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21

I’d been wondering about it for a while but told Chestra, “I just realized something. There have to be twenty, twenty-five photographs in this room. But your godmother, Marlissa Dorn, isn’t in any of them. I find that surprising.” I waited for a moment, deciding if I should add, “There are none of you, either.” Then did.

The woman was standing with her back to me in the gold lamé gown, her shoulders wider than her hips, silver-blond hair piled atop her head, a pearl necklace visible beneath wisps of hair and delicate ears. Without turning, she said, “You’re not the first to notice. Tommy asked the same thing.”

Meaning Tomlinson.

Outside, there was a flash of blue light, then another. Lightning. It illuminated the balcony’s wrought-iron railing, trees beyond. A cell of cool wind blew through the doors as Chestra said, “Storms. I just adore them. Don’t you?” Then turned in synch with the movement of curtains as if she, too, had been levitated by wind.

“There’s a reason there so few photos of Marlissa and me,” she said. “For Marlissa, the explanation is fascinating, but sad, too. For me, though, it’s just ego plain and simple. I’m a proud old broad who can’t stand the way she looks, especially when compared to the way I used to look. Ego, pride.” She wagged her eyebrows and took a sip of her drink—chartreuse and soda, an exotic liqueur unfamiliar to me. “Name a conceit. I delude myself that it’s okay because I admit that I’m vain. I haven’t reached the age where my body only embarrasses others. Why advertise what you’ve lost and can never recover?”

I said, “I’m looking at a very handsome woman; one I find charming. I like her. Don’t be so hard on the lady, okay?”

“Handsome.” Her tone was dry, acknowledging the euphemism. “I guess I should be content with that. I have a photograph of my godmother, which I’ll show you—it’ll help you understand why I’m such a goose about photos. You’ll fall in love with Marlissa. Every man does. But wouldn’t you rather hear her story first? You asked the question: Why were Marlissa and Frederick several miles offshore in a storm?

“It’s possible, Doc, that you’ll be the first to see that boat in many, many years. What remains of it, anyway. You deserve an answer.”

I said, “I’d like to do both. And see pictures of you, too—there’ve got to be some around.”

Outside, there was another strobe of light. Thunder is noise created by a shock wave of air set in motion by an abrupt electrical discharge. This shock wave vibrated through the floor of the old house, rumbling as it rolled toward open sea.

Chestra listened for a moment, then was suddenly in a hurry. “You’re a dear man. But forgive me”—she touched her fingers to my cheek as she swept past, heels clicking on tile. I got a whiff of perfume, faint vanilla and musk—“I have to change.”

“What?”

“I can’t go to the beach dressed like this, and I never miss a storm. I feed on them. The energy. To see a big one come pounding off the Gulf—” She was already taking off jewelry—a bracelet, the pearls—as she headed for the stairs, her bedroom below. Over her shoulder, she called, “I won’t be a minute. Will you join me?”

I checked my watch. Nearly eleven. “I guess. But I still have a lot of work—”

“I’ll holler when I’m ready.” She put her tongue against her teeth and whistled—a wolf whistle. In Manhattan, it’s the way people would’ve hailed a cab to a Dempsey fight. “This one’s going to be a doozy, Doc!”

A photo of Marlissa Dorn. I was eager to have a look—although I expected to be disappointed. Chestra Engle was sharing a family legend, not talking about a real person. Legends never disappoint, people often do. Her godmother’s photo most likely would be the rule, not be an exception.

Even so…there were some exceptional photos in this museum of a house. As I waited, I poured a glass of wine—the woman had no beer—then moved from wall to wall as if touring an art gallery.

All three branches of Chestra’s family exhibited the physical characteristics that I’ve come to associate with wealth, particularly from the previous century: tall, confident smiles, good teeth, glossy hair, athleticism, and bone structure that contained at least some of the elements we associate with health and beauty.

Women in the Dorn branch possessed more of the classic attributes than most. They were uncommonly attractive. Nellie Kay Dorn was among the most beautiful of all. I’d recently touched my fingers to her headstone: BORN 1868, DIED 1934.

It could be a social maxim: beautiful people attract power, power attracts the beautiful and powerful. I wasn’t surprised, therefore, to find photographs of celebrities Arlis Futch had mentioned while describing the small, sociable place that was the Sanibel area in earlier times.

There were several photos of the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. In one, she wore a flapper’s hat, her intelligent eyes aware of the incongruity. Another was labeled: Edna two days after fire, Palms Hotel. She looked exhausted—I remembered Arlis saying a manuscript she’d been working on had been lost. Marlissa’s blond lover, I noticed, was in the background of a third photograph. The poet was smoking a cigarette. He was holding a beach towel.

In separate photos, I found two celebrities whom Arlis hadn’t mentioned. One was New York playwright and novelist Mary Roberts Rinehart. The writer was posed in front of the house she and her son had built on nearby Cabbage Key; another was taken on a beach with members of the Engle and Dorn families.

The second celebrity was industrialist Harvey Firestone, the tire millionaire. I’d read that Firestone, Ford, Edison, and Lindbergh had all been friends, and remembered something about them collaborating on a search for synthetic rubber. Prior to World War II, most natural rubber came from the Pacific Rim, controlled by Japan, so the project was vital. Many of the plants Edison had tested in his Fort Myers laboratory were grown or collected locally—some from barrier islands, including Sanibel.

Rinehart and Firestone. Add two more powerful names to the mix.

There were more shots of Charles Lindbergh, some with his wife, Anne, both showing congenial smiles, their hands always linked in some way, like two islands that had joined as one. Celebrity was a weight. So was tragedy. They had experienced both—their eyes were armor-plated.

Union boss John L. Lewis was on the wall. With his bushy eyebrows, he resembled the crabby old guy on 60 Minutes, and looked about as much fun. There were other celebrities: Clark Gable, the boxer Max Baer, Danny Kaye, Raymond Burr, actress Patricia Neal—not unexpected in an exclusive hideaway like Sanibel Island. There was a photo of a tough-looking guy in a flight suit posing with several Dorn and Engle girls, all beauties. It was captioned: Gen. Jimmy Doolittle, Page Field, 1941, before bombing Tokyo.

Page Field was where Arlis had worked guarding POWs. Doolittle had trained there?

Marlissa Dorn’s German lover wasn’t in the background of this photo. But he was in several others—usually a vague figure, part of the scenery, but always aware of the camera’s presence.

Sanibel Island, World War II. The perfect place to seed a Nazi intelligence agent.