Seduced

FOURTEEN

It had been fifteen days since I’d heard from Kermit Bigalow, and a week since Roberta had exited her sonogram appointment with a smile on her face. A lot had happened, most of it good, so my guard was down, and it seemed okay when, on a windy Sunday morning, Kermit’s name flashed on my phone.

“Don’t hang up,” he said the instant I answered. “You have no idea how many times I’ve stopped myself from calling, but this is important. And strictly business, so give me a chance. Okay?”

Rather than start the conversation with a question about him stealing my uncle’s orange tree, I asked, “Did Sarah get her sketchbook?” More than a week ago, I had mailed it, and some other things I thought she might like, to Reggie’s home, with a separate card asking the little chauffeur to pass the package along.

“She’s about worn out that DVD on manatees. Very sweet of you, and she keeps asking when can we visit again. Or live on a boat instead of in a house. Funny, what sticks in a kid’s mind, huh?”

Through the windshield of my cabin cruiser, the glass streaked with salt, the bay was a froth of wind and waves. “The weather we’ve had this week might change her mind,” I said. “What sort of business is it you want to discuss, Kermit?”

“So formal-you’re still mad.” This he said in a gentle way as if hurt.

“You’ve done what I asked, why would I be? What you’re hearing is, I’m a little late for”-it seemed a pious affectation to reveal my destination, which was church, so I said-“an appointment,” and blamed the wind, which was true. Chapel-By-The-Sea, on Captiva, was only a few miles by boat but more than an hour’s drive by car. It would be another day before the water was calm enough for fishing.

“Then I’ll get right to it,” he said. “Have you seen Lonnie Chatham yet? I think she’s on her way there now. Or she’ll call you, I’m not sure. But whatever she does, whatever she says, don’t believe her. Can I stop by tonight?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” I said, opening the cabin door. He’d spoken in such a rush, I wasn’t convinced I’d heard him correctly but checked anyway for an unfamiliar car outside Loretta’s house. In the drive was a white SUV-a Lexus, it looked like-which is something a wealthy woman would buy. I went up the steps to the dock with the phone to my ear.

“Kermit, I can’t talk now. If my mother tangles with Lonnie, she might have another stroke.”

“Hannah, listen! Her attorneys have locked me out of everything-our house, even my office. My wife’s a mess, and Sarah’s upset, too. It’ll be okay. I’ve already got another job lined up, but… Well, I need to tell you about something in person. I’ll see you around sunset, okay? Please. I need your help.” After a long silence, he added, “Hannah… Beautiful? Are you still there?”

That word again.

I couldn’t think clearly, so replied, “I can’t talk now,” and hung up.

Getting out of the Lexus was a man wearing a gray suit, with a gray ponytail that hung between shoulders wide enough to suggest he was a weight lifter or a pro wrestler. Not tall, but thick as a bulldozer. A graying Hemingway beard, and a copper bracelet, added to the effect. He stooped, retrieved a briefcase, and started toward the house. Thank god, Loretta was getting dressed, not lounging on the porch.

“Can I help you?” I called.

“If you’re Hannah Smith, the fishing guide, yes you can.” He sounded Cuban, which is commonplace in Florida; his voice, a resonate baritone.

“My number’s easy enough to find if you’re here to talk about a charter,” I said. “As it is, I was just leaving for, uh… a place I need to be.”

His eyes did a slow pan, up and down, taking in my short herringbone jacket, gray blouse, and black skirt. I was barefoot-heels had to wait until I was in my car-but he was polite enough to pretend not to notice. “Myself, I attend early Mass, but twice in one day might do me good-doesn’t matter which church. May I drive you? We can talk on the way.”

By then, I was close enough to confirm the Lexus did not contain Lonnie Chatham, and took a breath. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here,” I said. “It’s a silly rule I have about getting into cars with strangers.”

The Hemingway beard matched the face and his wide, wry smile. “Did Harney give you that lecture, too?”

Harney. Aside from Loretta, I didn’t know anyone who’d been on a first-name basis with the late lieutenant governor.

“You were friends?”

“Better. We were confidants.” This was said with the inflection used by those who take the word seriously.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral last week.”

“Nor did I see you-or your mother. I suppose that’s because none of us wanted to draw attention. Isn’t that right? Sometimes, it’s better to blend in.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Loretta and I had stood among trees, far from Mr. Chatham’s casket of mahogany, while a hundred people in suits and black dresses kept their backs to us, listening to the minister read their good-byes.

The man said, “I have a business proposition, Captain-that’s what Harney called you, by the way: Captain Hannah. Now I can see why. It’s the way you handle yourself, I think, not just because you’re tall and… by god, attractive, too. I thought he might have been exaggerating about your looks.”

A man who used his age to camouflage flirting as harmless fun. With him, maybe it was.

I remained blank-faced while he handed me his card. I was speaking with Sabin Martinez, of Brickell Avenue, Miami, with a second office on Disney Way, Orlando.

I slipped the card into my jacket. “It doesn’t say what you do.”

“No, it does not,” he replied. His voice had an elegance even while slamming doors. “My offer still stands. You don’t want to be late to church.”

I wasn’t getting in the Lexus no matter who he claimed to know. “Are you here because of Mr. Chatham? Or his wife? A friend just called and said she wanted to contact me, for some reason.”

“Lonnie? I’ll be darned.”

He shunned profanity, I noted-or, at least, was careful about it.

“You weren’t aware?”

“I’ve never met the second Mrs. Chatham. It’s one of the few mistakes Harney made, I think.” He toyed with his copper bracelet, and let me ponder that, before adding, “You’ll like what I have to say. It won’t take long. Harney trusted me with-how should I put it?-delicate matters. Come on… You can even drive, if you like.”

I looked from the house to the Lexus, then at the dock. “I can spare ten minutes,” I said, “but we’ll talk here, not in your car. If that’s not acceptable, it’ll have to wait.”

The man followed me to my boat.

I memorized the plate on the Lexus as it pulled away. Only then did I remember church and that I was late-too late for heavy Sunday traffic. Cars would be backed up for a mile on the causeway to Sanibel.

Truth was, I was a little dazed after thirty minutes of listening to Sabin Martinez. Once again, intuition told me I could trust the man-he was a churchgoer, like me, and we had a respected friend in common. But tragedies that had befallen my three namesake aunts urged caution.

On the other hand, the thick leather satchel Martinez had given me was real. So were the contents.

Call me if you need help with anything, he’d said as he left. Anything. I’m a problem solver from way back.

What I needed was someone to help organize the thoughts spinning through my head. I also needed to make up my mind about church. Driving to Captiva was out of the question. If I was to get there in time, I’d have to cross three miles of rough water by boat. Attendance wasn’t mandatory, of course, but I am happier if my week is grounded by ceremonies attached to my faith. It is a personal matter. I don’t push religion on people, nor do I shy away if derided by the arrogant few who view faith as a childish cliché.

There was another option. Aboard my boat, I jotted down the license number of the Lexus, then carried the satchel across the road, up the hill, to the house. Loretta was getting ready to attend services with her friends at Foursquare Gospel. Every Sunday, she awaited the church bus like a child eager to attend school. When she came out of the bathroom, I said, “How about I call Mrs. Hendry and the girls and drive you, for a change? With this wind, I’d be soaked through by the time I got to Captiva.”

“The girls” is how she often referred to her three widow friends.

My mother and I had been at denominational odds for years, so I didn’t expect a cheery acceptance. “You might be disappointed,” she said, returning to the mirror for a final look. “We don’t play guitars and worship crystals-or whatever it is you do at that hippie church. You’d have to actually bow your head in prayer. And sit with common folks, too, not your rich beach-people clients. I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Her eyes locked onto the leather satchel. “What you got there?”

I wanted to wait until after church. Her friends were all solid and sweet, but, as people age, gossiping becomes a favorite vocation. I tested the water by saying, “Did Mr. Chatham ever mention a man by the name of Sabin Martinez?”

“Why would he introduce me to a Mexican?” she asked. “True, he had a fondness for illegal citizens, and other outlaws, but you know I don’t speak Spanish.”

I said, “Mr. Martinez is Cuban, I believe, but that’s not what I asked. He claimed he was a close friend of Mr. Chatham’s. Do you remember hearing the name?”

She remained fixated on the satchel. “Maybe. Depends on what’s inside there. If you’ve got Mexicans bringing you presents, dear, I should know before allowing contraband into my house. If it’s a new purse, keep it. You might like masculine things, but it’s not pretty enough for me. Now, go wash your hands.”

I gave her the satchel. “What’s in there is confidential-that’s what he told me. You know what that means, Loretta. You can’t tell the girls, or anybody else, until Mr. Martinez says it’s okay. Are you sure you’ve never heard of the man?”

“Who? I told you, I don’t speak Spanish.” She unzipped the bag, looked in, then looked up at me. Her wild blue eyes took on a glow. “My lord… is this all mine?”

I was smiling at her. “Most of it,” I said. “There are two envelopes in there with legal documents-but only copies. It’s complicated. The will Mr. Chatham left when he died has to go through a probate proceeding, and some other stuff. It all has to be done and read to his heirs within thirty days of his death. That’s the law, which means there’re less than two weeks left. But his wife got a look at his will somehow. She’s already hired an attorney to fight for what she thinks is rightfully hers. Mr. Martinez came to warn us in advance.”

My mother’s face colored. “That pom-pom cheerleader harlot. She’s contesting my inheritance?”

“Loretta, don’t tell me you actually expected anything.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I put in a lot more miles than she ever logged. That woman only wanted one thing from Harney, and it wasn’t kept between his legs or his ears, neither. Liked to broke that man’s spirit, she did. Is it any wonder he come crawlin’ back to me for solace? It was that slut who killed him-not his new thingamabob, which is quite an invention, I’ll tell you. Or them blue pills.”

The medical examiner had listed the cause of death as cardiac arrest, perhaps exacerbated by conflicting medications.

“Let’s not get into that,” I said, and carried the satchel to the kitchen counter. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, some stiffened by saltwater. This suggested they dated back to the pot-hauling years. “Ten thousand dollars. He wanted us to have this up front. He knew there’d be legal fees-if Mr. Martinez told me the truth.”

One by one, Loretta was sliding five stacks her way. “Of course he told the truth. A man like Mr. Martinez wouldn’t lie to us. Sometimes, Hannah, I worry about your suspicious nature. It ain’t fair to judge others, least ye be judged-that’s Scripture, by the way. You’d know that if you attended a real church. As to legal fees, do what you want with your money, but I ain’t givin’ mine to no damn lawyer.”

I clenched my teeth until I had calmed. “You might change your mind when you see this.” I opened an envelope. “He left us his hunting cabin and a hundred acres of citrus. You, me, and Reggie; divided equally. Then we get into some complicated areas that an attorney-”

“Salt Creek Gun Club?” she interrupted. She’d spent time there; I could tell by her dreamy expression. “That’s the prettiest place there ever was. That river path, where the moss hangs so soft and cool? Many’s the time I told Harney we should be… we should be buried-” Her voice broke; she grabbed the second envelope and ripped it open and quickly regained control. “This must be for me, too. By god, this is better than Christmas.”

The envelope was addressed in masculine pencil to Darling Lorrie-Loretta’s nickname used only by the former lieutenant governor. In it were dozens of photographs-the oldest, black-and-white prints with scalloped borders. Thirty years of photo technology was in that stack, including faded Polaroids, and color shots so bright, they looked as if they’d been painted. My mother got through a few, saying, “Here’s me and Harney at the first moon launch… Here we are in Times Square… This here was took in a country I can’t pronounce-no… it was Paris. Yep, by the Arch of Trumpets. I can tell by the pigeons.”

“Paris,” I said. “In Europe? Where was I while you were jet-setting around?”

“Damned if I know-probably on a camping trip with your Uncle Jake. You expect me to stay housebound while you’re out having fun? Thick as thieves, you two-and never did thank me for that tent I patched so you’d have a place to sleep. Neither one, even a word.”

My jaw tightened again while her quivering hands chose another photo. “Aw… this was Christmas at the Biltmore. You wouldn’t know the name-it’s a big, expensive hotel in Asheville. Don’t Harney look fine in that suit? That’s where he… that’s where Harney… where we went after the first time he proposed…”

My mother’s emotions got the best of her then. She gave a great, shuddering yawn, then broke down, sobbing. I got an arm around her and sat her on the couch. With me, I brought the photo taken years ago at the Biltmore Hotel. While I held her close, I looked into my mother’s secret past. Mr. Chatham had been a big, confident man with curly hair and a Don’t cross me smile. Loretta, who was now a little bird of a thing, had once been a beautiful woman. Proud of it, too, judging from her fashionable jeans and tight snow-bunny sweater. On her face was a sly, territorial smile, her lover’s hand cupping the underside of her breast. I might have been looking at the photo of a woman I’d never met.

Strange how the eye is tricked more often by memory than light.

I said, “Go freshen your makeup. The girls will get on the church bus if I don’t call them soon. You still want to go to church, don’t you?”

She sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. “Every Sunday, I ask the Lord for forgiveness-all the sins Harney and me committed over so many years. I don’t know why I bother. I truly don’t. The Lord, He knows what’s really in my heart, and, truth is, I don’t regret one single moment I spent with that man. Not one, Hannah. In fact-you really want the truth?-my only regret is, there were times we could’a been together, but I said no out of conscience. All those lost moments of happiness we could have shared! You don’t think God knows? He does. So today, I’ll put a hundred-dollar bill in the plate, and buy the girls pizza. You go on, dear. There’s no need to drive us.”

What Loretta meant was, she didn’t want the awkwardness of having her daughter around when she had so much good news-and five thousand dollars-to share with her friends.

I said, “At least let me help you with your makeup. It looks like you’ve been crying coal dust.”