Black Widow

2

It wasn’t until we were in Shay’s toy-sized convertible, traveling west, top down, that she spoke again. The long silence suggested a prelude to confession-not without reason.

“Remember the first e-mail demanding money? I told you he sent video samples as an attachment.”

I remembered. It was eight days ago. Less than a week after Shay and friends returned from Saint Arc, an island only a few miles from Saint Lucia, off the coast of South America. Shay had downloaded the video files, but the files were corrupt, she said. The clips wouldn’t open.

I’d urged her to contact the FBI, but she refused. I should’ve insisted. I didn’t.

I asked, “What about the files?”

“They weren’t corrupt. What he filmed was corrupt-things the girls and I did on Saint Arc. I trashed the clips because I knew you’d want to see everything when I asked for help. Like it was evidence.”

“It was that bad?”

“Bad enough. Michael and I won’t be getting married next week if he gets hold of the tape. Beryl and Liz’s wedding plans will be wrecked, and Corey’s husband-he’s such a violence freak-he’d kill someone if he finds out. Maybe he’d kill Corey. And she didn’t even do anything. Not really. Just the fact she was with us, he’d go orbital.”

Shay paused to turn south, downshifting as she slalomed between slower vehicles, picking lanes then accelerating: a decisive female whose driving mirrored her personality-not always good in an overpowered, undersized car. I no longer lectured her on the dangers of tailgating and accelerating through intersections. Putting my hands on the dash had become my way of saying Slow the hell down.

When traffic thinned, though, she lost her edge. She sat back and let the night sky tunnel above us, thinking things through before giving me her attention.

“Who’m I kidding. Of course you’re right. I wouldn’t let someone con that much money if all we’d done was smoke and play kissy face with the local cabana boys-which would’ve been bad enough as far as Michael’s family is concerned. I was too embarrassed to give you the details. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It was the smart way to deal with it. At first.”

“Really?”

“Sure. There was no reason for me to know. But now-”

“Okay. So that’s why I’m telling you. Truth is, the three guys in the video? We all ended up in the swimming pool. Naked-except for Corey, but even she took her top off. The cameraman must’ve been hidden on the hillside above our rental house. It looked like jungle, but that’s where he had to be.” Shay lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doc, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell a soul about Corey. Ever. Vance is nuts. Seriously.”

I’d never met Corey’s husband. He was a bodybuilder; a sometimes actor. I’d heard the stories of his steroid rages and cocktail-party dramas. His temper had gotten him fired from his job as a firefighter.

I said, “Don’t worry.”

Shay nodded, concentrating on her driving again. “There were only a couple shots of Corey, but enough to make him crazy. Beryl and Liz took their suits off, too. But most of the close-ups are of me. In fact, the asshole cameraman made me the star.”

Before I could catch myself, I said, “If your girlfriends were nude, why pick on you?”

If the question offended her, she didn’t react. Or maybe she was confident enough to be unfazed. Shay was no longer the pinch-faced teen I’d met eight years ago. The adolescent brown hair was now a luxurious maple, the baby fat was gone, the clothes stylish. She was attractive in a solid, assertive way, but our instinctual perception of beauty has to do with symmetry and proportions. Shay’s facial proportions were off-nose a little too thick, lips too thin, and the columella, the divider that separates her nostrils, was creased.

Her maid of honor, Beryl Woodward, though, was an auburn Grace Kelly who radiated ice when she entered a room, then slowly filled the space with heat. Her bridesmaid Liz made extra money modeling swimsuits. Corey was about to sign a film contract when she met the domineering man who became her husband. Yet the voyeur had singled out Shay?

“Maybe it had something to do with the guy I was with,” she said. “He was the leader… that was my impression. He wore a pirate bandanna and was a little too good-looking. Like a fashion model, but nice-or so I thought. He was younger… twenty-one. We flirted. He was a good dancer, and dancing is something I never get to do since I got engaged.

“In the pool, he and I… the two of us drifted off into a corner and… we played around for a while, then… and then the three guys got dressed and left. And that’s all that happened.”

She was having second thoughts. This amended version had been assembled as she talked.

There was a bottle of water in the cup holder. I took a long drink, then opened my briefcase and began to separate travel documents from travel trash. We were on Summerlin Road. The causeway that links the mainland with Sanibel was ahead, the new skyway bridge arching into summer darkness. To the south, Estero Island was a yellow necklace of condo lights. We were through the tollgate, halfway across the bay, before Shay broke the silence.

“Why don’t you say something?”

“I was waiting for you to finish.”

“I did. That’s the whole story. Nothing sexual happened because that’s a line we didn’t cross. None of us girls did. Not technically sexual, I’m saying.”

“Technically sexual,” I repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“Nope, I’m a biologist, and I wouldn’t attempt a guess. But it doesn’t matter. If the blackmailer kept a copy of the video, how much power does it give him six months from now? Or a year from now if Michael’s elected to the legislature? Or in six years if you start a company, and it’s about to go public?”

“Jesus Christ, what a nightmare even to think about.”

“Maybe. But it’s better to deal with it now.”

“Why? I just told you-we didn’t do anything wrong.”

“All right. In that case, there’s no reason to worry.”

“You say that like you don’t believe me.”

“I choose to believe you because you’re too smart to risk giving me bad information. I just explained what’s at stake.”

“You don’t believe me!”

“I’m discussing security. You’re fixating on morality. Why? That’s not my engagement ring on your finger.”

“Don’t be nasty.”

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit, buddy-ruff. If you want to draw blood, you need heavier ammo. Maybe you forget I come from redneck country, the toughest and nastiest sort. I’m not bulletproof, but the small-caliber stuff bounces off.”

I smiled. “Oh, I see. So now I’m talking to the real Shay Money. Not the faker who earned scholarships, graduated cum laude, won umpteen awards, and is fast becoming the administrative darling of a Sanibel clothing company.”

"That Sanibel clothing company,” she replied, her tone icy and impatient, “happens to be an international company listed on NASDAQ.”

I said, “Sorry. The founders of Chico’s used to keep me updated. We’ve lost touch.”

“Is that another jab about how I got my job? Maybe I haven’t thanked you enough. Okay, I’ll say it again: Thanks.”

I was still smiling. “Do you realize your piney-woods accent comes back when you’re mad? File that tidbit away so all the people you think you’re fooling don’t stumble onto the truth about the real Shay Money. Or have you gone back to using Shanay?”

The woman growled in frustration. “Don’t call me that. You can be such an asshole.”

“It’s the only way I can relate to anal-retentive friends.”

Bridge lights shadowed her scowl in rhythmic panels as we descended onto the island. “Okay, okay. So I’m not proud of what’s on the video. I’ve spent the last seven years trying to become someone I’m not. Maybe the mask finally slipped when we were on Saint Arc. White trash, that’s what the camera captured. Me. Yeah, the real me, and cameras don’t lie. What do you expect from the daughter of Dexter Ray Money?”

The late Dex Money, Shay’s father, was one of the foulest men I’d ever met.

"Excuses,” I said. "Self-pity and excuses-that’s what I’d expect. .. if I didn’t know you so well.”

I watched the girl straighten. After a moment, she whispered, “My God, that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? I’m acting just like him.”

I pretended not to hear.

A moment later, she said, “Thanks. Thanks for the boot in the butt. Doc, you are right. I may be the daughter of… of-” Her voice thickened, then she slapped the steering wheel. “I may be his daughter, but I sure don’t have to behave like that sad, dead son of a bitch.”

I nodded and sipped my water.

“All his life, he did nothing but get trickier and cuter when he was in trouble. He hurt the people who cared for him, and he made excuses- mostly to cops. And you’re no cop. I owe you a lot. You and your sister. The way you two helped when you had no reason in the world to help. I’ve been lying to you, and Ransom, too. If I can’t tell you two the truth, who can I trust?”

Ransom Gatrell is my cousin, not my sister, but I no longer bother correcting people.

Shay sniffled, her voice still shaky, but she got the words out: “Sorry, Doc. Give me a sec?”

I said, “Relax. It’s no big deal.” Then, for some reason, I had to add, “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”