Seduced

SIX

My emotions were under control as we waited for traffic at the intersection for U.S. 41 and Burnt Store Road. “Lonnie was blackmailing him,” I said.

Reggie got as far as “Didn’t say that” before I interrupted, “Even if she wasn’t, just hear me out. Something happened today I didn’t tell you. It concerns her; something bad she did. I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I’m willing to trade information.”

“I’m not at liberty to trade anything,” Reggie replied, “How bad we talkin’ about?”

He was still in the backseat, where the lacquered tray was open, the bottle of scotch within reach.

“Depends on your morals,” I said, “but it’s probably too late. She was in the boathouse this afternoon with another man, just before we pulled up. They were naked, in there alone. Kermit saw them run off. All her crying, those accusations she made about the three whiskey glasses-the way she yelled at you-it was all an act. She knew darn well Mr. Chatham didn’t die in the cabin.”

“Say what?”

He slurred his words, so I repeated the details. “Kermit was in the river, swimming,” I said, “and he doesn’t strike me as the type of man to lie. He thinks Lonnie knows he saw them, but he’s not sure. Either way, she had to go along with our lie.”

“The new grove manager. Why would he trust you with a story that could mean his job?”

I said, “I’m still wondering about that myself. He doesn’t like Lonnie, so maybe he sees you or me as an ally after she inherits the property. The important thing is, Lonnie knew her husband’s body wasn’t in the cabin until after we arrived. She couldn’t admit that, of course, so she went to the police with her accusations, hoping they’d figure it out, or we’d confess. That’s the part I don’t understand. Why risk the police taking a closer look if she was having an affair the afternoon her husband died?”

Reggie sobered. “That there’s a street that travels both ways.”

“I’m aware of the irony,” I said. “Neither side can throw stones.”

“Oh, that Lonnie would throw any stone she gets her hands on. You got a name for the man she was with?”

From his tone, I could tell the chauffeur had some names in mind.

“Someone local. Kermit said it was better I didn’t know. He said something else. He told me Lonnie is dangerous.”

“A conniving, lying tramp, is what she is,” the chauffeur responded, yet with a fresh optimism that didn’t make sense. “She got caught screwin’ another man before the governor was dead-as far as she knows anyway. Ain’t that great! By god, that whore has met her equal in you, Miz Hannah.”

I flashed a warning look in the mirror. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, ma’am. That didn’t come out the way it sounded.”

“I hope not. Watch your language or I’ll put you in a cab. Now, tell me what she did to make Mr. Chatham marry her.”

Traffic had thinned; I started my turn, but Reggie leaned over the seat and urged, “Go straight, go straight!” meaning Burnt Store Road, which angled southwest along the coast toward Cape Coral.

I applied the brakes. “That’s not the shortest route.”

“Are you working for me or aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I just made up my mind about something. I want to hire you properly, with a contract and all so you’ll keep what I’m about to show you a secret. If you’re working for me, I know it’ll stay confidential.”

“I already told you that, so let me do the driving, if you don’t mind.”

“No. Bigalow’s got a point. That woman’s dangerous, so it’s best more than one of us knows why the governor did what he did.” He leaned over the seat and pointed again. “Go straight-it ain’t far.”

As I asked, “Where?” my cell phone rang.

No caller ID, but I recognized a number I’d recently entered.

It was Kermit Bigalow.

The grove manager said, “Lonnie wants to terminate my contract. But that’s not why I called. Do you have a minute?”

“I’m in the car with Reggie.”

“Are you on speakerphone?”

I found the question unsettling until he pushed ahead, saying, “Doesn’t matter. With all that was going on, I just remembered something you said earlier. About your citrus grove, that some of the trees are more than a hundred years old. Is that true? I’d be surprised if it is.”

“I can understand the confusion,” I said, “but why would I lie about the age of a tree?”

“Not lie,” he said, “just mistaken. I should have worded it differently.” When he chuckled an apology, I pictured freckles on a tanned face. “Thing is, after Hurricane Charley, the Florida Ag Department mandated that every citrus tree in this part of the state be destroyed. It had to do with the spread of a fungus disease. They didn’t notify you?”

I didn’t answer immediately. On both sides of the dark road, mobile homes slid by in grids, some still decorated with Christmas lights. Behind me, I sensed Reggie scoot closer, listening.

“That was fifteen years ago,” I said. “Are you asking me as a person or as a member of the citrus industry?”

“As a friend,” he said. “Nothing official, but it could be important. You can trust me, Hannah.”

I wasn’t so sure. I muffled the mouthpiece and whispered over my shoulder, “Are you following this?”

Reggie’s whiskey breath replied, “We gotta turn right in about three miles. There’s no signs, so use your brights.”

I returned to the phone. “My mother owns those trees. It’s not up to me who I trust or don’t. I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s your interest?”

“Staying employed and paying my bills,” Kermit chuckled. “My personal opinion is, ordering those old groves cut was the single biggest biological mistake this state has ever made. Stupidity or hubris, it’s hard to say, but I wish people would’ve had the nerve to tell those Ag Department cops to go to hell.”

Loretta had said worse than that when men in government trucks had showed up, handing out notices and giving orders.

I told him as much, and relaxed a bit. “My great-grandfather planted grapefruit and oranges, and a big tamarind on a parcel behind the house-this was back in the early nineteen hundreds. Some of them are still standing. The honeybell oranges came later, but I wouldn’t call it a grove. Over the years, my mother’s had to sell off acreage to pay the bills, mostly pasture, but not the citrus.”

“My folks had to do the same in California because of taxes. Are they sour oranges? That old rootstock is darn near impossible to find. About thirty years ago, everyone switched to Swingle or Carrizo because of virus.”

Those names were foreign to me.

“Aren’t all citrus trees from that period sour?” I asked. “We have sour tangerines, too, the last I checked. Mostly, I just pick the honeybells and Duncan grapefruit and ignore the others. Not even those lately, because of the citrus greening-”

“Yes, HLB,” Kermit said. “It won’t be long before we’re all out of business if we don’t find a fix. That tour I gave you this afternoon barely scratched the surface of techniques I’m experimenting with. The reason I’m interested-” He stopped, interrupted by voices in the background; a woman’s muffled words, then a child saying, “Daddy… you promised.”

“Gotta run,” Kermit said after a short exchange with his daughter. “Just one more thing. Those old trees, are they still producing? I don’t doubt the disease has damaged the leaves, but how’s it affected the fruit?”

I said, “I’ve got a friend, a marine biologist, who asked me something similar this morning. I didn’t have an answer for him, either.”

“A special friend?”

The grove manager had his family nearby, so I didn’t mind the playful insinuation.

“No one would call a man like him romantic, but he is smart. His idea was to single out trees that aren’t diseased and backtrack to the reason. A different soil type, or elevation, or a different variety-anything. That’s assuming we still have trees that’re healthy. Saltwater’s his specialty, not citrus farming, so maybe he’s way off.”

“Thinking out of the box,” Kermit mused. “That’s what I’m trying to do, too, but your friend doesn’t understand how complex the disease is. I’m afraid there aren’t any simple solutions. On the other hand… yeah, I’ve got to ask myself why hundred-year-old trees are still alive?”

“If they aren’t,” I said, “I can point you to some backcountry islands where key limes and other citrus grows wild. You’d need a boat and a machete.”

“You’re not talking about original Spanish seed stock?”

I replied, “I have no idea,” and left it there because Reggie was pointing again, urging me, “Slow down… hit them brights. We gotta take a right up ahead.”

“How about I check the grove tomorrow?” I said to Kermit. “I’ll call you after my charter.”

“I’d appreciate that. Better yet, if you’re free in the afternoon, I wouldn’t mind seeing those trees for myself. It sounds nice, the little fishing village where you live. Sulfur Wells-is that the name?”

We had talked about that earlier, the man interested because he was new to the area via a job south of Anaheim, then a research position at the Lake Alfred Station in central Florida.

Even so, I was reluctant to agree until he said, “I’ll bring Sarah along, if it’ll help change your mind.”

I liked the idea of leading his little tomboy daughter around our property; I told him so, and hung up.

“You forgot to ask about the man Lonnie was with,” Reggie scolded as I turned west onto a narrow road, with potholes, where weeds had sprouted knee-high, no houses around in all this darkness and open sky.

“Tomorrow,” I told him.

Something else was on my mind. There is no explaining why an empty road and weeds in the headlights suddenly changed my mood and my reasoning, but it did. It caused me to rethink my quick decision to meet with Kermit, a married man, albeit a devoted father. We wouldn’t be alone if he brought Sarah along-yet, I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

I pulled over and sent a text that read:

Bring your wife, too. I’ll invite my biologist friend.

Seconds later, his response pinged my phone:

Great. Just googled Sulfur Wells.

“Do you trust the new grove manager?” I asked Reggie, pulling back onto the road.

He was still hanging over the seat, searching for the next turn. “Why would I? Only knowed the man a few months. The governor thought highly of him, though. He’s supposedly an expert in his field, but that’s no reason to trust a person. I couldn’t count the number of experts I’ve met through the years. Why you ask?”

In the middle of my answer, Reggie lunged again. “Look’a them eyes glowing-you see that? Up ahead, something scrambled across the road. Had some size to it.”

I didn’t see anything, just potholes and weeds, so returned to the subject. “Kermit seems like a nice enough man. It sounds like Lonnie is going to fire him. That’d be a shame. He’s got a family to take care of, and his daughter’s a doll.”

“A dog, maybe, or coyotes,” Reggie said. “Coyotes are thick, these days. Wished I’d’ve brought a gun. You bring a gun?”

I felt my jaw muscles tighten. “Silly me,” I said. “I’ve been so busy moving dead bodies around, firearms totally slipped my mind. Reggie-why not just tell me what happened instead of dragging me all the way out here?”

“There’ll be a gate on your left,” he said. “When I open it, pull through. Make it fast, then wait until it’s closed. We don’t want any company.”

We were on foot, hiking across a section of raw land Mr. Chatham had bought years ago on spec, back when the city of Cape Coral was still a hundred square miles of swamp and mosquitoes. To create buildable ground, developers had dug four hundred miles of canals, and piled the fill higher than the hopes of fast-talking salesmen who pitched the lots as “Waterfront Homesites.” They did it mostly by phone, when the weather up north had turned frosty. Many of the canals dead-ended far from navigable water, but that detail wasn’t mentioned in the low-down-payment contracts. Other details were omitted, too, as was the truth about a serious miscalculation, or the developer’s lack of scruples. Dredging more canal frontage than any city in the world had damaged the region’s aquifers and forever changed Florida’s water table.

A flurry of legal suits had ensued.

This all happened twenty years before I was born, but there are still so many empty lots and dead-end streets that, seen from the air, Cape Coral’s outskirts resemble a jigsaw puzzle that was abandoned due to lack of interest. What the city doesn’t lack is friendliness, and an interesting mix of people, which is why the community has grown and thrived despite its shaky beginnings.

Not out here, though, north of the city limits. It was just Reggie, with me following along, beneath stars on acreage as flat as Kansas wheat. When we came to a line of cattails, he stopped. Ahead, I could hear water spilling over what appeared to be a cement weir.

Flowing water was a rarity in a canal this far inland.

“This is one investment the governor didn’t get his money back,” Reggie said. “But that’s okay, considering what I’m about to show you.” He patted his pants, then the pockets of his jacket. “You happen to bring a flashlight?”

“I left it with my gun,” I replied. “Next time you ask for my help, I’ll pack for an expedition. If there’s something you want me to see, maybe you should come back alone when the sun’s up and take pictures. I’ve got a charter in the morning.”

“You’re getting irritable, Miz Hannah.”

“Nope, I’m getting mad. Instead of walking a hundred yards, why didn’t we park the car here? For all we know, we could be standing in fire ants.”

“A Lincoln Town Car ain’t an off-road vehicle, ma’am. The governor was fussy about them tires and so am I. Hang on… Could be I got some matches from the Over Easy. They got good pie there.”

“Don’t bother,” I told him, and jogged back to the limo. When I started the engine, the poor little man looked frazzled and wobbly in the headlights, so I babied the vehicle across a field of wire grass-until I noticed several pairs of glowing red eyes in the cattails along the canal where Reggie stood. When I sped up, the animals-whatever they were-crashed into the water. They had some weight to them. I could tell because the windows were down and I heard the splash.

“My lord, my lord, they’s giant lizards,” said Reggie. He was still backing away as I pulled up. “Never in my life has there been a day like this day here. Ten, twelve feet long, one of those bastards. I might be drunk, but I ain’t imagining things. My lord… they could’a grabbed either one of us.”

“Get in the car, let’s see.”

I assumed he was right but had exaggerated the size. The canals of Cape Coral were prime habitat for Nile monitor lizards that had escaped or been released as pets. The population in the area had flourished, thanks to an abundance of house cats and family dogs.

“They have no predators and plenty of food,” I explained as we crept along in the limo. When there was a break in the foliage, I angled the headlights onto a long stretch of water.

“We’re both wrong,” I said.

“Don’t think so. Those ain’t gators, with those pointy heads and red eyes. Giant lizards, I’d swear.”

“Nope,” I said. “Lizards wouldn’t last long here. They’re saltwater crocs. I’ve seen them in Florida Bay, and Turkey Point-there’s warm water there because of the nuclear power plant. Every now and again, one will show up on Sanibel, but what in the world are they doing this far inland?”

“Water in this here canal is warm as the dickens, if that makes a difference. Does it?”

“Reggie,” I said, “you didn’t bring me here to talk about crocodiles.”

“That there’s your answer,” he replied as if he hadn’t heard me. “They hit a hot-water spring when they dug this canal and it flooded the place. So the governor bought the land cheap and put in that little dam. You think those crocs will bother us if we climb up there and take a quick look? That’s what I want you to see.”

“A weir with a spillway?”

No, the aging chauffeur wanted me to see something else.

I left the limo running and followed him to a welded barrier that was easy enough to slip around. The retaining wall between the flowing spring and the canal was a slab of concrete capped with cement. It was a cool night. As I neared the spillway, the water’s heat radiated a sulfuric warmth.

“Have a look,” Reggie said, and stepped away from the slab.

“Graffiti. So what?”

“Look closer.”

I did. Twenty years ago, Lonnie Dupree had written her name on the capstone in wet cement. She had added a date and her palm print.

“January first.” I was shielding my eyes from the limo’s headlights. “Why is this important?”

“She didn’t sign her name ’cause she wanted to, believe you me. It was after the governor threw a big New Year’s Eve party-then he did that young woman one hell of a bigger favor. Her name and handprint, he made her do it as insurance-a sort of confession if she ever talked about what happened that night.”

I couldn’t see Reggie’s face, just his cloaked silhouette, because he stood between me and the car. “She must’ve killed someone,” I said. “Or hid something she wasn’t supposed to have. Why else would they come the next day and pour cement?”

“Mixed it the same night,” he corrected, “but the work stretched into the small hours. That’s all I’m at liberty to say as of now. I wanted someone else to know, Miz Hannah. Oh”-he indicated a nearby corner-“you’ll see a spot there I sanded away twenty years ago, but not fast enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Evidence,” he said. “Evidence the governor left behind out of sloppiness. I thought it was taken care of, but, nope, I was a day or two late with that sander. Can you imagine? After doing what she did, Lonnie snuck back the next morning with a camera and brought along two witnesses willing to party their way to a notary and get papers signed. A cheerleader bein’ that smart, it was unexpected.”

“Pictures of what? Mr. Chatham’s fingerprints? I doubt if a court would accept that as evidence. Or was it something else?”

Reggie watched me inspect the area he had sanded but didn’t respond.

I asked, “While she was at it, why didn’t she get rid of her name and palm print? I don’t expect she told you, but you’ve got to wonder.”

“And risk making a powerful man angry? I dunno… she was just a girl, at the time, who done what she did, then came to him begging for help. Those was the drug days. No telling what she was on. L-S-D, I forget most the names. Cocaine? There was one come up from South America, it was the worst. Devil’s Breath, they called it. Kids walked around like dead folk.”

I said, “If she was on drugs, why would she care what anyone thought? She would have destroyed all this.”

“A dumb girl her age might’ve risked it. But not that Lonnie. She waited until Miz Lilly was dead, and the governor was old and weak, to play her trump card. She’d been holding that card back for twenty years. By then, her own life had ’bout run out of blue chips.”

“I was right, she must have murdered someone,” I said.

The chauffeur shrugged.

“If there weren’t crocs here back then, there had to be gators. Why bury a body, if that’s what it was, under concrete? Gators would’ve taken care of any evidence. You told me this much; tell me the rest.”

Reggie, turning toward the car, said, “I like riding in back. You mind driving while I enjoy myself another scotch?”