Shades of Deception

by Charlie Hudson

  The odd circumstances that led her to scuba hadn’t prepared her for the passion that would be ignited in those moments when she’d submerged into the unique relationship of diver and marine inhabitants. It was like no other sensation she’d experienced, and she’d briefly wondered at the years she’d wasted in not being a part of it. She thought of the expression in Roger’s eyes when he’d talked about the inevitability of death among divers. In all likelihood, this would be ruled natural causes, but her desire to not have Roger’s reputation stained wouldn’t keep her from thoroughly investigating Matt Raney. If he had been negligent in any way, she would find it and make certain the fault was affixed where it belonged.

  Crystal Sharpe studied her image in the mirror. Unlike many of the idiot girls who were her peers, she didn’t exaggerate minor flaws into anxiety about her appearance. She struck the balance of the advantage of youthful skin and being able to pass for twenty-one with the fake ID she rarely used. Her mother might be a pathetic loser, but she did give her credit for the genes of a heart-shaped face, wavy auburn hair, eyes that were a shade deeper green, and enough height at five-foot six to keep out of the petite category she found to be disgustingly “cutesy.” She’d watched models as they strutted, their poise with the I-own-the-world attitude and copied it when she wanted to pass for older. It had nothing to do with wanting to actually become a model — it was the bearing she successfully projected. That was the key to her goal since what her mother hadn’t given her were the size 40 tits that quite frankly, she didn’t particularly care about. She certainly wasn’t inclined to go with plastic surgery even if she could save enough money. She didn’t deny most men were automatically drawn to busty women, but there was more than one kind of sexy. In the privacy of home, she practiced the walk, the moves, the looks that sent suggestions without a single word.

  She wasn’t ready yet. Now was for observing and, more importantly, preparing herself in a way that wasn’t detected by people who accepted whatever superficial image they saw. A pleasant smile and polite questions at her part time job was the right combination. Thank God she would soon be out of her stupid school with asshole teachers, brain-dead boys whose dicks did what little thinking took place, and girls who were either total bitches or whiney clingers she didn’t want to waste breath talking to. When she’d learned about an alternative program to allow her to take classes on-line and hold a job during senior year, she’d grabbed the chance. They could always use the extra money over what she’d been able to earn working only on weekends. Scuba-Plus had agreed to increase her hours and they dutifully filled out the required paperwork for the school. A few more months of the bullshit and she could work full time in the summer. She hadn’t bothered to apply to colleges yet considering their financial situation. Although her grades were strong, there was no way in hell she was ever part of the ridiculous extra-curricular activities used to demonstrate how well rounded she was, so an academic scholarship hadn’t been likely. The community college was good and something they could afford while she figured out how to take her next step. The drawback to waiting was being stuck where she was.

  What she wouldn’t give to already be eighteen and have enough money to be able to leave on her own. With as often as her mother complained about being worked to death, she ought to do them both a favor and drop dead and be done with it. They didn’t have much, but the shitty trailer was worth something. That might be enough to set her up for a while in a decent studio in an urban area. Any of a dozen cities would do – she was researching them all. Money was the aim and financial whizzes and large real estate developers were the type of men she had her eye on. The advantage of on-line college classes was she could enroll in those and keep working at whatever suitable job was available if she couldn’t find the ideal kind of position immediately. It wouldn’t be a bad arrangement and most decent work experience would make her more marketable as she carried out her simple goal to marry money — real money. Not the nonsense of capturing the eye of a celebrity — she couldn’t see being allowed access to anyone who mattered. She’d begun to read multiple articles on line about how the major CEO’s operated and if there was one thing they all had in common, it was personal assistants. Those were the people that didn’t get talked about, and she’d been pleasantly surprised to learn a lot of them were women. They moved in the background surrounded by these men who made multi-million- dollar decisions the way other men chose which socks to wear. Hiring into a large firm in an entry capacity, rapidly learning the power people within those circles, and carefully studying the successes of those who had the job she coveted was her focus.

  This was a path she’d discovered by accident one day not long after going to work at Scuba-Plus. She’d already picked up on the fact that among the divers who came into the store to seriously buy equipment, there were the bargain hunters, the regular customers, and the ones who wanted only the latest product and most expensive gear. There was an air about them she learned to detect and she would gravitate to them whenever the opportunity presented itself. True, they almost always asked for someone more senior to discuss the technical aspects of whatever they were looking for, and if he was available she always smilingly sought out Matt.

  “Hey, you’re like my good luck charm,” he’d said one day when a customer casually purchased a little more than three thousand dollars of merchandise.

  She didn’t mind that he wasn’t aware of her special preference for him. It wasn’t time yet for him to know.

  What she learned not long after though was how genuinely wealthy individuals didn’t shop for themselves or make any arrangements — assistants took care of such matters. The young man who came to the store the afternoon of her enlightenment had been clearly in need of help and was not a local. The suit was out of place and when he approached the counter, the sound of Boston was distinct. He wanted the manager immediately and when told she was not in the store, he said to get him the most knowledgeable sales person because he had only thirty minutes in which to conduct his business. Crystal had the presence of mind to call for Mr. Lariby whom she would not ordinarily have dealings with. There was no better expert. He quickly came from the dive operation building and quietly moved the young man to a corner of the store to see what it was he could help him with. Twenty minutes later, he strode out with nothing and Mr. Lariby came to her with a wide smile and complimented her thinking.

  “He didn’t buy anything though,” she’d said, puzzled.

  “Oh yeah, he did,” Mr. Lariby replied. “Four complete sets of gear to include eight tanks. I’ll have them put together for delivery to their yacht along with the bill.”

  That was unusual and Crystal understood this was by far the largest single sale she’d seen. “Who was he?”

  “Personal assistant to Mr. Adam Mahoney, who owns a big financial services firm in Boston. Guys like Mr. Mahoney don’t worry with the details of routine things — they have people to take care of everything. This guy didn’t know crap about diving, but I do, and that was what was important. You did the right thing by calling me. I made his life easier and trust me, that’s a valuable commodity to guys like him. He needs anything else in the future here and we’ll be his first choice.”

  Crystal rang up the sale, being careful to double-check the extensive list. Word went around the store about the deal and the staff member who delivered the goods came back to tell of the seventy-three-foot Ocean Yachts Super Sport he’d been allowed on to ensure the dive equipment was set up and functioning correctly.

  She’d promptly searched “Executive Personal Assistants” as soon as she’d gone home. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t keep watch for the stream of wealthy men who came through the Keys. At her age though, access to them was limited and if she was lucky enough to be in a spot to catch one’s attention, she would make the most of it. There was nothing wrong with entertaining a fantasy of a career as a rich trophy wife. In the meantime, though, she was doing everyth
ing she could to be able to shed the working class, trailer trash background she was burdened with. The advantage of her mother working three or four nights a week at Marty’s Bar and Grill in addition to her day job meant Crystal had plenty of solitude at home, hours to spend on the computer learning what she could about the world of big business. She’d discovered an amazing number of free lessons through different on-line sources on how to expand her vocabulary, learn business terms, and tips on negotiation. Sure, there were lots of things she didn’t understand and she made note of those, a secret journal she kept, just as she kept most things hidden from her mother. God, it must be nice to grow up in a home where everything you needed was available to you. She wasn’t talking about trust fund brats who couldn’t manage their own lives. She would have been satisfied to have parents who were upper middle class. Well, it wasn’t as if she could change the life she’d been born into. At least she had enough intelligence to plan her way forward.

  With a final look in the mirror — green Scuba-Plus polo shirt today with khaki shorts and sneakers — Crystal left the cramped bedroom and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. The peninsula with scattered permanent stains and hairline cracks in the beige Formica was the only separation between the kitchen and the living room. The off-white vinyl flooring had yellowed in multiple spots, tiny gouges dimpling the surface, accumulating dirt you couldn’t get out unless you were on your hands and knees with a brush, something her mother insisted on doing every few months. Jesus, the fucking trailer was almost as old as Crystal, every single piece of furniture from yard sales and appliances that were cast-offs from a woman her mother worked with who had remodeled her house. Christ, she’d come home all excited that day like it was some big deal. They were an improvement compared to what they had, but it wasn’t as if they were any great prize. It was no wonder her mother had never managed to make anything of herself, always willing to accept other people’s second-hand shit.

  It wasn’t really any different with men, but then it wasn’t like her mother had much going for her in that department. Maybe it wasn’t her fault she didn’t have good dental care when she was a kid and couldn’t do anything about crooked teeth, but Jesus, she’d packed on the pounds over time, her skin showed the signs of too much booze and the losers she’d hooked up with were probably the best she could do. Crystal knew little about her own father other than he walked out on them when she was not quite two. If he was like the assholes her mother kept latching onto, he wouldn’t have been worth having around anyway. At least she didn’t haul them into the trailer for the night — deadbeats with hard luck stories who didn’t have shit to their name. Crystal listened to her yammer about how this one was going to be different, then his name was dropped within a few weeks.

  She sliced up an avocado to eat instead of the greasy chips her mother would have put on the plate and didn’t waste time with sitting down. She ate standing at the counter and didn’t bother with anything other than water to drink. She had an important task to take care of before her shift started at the store and she didn’t want to be rushed. Jesus, she’d like to have a car to cut down on the time it took to get places. But even a junker like the piece of shit 1998 Honda her mother drove took money for gas, insurance, and repairs. Mostly she didn’t mind since everywhere she routinely went was within pretty easy biking distance. It was good exercise and it was better to save as much as she could. It was easy not to spend money with friends — there was no one she wanted to hang with.

  Crystal had been interrupted yesterday after she’d found a site about common nutritional supplements that could have dangerous side effects when taken incorrectly. While that was interesting, it wasn’t exactly what she was looking for and she was going to start her search from another angle. She wanted to know if any herbs or other natural substance could be used in a combination to produce a poison that would withstand an autopsy. What had started as an almost idle thought had taken firm hold as a potential plan. Her offer to do more of the cooking had been accepted with predictable gratitude and especially with the slow cooker available, she’d been able to experiment with stronger flavors, easing into recipes her mother liked. Spicy foods could mask other ingredients and with their mutual schedules and her preference for lighter foods, it was easy for her to not eat the same thing as her mother. There were two essential problems as she saw it. If she found a single herb or a combination that worked in a cumulative manner, her mother might go to a doctor who could detect the problem. More likely, her mother would lose her appetite, maybe have to miss a lot of work and that wasn’t going to get Crystal any closer to her goal.

  Although people did die unexpectedly and her death might not raise suspicions, Crystal assumed it might trigger a closer look by a medical examiner since her mother didn’t have a history of any kind of serious disease. Her complaints of back and various other aches were hardly life threatening. Despite the extra weight she carried and not engaging in actual exercise, apparently her blood pressure was normal. A poison that took effect more quickly was just too much of a gamble.

  She had toyed with the idea of a convenient accident and hadn’t come up with one likely to withstand a decent investigation if one took place. It wasn’t as if they had a nice long set of stairs her mother could drunkenly tumble down and break her neck. Her little bathroom was barely big enough to shower in much less slip, fall, and crack her head open on the sink. No, a deadly, untraceable poison available in the local area was her safest option, and she was patient enough to keep searching until she could find it.

  Bev left a voice mail for Kyle and reminded him they were supposed to be at her parents’ house at seven o’clock. He was taking multiple depositions in Marathon and he’d thought his schedule would be tight getting back. She wasn’t entirely sure he’d been listening when she told him the time. She was going by the Scarlet Macaw before meeting with Doc Cooper for his preliminary assessment. She’d spent the morning going through copies of all the official reports on the incident with Belton and hadn’t found anything out of the ordinary. Steve Dillworth, owner of the Scarlet Macaw, either knew or was at least familiar with virtually every dive professional in town and she wanted to get his impression of Matt Raney. Not that she needed to take this step. Without evidence to the contrary — and so far, there hadn’t been any — Raney’s personality wasn’t truly a factor. She couldn’t get Boone Reynold’s comment out of her mind though. If Raney should have picked up on a problem and didn’t, there might not be anything illegal about his actions, but she would sure as hell let Roger Lariby know.

  The town was in the temporary slump between winter holidays and spring break. The worst of northeast winter over, some of the snow birds, whom they were supposed to now call “seasonal residents,” had departed. With schools not out yet, the tourist population was lagging, leaving plenty of room in bars, restaurants, and hotels — although the weekends tended to still be busy. The jukebox at the Macaw was silent and Desdemonda, the bar’s beautiful namesake in the large black cage near the entrance, was quiet as well. Two bar stools were occupied as were three tables, one of which was being cleared. It was a locals’ place that neither courted nor discouraged tourists. Visitors who discovered the gray shingled building with creaky wide wood-planked flooring either recognized it as a longtime establishment or retreated in search of trendy ambience. Patrons who wanted tablecloths and designer vodka martinis had other places they could choose. Steve didn’t need to advertise and his concession to fad was a better-than-average selection of single malt scotch, although that was because it was something he personally enjoyed. The sixteen different beers on tap suited most of his regulars and there was a full array of rums.

  Old diving equipment, posters of Florida reefs, as well as exotic dive destinations along with photographs of fishing tournament winning catches were the principle decorations. It was the spot where if you needed to check the reference of a potential boat captain or dive instructor, you were more li
kely to get an objective view than embellished gossip.

  “Hey there, I just put on fresh coffee — a new one from Kenya. Want a mug or would you rather have something else?” Steve was wearing his usual worn jeans that would give way to khaki shorts in May. His shirt today was a light-weight blue chambray with the sleeves rolled to the elbows instead of a brightly-colored polo. The collared shirts partially concealed the still noticeable scarring on his neck from his encounter with a mine during Desert Storm. The collapsed lung and other injuries may have severely restricted the type of diving he could do, but it didn’t diminish his passion for scuba.

  “Coffee’s great,” Bev said and slid into a chair at the corner back table Steve used as much for business as he did his office. “Things going okay?”

  “Always,” he said over his shoulder, moving behind the bar where the smaller coffee maker was kept. He’d shaken his head at Rosa, the bartender on duty, when she’d stepped in his direction and she waved to Bev with a quick smile.

  Steve carried two filled mugs, the robust aroma reminding Bev she needed to add sweetener to the grocery list. “Roger Lariby swung by last night. We went through a few rounds. It’s always tough even when it’s pretty straightforward.”

  Bev waited to take a sip. “Everything seems to be in order. I’ll see Doc Cooper when I leave here. You know Raney?”

  Steve didn’t exactly scowl — it was a tiny, brief flattening of his lips. “More by reputation than anything. He’s an asshole if that’s what you’re asking, but from the talk I’ve heard, he’s clean on this.”