Seduced

SIXTEEN

Double-wing gates were open beneath the wrought iron crest of Chatham’s Triple C Ranch. I hadn’t planned on turning into the drive, but I did. It was one of those snap decisions that requires a certain stubbornness of mood. Anger helped. Lonnie Chatham had told Kermit she wanted to speak with me. Fine. I’d tried to call-no answer, no message machine-so here I was.

I went through a rehearsal, while the asphalt lane wandered between mossy oaks and pasture where horses grazed, a mahogany-stained barn in the distance. Aloof and professional, I pictured myself, impervious to insults, or snubs, and all other childish behavior. I was here as a professional courtesy, after all. Did she want to charter my boat? I saw myself baiting the woman by offering the names of competent guides, then counseling her, It’s wise to be careful. The fact that a person owns a boat doesn’t guarantee a satisfying day on the water.

No… the word satisfying was out. There were too many connotations to satisfying that might lead the conversation into awkward areas. For more than thirty years, Loretta and Mr. Chatham had kept their affair secret, but there was no telling what kind of snooping Lonnie had done since the man’s death. What if she knew? How would she react when she saw me, Loretta’s daughter? How would I handle it?

Calmly. Business-like. The ex-cheerleader could make a fool of herself if she wanted, but I would remain unshakeable.

The fact that the ex-cheerleader might also be guilty of murdering a football player named Raymond Caldwell was something I didn’t want to factor in. The thought was in my mind, though, when the drive broadened into a circle. Ahead was a long carport for guest parking, but it was empty. To my right was the barn. It was sided with beveled cypress. The wood glistened like amber beneath a gambrel roof of copper sheathing. Pasture, defined by a mile of painted fence, spread away toward the Peace River, where water sparkled beneath the shade of trees and Spanish moss.

This wasn’t just a working ranch. It was an estate built for entertaining millionaires.

My confidence stumbled. I parked anyway and followed a path, lined with scarlet bougainvillea, past a tennis court, to the main house. It was a three-story mansion, built of timbers, with balconies and skylights and high, wooded walkways, so life could be lived inside or out. The mark of Harney Chatham was in all the Western rodeo detail: branding irons and ornate terra-cotta tiles; the main entrance was a set of massive timber doors; there was a doorbell, and also a heavy horseshoe knocker.

I tried both, which produced only an echoing silence within. Strange. On a place this size, there had to be hired help somewhere, but I’d yet to see a soul. Again, I banged the heavy knocker. Nothing.

Admittedly, I was relieved. I went down the steps faster than needed. When I was on the walkway, shielded by scarlet blossoms, a vehicle started somewhere nearby; tires spun in sand, yelped when they found asphalt, then sped toward the gate.

A truck, it sounded like, but the vehicle was gone by the time I got to the parking area.

Lonnie Chatham, however, was there. She was adjusting the collar of her blouse after exiting the barn, the double doors open wide to the shady space within. Inside was a tractor and other mowing equipment. Plenty of room to hide a car, or a truck. I got the creepy feeling she had been interrupted again and it was her lover’s vehicle I’d heard.

I waited by my SUV. She pretended to be unaware of my presence until, finally, she did a perturbed double take. “Excuse me-do you have an appointment?”

I replied, “I was told you were trying to get in touch with me, Miz Chatham. I called earlier. There was no message machine, and I happened to be in the area anyway, so-”

“Who are you?”

Did she really not remember our meeting on the day Harney Chatham died? Highly unlikely, but I played along and introduced myself. Her three-fingered handshake communicated distaste-until a look of reappraisal registered, as did my name. Everything changed. Suddenly, she was delighted to meet me. “You’re the fishing guide! I’m so sorry. My husband was very fond of you, Hannah. And Harney wasn’t a man given to compliments. Not in private anyway.” There was a wink in her delivery.

I’d expected a confrontation, not a welcoming smile, or a gracious attempt at an embrace, which I fumbled badly. We nearly conked heads.

Laughing, she said, “I wish Harney could see the two of us together. Finally, after all these years. We’re going to miss that man, aren’t we? All his friends will. Especially us female admirers, huh?” There was another wink, the way this was said.

“I didn’t know your husband well, but he was always kind to me.”

“Oh, I bet he was! That Harney, he knew how to work a room of adoring women. Would you like some iced tea? Come on”-she directed me toward the barn-“let me give you the nickel tour. If you brought a jacket along, I’d grab it. We have a lot to talk about.”

This was all very strange. The woman obviously had a reason for pretending we were new bosom buddies. There must be something she wanted from me…

I followed her, saying, “Talk about what, Mrs. Chatham?”

“Call me Lonnie, and don’t play coy. You know-and, if you don’t, then I’ll have the fun of telling you-Harney said you were good at doing that Southern thing. Same with him: his good ol’ boy act. He’d pretend not to understand some complex issue when, in fact, he was the smartest guy in the room. Smart enough to listen until he knew damn well where everyone stood.”

She spun around. “And I suspect it’s the same with you, isn’t it, dear? Are you saying you don’t know that Harney left you half of our citrus groves in his will?”

That threw me. I couldn’t hide the truth. It was in my reaction.

“If we’re going to be partners,” she said, “there’s something you should know up front. I hate being lied to. Save the cat claws for social events, Hannah-what fun would they be without friendly competition, right? But not when it’s just you and me. Understood?”

In black riding boots, with her blond hair piled in a loosely braided updo, the woman was as tall as me. We stood eye to eye. Her focus lingered on the few faint acne scars I no longer obsess about disguising by the careful placement of my hair.

“We don’t know each other well enough to make promises,” I said. “As to lying, that’s not my normal practice. But Lonnie? If we stick to the truth, it’ll have to go both ways.”

After a ride in a golf cart, Lonnie Chatham led me into an office off the barn. It smelled of leather and hay-a load of freshly baled clover had just been delivered, she said. The walls were covered with ribbons and pictures of livestock, mostly horses, but a few bulls. One was the massive Brangus that Reggie had called Jessie James.

The wall above a walnut desk was Lonnie’s personal space. Sun stains from previous photographs told me it had been recently cleared. Hanging there now were memories of her college years; photos and ribbons, glassed and framed. She was the buxom cheerleader in various uniforms. A more elegant Lonnie smiled at me as Miss Florida runner-up, no date on the brass tag below.

“Don’t ask the year,” she said. “That’s one subject where lying is always allowed… Cigarette?” She fitted a Virginia Slim between her lips. Didn’t light it until after looking me up and down as I took off my jacket. “The only reason I started was, my pageant coach-this was for Miss Tangerine Bowl, way before college-she told me smoking was the best way to stay thin. She was right. I’ve never needed to diet, or wear baggy shirts to hide a body I was ashamed of.” She offered the pack. “Sure you don’t want one?”

A pattern had emerged during our ride in the golf cart. Her subtle slights and insults were packaged as kindly observation. Pity was her favorite disguise for criticism. She gazed at me with concern while smoke framed her face. “How’s poor little Reggie getting along? I worry about that man. He was never the brightest bulb, but Harney had a soft spot; let him get away with incompetence he would’ve fired anybody else for. I can’t keep him on here-the man’s useless at everything but washing that damn car-and, at his age? He’s either senile or drunk. Even Walmart wouldn’t hire him. Any ideas, Hannah?”

We had toured the estate, from riverfront to the road, and this was the first she’d broached a serious subject or asked my advice.

“I don’t know what’s in your husband’s will except what I’ve been told. Reggie seems happy doing what he’s doing.”

Her focus narrowed. “Really? You haven’t seen the will? Who told you that you inherited the gun club acreage?”

Not flustered, I replied, “A man who worked for Mr. Chatham stopped by the house today. He asked me not to discuss the matter or mention his name. I agreed. Hope you understand… Lonnie.”

“Ah-hah,” she said. “The mysterious Sabin Martinez. Am I right?”

I gestured in a noncommittal way.

“Thought so. He’s yet to show his face around here, but I’ve seen him in a hundred of Harney’s old scrapbooks. Always somewhere in the background like a shadow, or… I don’t know, a raven in those movies where you know something bad’s going to happen. Early on, I figured Sabin was just a bodyguard, but he was a lot more than that, turns out. Is he still trying hard to look like Ernest Hemingway?”

“I’d have to see the photos, I guess, to understand what you mean,” I said.

“Smooth; you’re pretty good.” She smiled and brushed back a curl. “Last week, I started to organize Harney’s personal correspondence. Sabin Martinez, turns out, did what some might call Lysol work. A cleanup man. Men with money and power always need someone like Martinez, but Harney despised the guy. I don’t suppose he mentioned that. Harney didn’t trust him, Hannah. But why tell you? You’re too smart to fall for whatever bullshit scam he’s pulling.” She reached for an ashtray and took a long, last drag. “Hope I’m right about that.”

“I thought you wanted to discuss the citrus groves.”

“We are. If you won’t level with me about Martinez, let’s get back to Reggie. I’m curious. Did he tell you I blackmailed Harney into marriage because of something that happened a long time ago? Wait-” She focused on my handbag, which was on the floor. “Turn your phone off. I want to see you do it.”

Something big was coming. Why else would she go to such extremes to be nice instead of ordering me off the property?

“In that case, we both should,” I said, then waited to speak until she had complied. “Did your husband mention that I run a small investigation agency? My uncle started it, but now that he’s dead-”

She waved me off. “The way this works is, I talk and you listen-for now anyway. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I’m about to share something I’ve never told anyone. Not out of guilt. I want us to trust each other. Understand?”

“I think you’re rushing things. We’ve barely met.”

“In a way, but not really. The law firm I pay way too much money has a team of investigators, so I know more about you and your mother than you realize. Don’t worry, I’ll leave Loretta out of it-for now. This is about us, you and me. There’s something we have in common. Something that if a woman hasn’t experienced it, she can’t understand. Are you with me now?”

I sensed where the conversation was heading. Lonnie Chatham had read about my past. Now she was probing, testing for empathy, before risking details about her past and, possibly, a murder she had committed more than twenty years ago.