Beauty and the Beast

9

I did not get to Flamingo Key until almost midnight because a northbound trailer truck had jackknifed across US 41 and the resultant traffic tie-up was a Fellini version of Hell. I-75, the new Calusa bypass, was scheduled to open in May (promises, promises!), a four-lane highway that would connect Travers to the north with Venice to the south and eliminate (we hoped) much of the tourist traffic that clogged Sarasota’s and Calusa’s main artery. In the meantime, I sat for forty minutes behind a long line of irritable motorists, listening to what Frank called Calusa’s “Old-Fart Network,” a radio station that played schlock arrangements of all the Golden Oldies of the forties, introduced by a dove-throated announcer who dropped lyric bits of poetry such as, ‘We walked the beach alone that day, you and I, picking up sand dollars like street urchins beseeching travelers. We’ve journeyed long and far since then, my love, but the treasure is still ours alone, to share.” I found the man amusing; Frank kept saying he was no William B. Williams, who I gathered was a New York City disc jockey.

Frank calls Flamingo Key “Fandango Key,” this because of the largely Spanish style of architecture favored by the residents there. If there is a Gold Coast in Calusa (and there truly isn’t), then Flamingo Key qualifies, I guess; the homes there are all in the $500,000-and-over class, and the canals are lined with sailboats and motor cruisers that in some instances are even more expensive than the houses. Each of the houses on Flamingo is on what is known as “waterfront acreage,” be it Calusa Bay itself or one of the many waterways winding through the immaculately landscaped development. Frank says that the lawns on Flamingo always look as if they’d recently been clipped by a US Marine Corps barber on Parris Island. Frank does have his prejudices.

The security guard at the main gate stepped out of the booth as I braked the Karmann Ghia to a stop. It was a few minutes to midnight, a bit late in the day for callers. I told him Miss Reynolds was expecting me, and he said, “Just a moment, please, sir,” and stepped back into the booth, where he consulted a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. He picked up the receiver of a hanging wall phone, dialed a number, and while he waited for it to ring, said, “Your name, please?”

“Matthew Hope,” I said.

He turned back to the phone. “Miss Reynolds,” he said, “a Mr. Hope to see you.” He listened, said, “Thank you,” and then hung up. “First street on your right,” he said, “it’s 204 Crane Way, the second house in.”

I put the Ghia in gear, drove to the corner, made the first right, and found the mailbox for 204 in front of a Spanish hacienda next door to another Spanish hacienda with the number 206 on its mailbox. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and walked up the path to the front door. There were lights burning all over the house. Kitty Reynolds opened the door the moment after I took my finger off the bell button.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” she said. “Come in, please.”

She was wearing another of the creations she undoubtedly sold at Kitty Corner, a blue nylon peignoir slit high on the left leg and slashed low over her breasts. Her long blonde hair was hanging loose to the shoulders. She wore no makeup. Her eyes, an echo of the pale-blue peignoir, shifted suddenly from my face, glanced out beyond my shoulder, swept the lawn outside. I almost turned to look.

“Come in,” she said again, and stepped aside to let me pass, and then closed and locked the door behind her.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “There was an accident on Forty-One.”

“I’m usually up till all hours, anyway,” she said. “Would you care for something to drink? I was just about to pour myself a cognac.”

“Cognac would be fine,” I said.

She led me into a living room furnished almost entirely in blue — pale-blue carpeting, darker blue upholstery, diaphanous blue drapes, a Syd Solomon painting in various shades of blue on the white stucco wall over the fireplace. Blue was the lady’s color, no question about it. She’d been wearing blue when I’d called on her in her shop, and she was wearing blue now in a room predominantly blue. Even her high-heeled satin mules were blue. I watched as she poured cognac into a pair of snifters. She carried both glasses back to where I was sitting on one of the modular sofas arranged before the fireplace hearth.

“Do we need a fire?” she asked, handing me one of the snifters. “It’s a little chilly, isn’t it? Would you mind making one? I’m an idiot when it comes to fires.”

I tore two sheets of newspaper into narrow strips and placed them under the grate. I put a small bundle of kindling onto the grate, and placed two logs on top of it. I struck a match and held it to the paper. The kindling caught, the logs — a fat pine and an oak — began crackling at once.

“Thank you,” she said.

“So,” I said, and rose from where I was crouched, and pulled the fire screen across the hearth, and then sat again, facing her.

“I want to apologize for my behavior last week,” she said.

“That’s okay,” I said.

“It’s just... you were raking over the past, and right then I preferred forgetting it. Is the cognac all right?”

“Fine,” I said. “Miss Reynolds, why’d you want to see me?”

“Because I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“These murders...”

“Yes?”

“They frighten me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a woman living alone, and—”

“That’s not why you called me, though, is it?”

“No.”

“If you wanted protection or reassurance, you’d have called the police, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“So why am I here, Miss Reynolds?”

“All right, I knew Andrew, all right?”

“Andrew Owen, do you mean?”

“Yes. And now his wife, his ex-wife, has been killed, and maybe it’s connected somehow to me—”

She cut herself short.

“Michelle?” I said.

“Michelle, yes.”

“Then you knew Michelle, too, is that right?”

“Yes, I knew her.”

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” I said.

“That was more than a year ago,” she said, and sighed.

“When, exactly?”

“Well, it was August when Jerry got shot—”

“Jerry?”

“Tolliver. Gerald, actually. And this is December already... today’s the first, isn’t it?”

“The second already,” I said, and looked at my watch.

“So that would make it... August, September, October, November,” ticking off the months on her fingers, “that’s four full months, this would’ve been sixteen months ago.”

The name suddenly rang a bell.

“Is Jerry Tolliver the man who got shot by a cop—”

“Killed, actually. Yes, he’s the one. He owned a carpet-cleaning place on the South Trail. He was on his way to his sister’s funeral when a police officer...”

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “What about him? Did you know him, too?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“Well, I was coming to that. Some of the people on the committee knew him — or had known him, actually — but not me. I joined the committee only because it seemed so unfair. A man gets murdered and they just let the police officer go free? That’s why I joined it. Because I thought we could do something about it.”

“What committee is that, Miss Reynolds?”

The committee, as she explained it, was a relatively small group of blacks and whites who believed justice had been circumvented, if not aborted, in the Jerry Tolliver case. It was started by a black woman married to a white doctor out on Fatback Key, and at first it consisted only of herself and a handful of whites like her husband, most of them residents of Fatback, but then it expanded to include two or three dozen people from all over Calusa and elsewhere in Florida, whites and blacks both, some of them well-to-do, some of them poor as dirt. The first meeting Kitty attended was out on Fatback — this was maybe a week after the committee was formed — and that was where she’d met Michelle and George Harper.

“Because what this doctor and his wife were trying to do,” Kitty said, “was get some other mixed couples like themselves on the committee. There aren’t too many of those in Calusa, I guess you know.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Well, take it from me,” Kitty said. “All told, by the time the committee got off the ground — well, it never did get off the ground, actually, that cop’s still out there free as a bird. But what I’m saying, the only mixed couples she came up with — the doctor’s wife, I forget her name just now — were herself and her husband, and Michelle and George, and a couple from Venice, which isn’t Calusa at all. The rest of the people weren’t married — I mean, there were blacks married to blacks and whites married to whites but no other salt-and-pepper couples, do you know?”

I suddenly thought of the painting of the salt and pepper shakers hanging over Sally Owen’s water bed. I said nothing.

“The committee broke up three weeks after the first meeting. Meetings day and night, but you know this town, you never can get anything done in this town. Everybody went back home to cry in his beer. Fatback lady and her rich doctor husband — I remember her name now, it was Naomi Morris — went back to growing orchids, rest of us went back to doing our own things. Except...”

She hesitated.

“Yes?” I said.

“Well, some of us got to know each other pretty well during all those committee meetings. So we kept seeing each other socially.”

“Were Andrew and Sally Owen at any of those meetings?”

“Well, yes, they were on the committee.”

“Is that where you met Andrew? At one of the meetings?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was very low. She sipped at the cognac. In the fireplace, one of the logs suddenly crackled and spit. Out on the bay, I heard the distant sound of a speedboat.

“And, you know,” she said, “I was a divorced woman with a successful boutique on the Circle, but there wasn’t much else to my life just then, which is maybe why I joined the committee to begin with, to feel that I was doing something meaningful, you know, something important. Divorce is rough,” she said.

“Yes, I know.”

“You’ve been the route, huh?”

“I’ve been the route.”

“Well,” she said, and sighed again. “Andrew was attentive to me, Andrew was attractive, Andrew and I... well, you know.”

“When was this?”

“September last year? October? The fall sometime.”

“And Sally found out.”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, yes, she found out.”

“And immediately sued for divorce.”

“Well, yes.”

“Well, she did, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Why were you so reluctant to tell me this the last time we talked?”

“Well, it was personal.”

“It’s still personal, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but Sally wasn’t dead then.”

“Michelle was.”

“I hadn’t been involved with Michelle’s husband.”

“Are you saying you think Sally’s death—”

“No, no.”

“...had something to do with your involvement with her husband?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then how has her death changed anything? You didn’t want to discuss any of this a week ago, but now you seem...”

“It just started me thinking, that’s all. First Michelle, then Sally, almost as if all the women in the oar—”

She cut herself short. She had a habit of cutting herself short. She had interrupted herself earlier when she’d been about to say the name “Michelle,” and now she had just said the word oar and then closed her mouth on it as effectively as a shark on a fisherman’s paddle.

I looked at her.

She lowered her eyes and said, “It’s just that, well, in a social group like ours, after the committee broke up, I mean, it wasn’t considered... well, you weren’t supposed to fall in love the way Andrew and I did, to make waves the way we did.”

“But that would apply to any group in which there were married—”

“Well, sure, but Sally’s reaction... she sort of went off the deep end, do you know what I mean? She was a very vain person, you know, and... well, she just got furious. Made it clear to both of us that we’d be outcasts from then on, told us that none of the oar... none of our friends would have anything to do with us ever again. Which is why she asked for the divorce and named me in the action. To make sure we were out for good, do you understand? Out. Excommunicated.”

“This ‘oar’ you keep mentioning—”

“What?”

“You keep saying the word oar.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“I thought that’s what I was hearing.”

“Really? No,” she said. “Would you care for some more cognac?”

“No, thank you. So, as I understand it, you lost touch with most of the people you’d been socializing with...”

“Yes, because that’s the way Sally wanted it.”

“People here in Calusa?”

“Yes. Well, from all over, actually. The case attracted a lot of attention, you know. There was the couple from Venice, you know, and people from Tampa, Miami, Sarasota... well, wherever anyone was concerned about the injustice of what had happened.”

“Who from Miami?” I asked.

“Well, I really can’t remember. This was all so long ago.”

“Would it have been someone named Lloyd Davis?”

“I don’t remember all the names, really.”

“He was in the army with Harper, I just thought...”

“Mm, well...”

“If Harper and his wife were on the committee, as you say they were—”

“Yes, they were.”

“Then possibly he contacted Davis, tried to interest him in—”

“Well, I guess, now that you mention it, there might have been someone named Davis at one of the meetings.”

“Lloyd Davis?”

“I guess.”

“And his wife?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Leona, would it have been?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“Where was this?”

“At one of the meetings. Andrew’s house, I think. This was a year ago, more than a year ago. I think that’s where it was. People used to just, you know, come to the meetings. I don’t know if Sally and Andrew actually knew him, or whether someone else brought him. There were a lot of people, you see.”

“Two or three dozen, you said.”

“Sometimes more. In the beginning, anyway. Before the committee started breaking up.”

“Uh-huh.” I looked at my watch. “Well, Miss Reynolds,” I said, “I’m still not—”

“Kitty,” she said.

“I’m still not sure why you asked me to come here tonight.”

She hesitated for a long time. Then she said, “Because you’re George’s lawyer.”

“And?”

“And I heard what you said to him tonight on television, and I thought, if he does call you...”

“Yes?”

“You could tell him I had nothing to do with it.”

“With what, Miss Reynolds?”

“With starting it.”

“Starting what?”

“Well, you just tell him. Whatever he’s thinking—”

“What do you think he’s thinking?”

“I think he found out, and he’s...” She shook her head. “Forget it,” she said.

“Found out what?”

“Nothing. Just tell him. If he’s out to get all of us, I don’t want to be the next one.”

“Who do you mean by all of us?”

“The women.”

“What women?”

“In the... our friends, do you know?”

“No, I don’t. What friends?”

“Those of us who were friends. Before the divorce. Before Sally and Andrew split up.”

“And you think George... or whoever killed Sally and Michelle—”

“It was George,” she said.

“How do you know that?”

“Who else could it be?”

“You think George, then, might be after all the friends you and Andrew Owen used to have?”

“Well... yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense to me. Why would he—”

“If you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you—”

“I don’t.”

“Then forget it, okay?”

“Why don’t you just tell me?” I said. “Whatever the hell it is, just come out and say it.”

“I’ve said enough.”

“You really are frightened, aren’t you?” I said.

“Yes.” She was staring into the wide bowl of the snifter. Her voice was very small.

“Maybe you’d better call the police.”

“No,” she said, looking up sharply. “In this town? After what happened to Jerry? No, sir, no damn police.”

“Well,” I said, and sighed, and got up from where I was sitting. “If there’s anything else you want to tell me, you know where to reach me. If not—”

“Just tell George, okay? When you talk to him.”

“If I talk to him.”

“I’ll let you out,” she said, and rose suddenly, the peignoir parting over her legs. She pulled the flap closed, walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and said, “Good night, Mr. Hope. Thanks for coming here.”

“Good night,” I said, and stepped out into the first of the Weather Lady’s promised rain, a light drizzle sifting gently from the black sky overhead. Behind me, I heard the lock tumblers falling with a small oiled click.

It was a quarter past one when I got home.

I put the Ghia in the garage, rolled the door down behind me, opened the door leading from the garage into the kitchen, turned out the garage lights behind me, turned on the kitchen lights ahead of me, and then closed and locked the kitchen-garage door. I didn’t know whether I wanted another martini or a glass of milk. I opted for the milk. I went to the refrigerator, took out the bottle, poured myself a glassful, returned the bottle to the refrigerator, and was starting into the living room with the glass in my hand when I got the fright of my life.

George Harper was sitting in the dark there.

“Jesus!” I said, and snapped on the light.

“How you doin, Mr. Hope?” he said.

His huge hands were clasped in his lap; he sat as still as death in a wingback chair near the fire, facing the arched entry to the kitchen where I stood with the glass of milk in my hand. My hand was shaking.

“How’d you get in here?” I said.

“Back door was open,” he said.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Well, then, I guess I forced it open,” he said.

“You scared the hell out of me. Where have you been?”

“Miami.”

“Doing what?”

“Went t’see my mama.”

“Broke jail to go see your ‘mama,’ huh?”

“Thass right, Mr. Hope. Missed her somethin terrible.”

“Do you know Sally Owen’s been murdered?”

“Yessir, I heard about it.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Nossir.”

“Do you know your hammer was found at the scene?”

“Yessir.”

“With your fingerprints on it?”

“So I unnerstan.”

“Got any idea how it got there?”

“Nossir.”

“Anybody but you and Michelle have a key to your house?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Was there a spare key outside?”

“Nossir.”

“Then how’d that hammer get out of the garage?”

“I can’t say, Mr. Hope.”

“Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in?”

“I reckon so.”

“Why’d you do a damn fool thing like breaking jail?”

“Tole you. Had to see my mama.”

“What about?”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Personal, Mr. Hope.”

“Listen to me, Mr. Harper. You’d better get off this goddamn personal shit, you hear me? If you want me to help you, then nothing’s personal anymore. Everything’s out in the open, we’re partners, understand?”

“Never did like the idea of bein partners with anybody,” Harper said.

“No, huh? How do you like the idea of the electric chair? Does that appeal to you?”

“Not much. But whut’s gotta be’s gotta be.”

“Nothing’s got to be, Mr. Harper. Not if we don’t want it to be.”

“Well, some things just gotta be,” he said.

“You broke jail last Thursday,” I said. “Have you been in Miami all this time?”

“Yessir. Got back to Calusa tonight, thought I’d better come see you.”

“Where were you when you heard me on television?”

“Whut?”

“Aren’t you here because—”

“Whut?” he said again.

“Didn’t you hear me on television?”

“Nossir.”

“Then why’d you come here?”

“You’re my lawyer, ain’t you? Thought I’d find out how the case was comin along.”

“Oh, the case is coming along just dandy. Every cop in the state is ready to shoot you on sight. They think you killed two people, they know you’ve broken jail, they know you’ve got a shotgun in your — have you still got that shotgun?”

“Yessir.”

“Where is it?”

“In the car.”

“What car?”

“Car I picked up.”

“A car you stole?”

“Yessir.”

“Terrific,” I said.

“Needed a car,” Harper said, and shrugged.

“Where is it?”

“Parked up the street. Dinn want t’block your driveway, figgered you’d have to get in your garage.”

“Thank you, that was very considerate.”

Harper said nothing.

“I want you to turn yourself in,” I said.

“Nossir, I ain’t about to do that.”

“If you didn’t kill your wife—”

“I din’t.”

“If you didn’t kill Sally Owen—”

“Her neither.”

“Then why the hell are you running?”

“Ain’t runnin, Mr. Hope.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He did not answer.

“Mr. Harper,” I said, “can you give me one good reason why your wife would have come to me on Monday morning, November sixteenth, claiming that you had brutally beaten her the night before, and asking that—”

“Can’t think of a single one,” Harper said.

“You were in Miami that Sunday, right?”

“Right.”

“Where you went to see Lloyd Davis and then your mother...”

“Right, but they wun’t there, neither of them.”

“So you called an old army buddy...”

“Yessir. Ronnie Palmer.”

“A recruiting sergeant in Miami.”

“Yessir.”

“And then you drove up to Pompano and Vero Beach.”

“Yessir.”

“Why?”

“Tole you. Sightseein. Lookin.”

“Where were you on Monday night? The night she was killed.”

“Back in Miami. Tole you that, too.”

“Why’d you go back to Miami?”

“Thought Lloyd might be comin back.”

“Mr. Harper,” I said, “you’re beginning to give me a pain in the ass.”

“I’m sorry ’bout that,” he said, “but they’s things you don’t know.”

“Then why don’t you tell them to me?”

“Can’t,” he said.

“What’d you find out, Mr. Harper?”

He did not answer me.

“Kitty Reynolds thinks you found out something. What, Mr. Harper?”

He sat as still as a stone in the chair, staring at me.

“Mr. Harper,” I said. “I want you to come with me to the police. I want you to turn yourself in voluntarily before somebody out there blows off your head. If you didn’t commit these murders, you’ve got nothing to hide. What do you say? Will you come with me?”

He sat in the chair thinking this over for what seemed like a full minute.

He nodded.

He lumbered to his feet.

And then the son of a bitch hit me full in the face with his huge bunched fist.