Cinnamon Skin (8 page)

"You said there were letters she wrote to him when she was out in the field. No hints in those? No clues?"

He frowned. "When I found them I thought he was dead too, and it seemed a terrible invasion of privacy. I threw them out, and then I retrieved them and put them with her personal papers. I just scanned a couple of them quickly. There's about a dozen, I think. She was very much in love."

He went off and found the letters and brought them back to me. "Travis, I don't think I want to read them. If you wouldn't mind…"

There were twelve of them, written on whatever paper was handy at the time. Yellow legal sheets, office memo paper, the blank backs of obsolete printouts. She wrote in the hasty scrawl of a busy person, using abbreviations, leaving out words. She talked of her work but without the technical details he would probably not have understood.

They were all dated and could be divided into small batches. Apparently she wrote frequently when she was out in the field. Three consecutive days in March, four in April, two in mid-May, and three in June.

Darlin, having dreadful time today with a ranch woman who refuses to believe we will repair their land when we're through. Kept coming out, whining about the ruts and how we were scaring her animals. We were using some new equipment, and had to make certain it was placed just where I had marked the aerials. If, when all the reports are in, we decide to try to make a well, she will really go out of her mind.

Miss you so much I can't believe it. I think of your hands touching; and I feel all weak and dizzy, and I forget what it is I'm supposed to be doing here. I can close my eyes and look into your eyes and see my whole life there. You can never ever love me as much as I love you. I never thought I could feel like this, not in my whole life. I never thought I could feel this kind of physical hunger for someone. Tomorrow night I will be home, darling; and we will be together, and I will be in your arms, and we will make it last and last until I go out of my mind.

That erotic strain ran through all the letters, those written before the marriage and those written afterward. It was a very strong physical infatuation. I could guess that she had been a shy person, not pretty, uncertain in any kind of sexual relationship, dedicated to her work. At twenty-nine, awakened by Evan Lawrence, she wanted to catch up on everything she had missed, and from the letters she was making a pretty good try.

But I was after hints and clues. What about the money? What kind of a man was Evan Lawrence? I came upon a comment in a June letter that puzzled me.

When we talked the other night, Evan, I guess I seemed too nervous about the arrangement. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound that way. It's just that I've been so damned orderly all my life. Oh, I've taken big risks in my work, but not in my personal life. I pay every parking ticket on time. I know you are amused by that, and maybe you are a little irritated by it too. I agreed, and I'm not going to back out. The only thing is, we have to turn it around by April of next year. You say we will, so okay. And, darling, I can understand how just as a matter of personal pride, you want to make a contribution to our future. But it really doesn't matter that much to me. I don't think of things like that. I love you just as you are, and it would not matter to me if you had five million dollars or twentyeight cents. I trust you with my life and everything that goes with it. Now it is Cinderella time, and I am yawning, and this gasoline lantern in the van is hurting my eyes and attracting every bug in Louisiana, and tomorrow is the day when we'll find out-not for sure but for maybe-if we want to keep this lease. If we want to keep it, we have to start making a hole in the ground by August at the latest.

I marked the passage and took it over to Meyer. He read it. carefully. "So! She filed a quarterly estimate in addition to the deductions they took from her salary at Amdex. And she would have to pay the estimate plus last year's tax on April fifteenth. She was telling him that she had to have the deal consummated, whatever it was, and get enough money back so she wouldn't be caught short when tax time rolled around. He had some kind of scheme and he talked her into letting him have the money quietly and secretly so he could, perhaps, double it."

"That makes her sound like a dummy Meyer."

"What could she say to him? 'No, thanks. I don't want you investing my money. I don't trust you. You're not smart enough, Mr. Lawrence. I earned it and it's mine.' Think of all the ways he could have worked on her, and then see if you really want to call her a dummy."

I told him it was probably the wrong word to use, and I went back to my reading and rereading of that highly personal mail. I marked a few short passages and finally, when I was certain there was nothing else, I read each one aloud to Meyer.

You must have lots and lots of friends, darling. Don't they know where you are living? It seems odd that you don't get any mail or phone calls at all, only from my friends-or I should say our friends.

And, in another letter:

I don't know what I did to make you so angry. I wasn't jealous. I was just curious. I want to know what every minute of your life has been like. If you don't want to talk about her, I'll never bring it up again.

And finally:

I don't care how beautiful Cuernavaca is, darling. Anywhere we can be together will be wonderful enough. I just can't run out on Am Dexter at this point. Can't we just begin to make plans instead of being so abrupt? In two years I could arrange to be as free as a bird. But I don't really know how well I would adjust to being unemployed. I shouldn't have brought this up in a letter. Don't be angry with me.

Meyer shook his head and sighed. "So he was going to double her money and they would then live forever in Mexico in peace and luxury. And it is a fair guess he was married before."

"Where does all this leave us?"

"Only a little better than nowhere at all. I've been trying to reconstruct some of the history he told us that night aboard the Flush. He worked on timesharing sales with somebody named Willy in Cancun. He has a degree in Business Administration from the University of Texas. He worked for a Mr. Guffey, a farmer living north of Harlingen, selling Japanese stone lanterns. He worked for Eagle Realty in Dallas. He worked in a rodeo for a short time. Can you remember anything else?"

"Not a thing."

"Where do you think we should start?"

"You're the academic type, Meyer. So you go to Austin, and I'll go to Dallas."

The car rental woman at the airport had been helpful in getting me to the general location, north of I-30 and east of the North Tollway, over in the vicinity of Southern Methodist, but once I was in the area I had to ask three times before I finally found it near a giant shopping mall, a long low building with lots of windows, faced with pale stone and redwood, with a big carved golden eagle over the double doors in front. Something had been there first and had been torn down. Heaps of rubble were shoved to the back of the raw lot, waiting to be trucked off. They were starling to pave the parking lot. Some very small trees had been put into the planters, and a man was watering them.

I pushed my way into the air-conditioned reception area, where a man in khakis was slowly stripping transparent plastic from the reception-area chairs and couches.

A big nervous young woman came trotting back to the reception desk, stared at me, and said, "Thank God! At last!"

"At last what?"

"You're from the electric, aren't you? My God, you've got to be from the electric!"

"I'm from Florida."

"If you're here trying to sell something, I can tell you that you are going right back out that door so fast-"

"I'm not selling anything, buying anything, or fixing anything."

She finally smiled. "Then you're not going to be much good to us, are you? Honest to God, I'll quit before I get involved in moving the office again."

"I'm trying to find out a couple of things about a man who used to work for Eagle. His name is Evan Lawrence."

"Doesn't mean a thing to me. Not a thing. How long ago?"

"I'm not too definite about the date."

"We get a big turnover on salesmen, especially the last few years. You know how it is. The old personnel records are on floppy disks, and unless somebody comes from the electric and gets that back office juiced up, nobody is ever going to read them. We've got four tabletop IBMs back there, with data-processing programs and printers, and our information about current sales and rentals is all on the disks, and we can't run anything because the current keeps cutting out."

"Who's around who's been here the longest?"

"Well, I guess that would be Martin Eagle." She reached toward the phone. "Who will I say?"

"McGee. Travis McGee from Fort Lauderdale."

She picked up the phone and said a very ugly word. Her face turned red. "Now the effing phone is effing well dead too. You wait here."

She trotted off. The man uncovering the furniture was chuckling and shaking his head. She came back and beckoned to me, and I followed her to Martin Eagle's big corner office with a view of the rubble piles and a corner of the mall and ten thousand automobiles winking in the heat waves. She waved me in and closed the door.

Martin Eagle looked over his shoulder at me and smiled and nodded and turned back toward the perforated section of white wall where he was hanging trophies and credentials on little hooks that fitted into the perforations.

He hung a framed scroll which said in Olde English that Martin Eagle was Junior Chamber of Commerce Man of the Year. It was dated three years ago.

"You think it's maybe too close to the award from the city? What do you think?"

"I guess it would depend on how much you are going to hang there."

"Good thinking. McGee, is it? Call me Marty. I don't know if I should hang all this shit or not. Look, I got the top of the desk covered. Maybe I shouldn't even hang that JC scroll. They gave it to five of us that year. I was the third runner-up. All this stuff could be, you know, ostentatious. But you take doctors. They hang stuff all over. Gives the patients confidence, I guess. I'm doing the same thing. Eagle Realty gives you a fair deal, buying or selling. That's the only thing I've ever learned about this business. You screw somebody, it comes back to haunt you. Even when you don't screw somebody, it comes back to haunt you. People don't listen and people lie. What am I doing in a new building anyway? In these times. You want to know why? We got too big for the old place and we were going to stay right there, all packed in, no matter what, and they decided to tear down the whole block and put up another gigantic building. So here I am. Wait a second. I want to put up this little shelf thing and put some eagles on it. I've got a big collection of eagles. Pottery, silver, stone, wood. You wouldn't believe how many I've got at home. Everybody knows I collect eagles, and there you are."

He put four eagles on the little shelf and stepped back and made a little sound of satisfaction and went around his desk and sat down and gestured toward a nearby chair.

"It's going to look okay in here when we get organized," he said. "Nice building, don't you think?"

"Very nice, Marty. My name is Travis McGee."

"Trav, my friend, you have given me invaluable advice about my wall over there. I am in your debt. What can I do for you? Like a good price on a nice little house? Why live in Florida when you can live in Texas like a human being? Bring the wife around. In a week we'll have our new slide show deal going and it will be computerized. The way it works, a man says he can spend from eighty-five to a hundred and five thousand. He wants at least a half acre of land. He's got to have two bedrooms. Okay, we save a lot of time by showing the slides before we go out driving around in traffic. What can I do for you?"

He was a jolly man with a happy face. Dark hair combed all the way forward and then curved off to one side and sprayed into place. He was carrying a little too much weight, but he looked comfortable with it. Fawn-colored slacks, white shoes, yellow sports shirt with a little eagle embroidered over the left pocket. Gold chain around the neck and the right wrist. Gold watch on the left wrist. Gold ring on the right-hand pinky, with an eagle on it.

"I wanted to ask a couple of questions about a man who used to work here."

"I'm telling you, Trav, we try to screen them all as well as we can, but these days it's a real burden. A man fills out an application, and it costs you real money to check out all the references he gives you. What I do, and sometimes I'm sorry, I size them up myself. We have a little chat. Take for example yourself. If you wanted to work here, I'd say okay. I'd teach you the ropes, help you get the licenses. But I wouldn't let you handle any cash money until I was damn well sure you were okay. I'm telling you that over the years we've had some bad apples. They float around like used car salesmen. But we've had some real good ones too. Who are you looking for?"

"Evan Lawrence."

"Evan? Evan Lawrence?" He shook his head slowly. "No, that doesn't ring any kind of a bell at all."

"He said he worked here for at least a year, and he made quite a lot of money selling tract houses and lots for you."

"Listen, anybody who makes money for me, I remember. Because when they make money. I make money. A year, you say? Trav, my friend, somebody is kidding you, or you are kidding me. What did this fellow look like anyway?"

I took the portrait folder out of the small leather portfolio, stood up, and leaned over and handed it to Marty Eagle across his big new desk.

Still smiling, he flipped it open.

All expression ceased. The blood drained from his face, leaving a yellowish cast to his tan. He seemed to stop breathing. Suddenly he looked alarmed, heaved himself up, and trotted to his personal executive washroom and slammed the door. I heard him in there retching, heard the water running, the toilet flushing. When at last he came out there was a gray tired look about him. There was a water stain where he had dabbed at his yellow shirt. He brought a faint sharp aroma of vomit, quickly dispelled by the air conditioning.

He sat heavily behind the desk and shook his head. "Never had that happen to me before. Never."

"I'm sorry."

"So don't be sorry. How could you know? When was this taken?" He was studying the picture carefully.

"Last April."

"Where is he now?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"I think why I threw up, we were always a close family, me and my two sisters. This man isn't any Evan Lawrence. His name is Jerry Tobin. Everybody working here at the time liked him. That was five years ago. And I have thought about the whole thing ten thousand times. Doris, she was my kid sister, she fell head over heels. What can you do? I didn't want her marrying any con artist like Jerry Tobin. He was very slick. He could really close a sale. Hell, Dorrie hadn't turned twenty-one even. But she got her money when she was eighteen. We all did. That was the way Poppa's will worked. I told her that she was going to have to wait a year and see if she still loved Jerry enough to marry him. She was furious. She didn't want to wait. She was pretty. And she wasn't thinking straight because good old Jerry Tobin had gotten into her pants, and she couldn't get enough of it. They called from the bank and said they had tried to keep her from cleaning out her accounts, but they had no legal way to stop her. She didn't come back home; not ever again. She was dead by evening of the next day. Down near Kerrville, just past a little town named Ingram, on a back road. It was her car, her white Buick. She was driving. They missed a turn and went off the road and hit a live oak a kind of glancing blow. It threw him clear when the car rolled. They think she was knocked out. They couldn't tell because the car burned. It burned her all to hell. They had to identify her from dental work to be sure. People saw the fire and stopped. Jerry Tobin was face down on a stony bank, all scuffed up. He didn't come to until he was in the ambulance. He came to the funeral service here in Dallas. He cried like a baby. He still had some small bandages on. But she was dead. Where was the money? It had burned up with her and her luggage and clothes and car, and his luggage and clothes. Too bad. All gone."

"Much?"

"Depends on who is counting. Two hundred and twenty something thousand. I didn't buy it. I didn't buy the story. I drove way down there and looked at where it happened. I looked at what was left of the car. There was a police investigation. They cleared him. Dorrie'd had a couple of minor accidents and a whole bundle of moving vehicle violations. She always drove too fast. He knew that. Everything fitted together. I hired private investigators. I wanted them to find him loaded with money. I wanted to get the whole thing opened up. But all of a sudden he just took off. He left a note on my desk. There are too many sad memories around here, Marty. I can't take it any longer. Good-by and good luck."

He tried to smile.

"I thought I was past being really hurt about it and then I saw that face, that goddamn smirk of his, and it got to me. Why do you want to find him?"

"Maybe the same kind of thing. A little bigger stake. And more risk."

"How much bigger?"

"Half again."

He whistled without making a sound. "Maybe there's some law about using a false name."

"And maybe he had it legally changed. If I can't locate him, what difference does it make?"

"She was so alive! Look, if he did it twice, then he killed them both."

"Just an assumption, Marty."

"You sound like some kind of lawyer. You know what I did? When they weren't finding out anything about him-those investigators I was paying-I asked one of them if he knew of a good safe way to find somebody who'd be willing to kill Tobin. It made the investigator very nervous. He didn't seem to want to ask around. I was going to try some other way of finding somebody when all of a sudden Tobin took off. I am not a violent-type guy, as you can probably guess, McGee. But she was my kid sister, and that son of a bitch came into her life and ended it. Maybe it happened just like he said. So what? He was still to blame, wasn't he? I'm not hurting for money. I could hire the best there is." He tried to force a laugh, but his eyes filled with tears and he hopped up and stared out his window. "We were always such a close family," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Did you try to trace him?"

"For a while. It's a big country. Even back then all the rules were beginning to break down. You know, about new identities. People drifting all over, calling themselves anything at all, buying new names with driving licenses and passports and the whole thing. They say you can trace people through social security numbers. If a person stayed put, maybe you could. But a drifter can invent a new number for every job he has. I traced down the number Jerry gave when we hired him. It took months for the report to come back through the local office. It was a number issued to a woman with an Italian name."

"Was he a good salesman?"

"I don't know how he'd have done in the market we got now, but five-six years ago he was a killer. He could close a deal while the next guy would just be getting around to showing the bathrooms. I would say he cleared somewhere in the low six figures in the time he was here."

"Would you know about him getting ripped off by somebody with a tax-shelter scam?"

"Jerry? Ripped off? Not likely."

"Buying a bunch of Bibles to donate them later to schools and churches for four times what he paid?"

"No way at all. He had a good business head. Very very sharp. I've got some pretty good moves myself. But I think he could have come up with better ones. I kept telling him I should open a branch of Eagle in Fort Worth and he could run it, but he didn't want any part of it. He said he was lazy. I don't think so. I think it was something about the exposure, about attracting too much attention to himself."