Directly to the North, separated by a small tidal creek, was Blackbeard Island, where, according to legend, the famed pirate buried treasure that’s never been found.
Anyway, there I was, hunkered in at the bar with my new map when I felt fingers trailing lightly across the back of my neck.
“Sorry I’m late,” Caroline said. “Hey, what’s with the map, blowing town without telling me, Fontaine?”
“Just getting my bearings. Hungry?”
“Starved. Pressed for time too. Mind if we eat at the bar?”
“You sure?”
She answered by sliding onto the stool next to me. My kind of girl.
Here’s the thing about Caroline. She’s a cop and a damn good one. But she’s also a real head-turner, tall and striking, with Cherokee blood on her father’s side, and a taut, gym-honed body. Filling out the rest of the details: age, thirty-eight; hair, medium length, dark brown; eyes, blue-green; nice mouth, full lips, flawless skin, and impossibly high cheekbones.
In an effort to be taken seriously in the male-dominated world of law enforcement, Caroline deliberately tries to downplay her looks. That means zero makeup or jewelry while on the job, and a wardrobe that reveals as little as possible. Today’s entry in the cover-up sweepstakes: a mid-length linen blazer and a pair of flare leg pants. Not bad, but I’d have preferred a black mini skirt.
After she settled in, I turned toward her and impressed her with one of my new map facts. “Did you know the first transcontinental phone call was made from Jekyll Island?”
Caroline gazed at me with wide-eyed wonder. Well, not exactly. She leaned back, crossed her arms and said, “Have you lost your mind?”
I shrugged, put the map away, and returned to my beer. I guess some people just aren’t into history.
We made small talk for a few minutes. The bartender wandered over and dropped off a couple menus. “My name is Jeff,” he said to us. “I’ll be taking care of you today.” He took Caroline’s drink order, a glass of sweet tea, then made his way toward the other end of the bar.
Caroline leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “I’ve got the missing persons report in the car. I asked a few questions for you too. We’re trying to track Claire’s cell phone location.”
I took a sip of my beer. “Thanks for grabbing it, Caroline. I owe you.”
“I looked it over Fontaine, and it’s pretty thin. You realize it was filed late yesterday, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Might turn out to be useful to me though. I still haven’t met her parents.”
Caroline looked surprised. “No? Who hired you then?”
“Some old codger named Edward Cavanaugh. He’s got an outfit called Coastal Capital.” I popped a pretzel into my mouth. “Know him?”
“He’s not just some old codger Fontaine. He’s one of the wealthiest men in Savannah, probably in the entire state. Ever heard of a family office?”
Actually, I knew what a family office was even before Cavanaugh’s spiel this morning. But I played along and said, “Isn’t that a TV show?”
She laughed. “A family office manages the money of the super wealthy. If I’m not mistaken, John D. Rockefeller was the first to set one up to handle his vast fortune.” She looked at me and said, “Oprah uses one.”
“Oprah huh?” I chomped another pretzel.
“I read that in Forbes a couple months ago.”
“Forbes, my ass. You read that in People magazine.”
Caroline laughed again. “What’s Cavanaugh connection?”
“Claire’s father is one of his clients.”
“That means he’s got money. What’s he do for a living?”
“Heart surgeon. He and his wife are driving down from Charleston. I’m meeting ‘em this afternoon at Claire’s townhouse.” I left out the part about hanging up on him.
“Mind if we order?” she asked, laying her menu on the bar. “I need to get back to work.”
The bartender glanced our way. “Hey Steve,” I called out. “I think we’re ready to order.”
“His name’s Jeff,” Caroline said, elbowing me in the ribs.
“Used to be Steve,” I replied. “Witness protection program.”
She rolled her eyes and said to the bartender, “I’ll have a cup of French onion soup and a Caesar salad. And please don’t mind my friend. He’s been hit on the head more times than I can count.”
I looked at Jeff, or Steve, or whatever the hell his name was. “I’ll have the fish tacos with a side of fries.”
After he left to turn in our order, Caroline asked, “Why do I put up with you?”
“Because my wit is razor sharp, and you find me sexy and irresistible.” I added, “Plus I buy you lunch.”
“You’re a moderately attractive imbecile, and quite ea
sy to resist.”
“Must be my dancing then.”
“You’re giving me a headache.” She shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Here’s a freebie for you. Make sure you check Claire’s Facebook page.”
I shook my head and groaned.
The entire self-absorbed, social media thing baffles me. It’s like a never-ending nightmare scenario of looking at your neighbors boring vacation photos. Who cares? I just don’t understand the need to share every minute detail of my life. I don’t like to share anything.
“Climb down off your stegosaurus,” Caroline said. “It’s the twenty-first century. Claire might’ve posted a clue about what’s going on in her life that could help you find her.”
“Don’t tell me you’re into that nonsense.” I knew she was right, but I like being obstinate.
“I’m a modern woman,” she said. “You, on the other hand, are a Cro-Magnon. You drive an old car, listen to ancient music, you hate technology. Hell, you’d be communicating with smoke signals if you could get away with it.”
“What can I say? I’m old school.”
The reality is everything’s disposable these days. But I say fuck newfangled, and to hell with the latest-greatest. The numbskulls who stand in line for days in order to score the latest iPhone, then act like they’ve won the lottery, piss me off. I like things with permanence, things that will last and stand the test of time: historic homes, cars made of steel, music from the legends, my divorce. I could go on, but you know where I’m coming from.
“Old school my ass,” she said, smiling. “You’re an old fool.”
“I’m three years older than you.”
“Quiet. I’m making a point. And the point is this...in life you keep up or get left behind. Now that I think about it, you’re probably the only guy in his forties left on the planet who doesn’t use Facebook. Even the department has a page.”
“Thanks for the rant,” I said. “Facebook it is.”
A few minutes later, what’s-his-name brought our lunch. As we ate, Caroline and I slipped into an easy and companionable silence. The food, as usual, was good, and so was spending a little time with her.
Halfway through the meal, Caroline started stealing my french fries.
“Why you?” she asked, nibbling on a fry.
Like most men, I listen fifty percent of the time...maybe. So I did what I usually do when I’m tuned out...I nodded my head and kept on chewing. Caroline must not have heard me nod because she asked it again. “Why you?”
I looked at her. “What the hell are you doing, speaking Mandarin?”
“No knucklehead. I’m asking you this...why you?”
“Why me, what? And stop stealing all my french fries.”
She snatched another one. “Why you, as in why did Cavanaugh hire you?”
“Didn’t ask him.”
“Yeah?” She studied me. “Well, maybe you should.”
“I’ll think about it.” I slid my plate just beyond her grasp.
“I’m serious,” she said, straining for another french fry. “You’re a skeptic, a cynic, a wiseass, a hard-ass, and most of all, a royal pain in the ass. You piss everybody off. You break all the rules and half the laws. You, my friend, are not a team player.”
“Teamwork’s overrated, but I appreciate the pep talk.” I knocked back some of my beer and looked at her. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll flop on the floor, curl up in a ball, and suck my thumb.”
“Think about it,” she said, sounding serious. “Cavanaugh can afford to hire anyone. The man has more money than Midas.”
“The muffler shop?”
She laughed once again. I was on fire. I could do no wrong. “King Midas. You know...as in Greek mythology. Everything he touched turned to gold. It was known as the Midas touch.” She swiveled her stool and looked at me. “Let me ask you something. How much time did you spend with Cavanaugh this morning?”
“I don’t know. Thirty, forty-five minutes, maybe.”
“And how many times did you piss him off?”
“Not once.” Unless you counted the time he looked like he wanted to slug me.
“Look,” she said. “All I’m saying is keep your eyes wide open. He may, and I stress may, want something else from you.”
“Maybe he wants my business.” I mean my eyes are always wide open, but now they were ready to pop out of my head.
Caroline smiled. “I know you won a pile when you sued for unlawful termination, but his firm probably has a twenty million buy-in. You didn’t win that much, did you?”
“Not even close.”
The Atlanta paper where I toiled for ten years is owned by a large media conglomerate. Cable, internet, newspaper and magazine publishing...the whole enchilada. Angie, my ex, is a mid-level vice president with the cable division. In fact, that’s sort of how we met. It was the holiday season. Good cheer, and all the warm and fuzzies. Anyway, in an effort to save a couple bucks, the skinflints at corporate decided on one big Christmas party instead allowing each division to hold their own.
I made a cursory appearance, shook some hands, slapped a couple backs, and was about to blow out of there. On my way out the door, I noticed a good-looking blonde standing by the bar. Long story short, we hit it off pretty good and tied the knot a year later. After a four year run, Angie got pregnant. And just like that, it was Angie, Megan, and me.
So one day, not long after Megan’s second birthday, I came home from work around lunchtime. I needed to pick up some notes on a story I was working on. To my surprise, there was a car I didn’t recognize parked in the driveway, a black Mercedes convertible.
I stepped inside the house and heard voices emanating from the guest bedroom. You know where this is going: I found Angie and the number two man in the organization, a schmuck named Troy Holden, in bed sharing a post-coital moment. Talk about awkward.
So there I was, standing at the foot of the bed, looking at my naked wife and her paramour. And the strangest thing happened. In my darkest hour, I found enlightenment. Like a blind man with his vision restored, I had a moment of clarity beyond anything I’d ever experienced. My past fell by the wayside. The sham of a life I’d been leading no longer mattered. I felt at peace. I was free.
Of course, none of that actually happened. Instead, I went certifiable. I dragged Holden’s flabby ass out of the sack and flung him through the window. Then I stomped outside, helped him to his feet, and broke his jaw with a sweet little roundhouse right. To make sure I got my point across, I finished up with a half dozen well-placed kicks to his balls. What’s more, the jerk made no attempt to defend himself. He just laid there in the grass whimpering, while I pummeled him.
Next, I gathered their clothes from the bedroom floor, took them to the garage, and soaked them with gasoline. Then I had myself a mini bonfire on the front seat of Troy’s car. You should’ve seen it; roiling flames leaped six feet into the air.
Someone in the neighborhood must’ve called the fire department because a big red hook and ladder unit came whizzing down the street, sirens blaring. The firefighters managed to extinguish the blaze, but the Mercedes was a smoldering heap by that point.
Anyway, Holden spent a week at Piedmont Hospital. The surgeons wired his mouth shut, plucked countless glass shards from his carcass, and basically put him back together again...except Humpty Dumpty was humping my wife.
Fate is fickle; it can be kind, it can be cruel, or it can be completely indifferent. But whatever the case may be, my own personal fate wasn’t finished with me just yet. A day after Holden was released from the hospital, I was fired. In the span of a week, I lost my family, and then my career.
Dead man walking. Shuffling to the gallows. But I cheated the hangman and refused to go quietly. Instead, I hired a combative lawyer who specializes in workplace grievances named Roy Goldfarb. Stubby, sawed off, and permanently pissed, Roy lives to topple the big guy. And like a modern day David flingin
g rocks at Goliath, he brought the bastards to their knees.
In the end, wounds scab over, scar tissue forms, and the world keeps right on spinning whether we want it to or not. Time heals, but cash is the best salve of all. We settled out of court for just under two million. A month later I moved to Savannah and hit the reset button on my life. The rest, as Nabokov put it, is rust and stardust.
“Besides,” I said to her, “after the IRS and my attorney took their cut, I had to set up a college fund for Megan, my child support payments are ridiculous, and private school costs a fortune. I’m a working stiff just like you.”
“Sure you are,” she said. “Tell me the truth Fontaine. Why do you keep working? If it were me, I’d never work another day in my life.”
“I am telling you telling you the truth Caroline. I have nowhere near enough money to retire. But even if I did, what would I do? I hate golf, I don’t garden, and I’m too young to sail off into the sunset. If all I did was rattle around the house all day, I’d go fucking crazy.”
My father, a man I despised till the day he died, retired soon after reaching his sixty-fifth birthday. He was ready to enjoy his golden years...kicking the dog and belittling my poor mother. Six months to the day he stopped working, the abusive tyrant dropped dead from a massive heart attack. But I think what really put him in the ground was the thought of having nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Caroline gave me a coy smile. “You’re already crazy. Now stop hogging all the French fries.”
When we finished eating, I settled up and left Steve a fifty dollar tip. I made sure I got a receipt, so I could stick King Midas with the bill...c' est la vie.
We stepped outside and I walked Caroline to her car, an unmarked Ford Interceptor. She opened the front door and bent over to retrieve the missing persons file. I busied myself by admiring her shapely, spin-class ass. “Take your time,” I said, enjoying the view.
“I checked the morgue,” she said, rising back up and handing me the file. “They don’t have anyone that meets Claire’s description.” She climbed in the car, and I shut her door. She slid the window down and winked. “Don’t forget, you owe me dinner.”