Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide (14 page)

“You’re not going to dump me again. I won’t let you,” he had said.

“Harry, I’m telling you—” He reached for her, and she lost the drift of the argument.

Eventually, though, the moment arrived when they had to extricate themselves from the wreckage of tangled sheets and discarded clothing, and Harry had to dress and go home. Clothed, she had been able to make her point more strongly. “I can’t let this happen.”

“It did happen.”

“All right, it did, but I have to live with myself. Not again.”

He rested his hand against her cheek. “We’ll see,” he said, and that was as close as they had gotten to agreement.

After Harry left, in the aftermath of washing dishes, straightening the bed, trying to restore order, Isabel had remembered the Marine Patrol. Eve Davenant had told her a Marine Patrolman had disappeared around the time Merriam was injured. It was a stretch to imagine the two events were connected, but trying to find out more would give her an excuse to take time out, drive to Westpoint, get some perspective.

Isabel drove back to St. Elmo. She hadn’t learned anything from the Marine Patrol, but she didn’t have to get her information from the Marine Patrol. She would try the newspaper.
.

Within half an hour, she was in the office of the
St. Elmo Dispatch
having a cup of tea while the affable young editor (and apparently the sole employee) filled her in on the missing Marine Patrolman.

The editor’s name was Dustin. He wore Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt, and suspenders, and he looked about sixteen years old. Leaning back in his chair he said,, “The patrolman’s name was Darryl Kelly. Disappeared into thin air, it seemed, and then part of his arm was found in a shark caught by a fisherman over in Westpoint. Apparently, it was an accident, but as you might expect, one school of thought claims there was something funny about it.” He dug around in a desk drawer and pulled out a copy of the newspaper. “Here’s the issue with our story about it.”

“Thanks.” Isabel took the paper. The date was late May.

“You know, speaking of poor Darryl Kelly,” said Dustin, “there’s a Darryl Kelly angle in this week’s top story.”

“What’s this week’s top story?”

“Jailbreak. A local marijuana dealer named Buddy Burke walked off his work-release job in Tallahassee.”

Buddy Burke. Kimmie Dee’s father. “I heard about it. What’s the Darryl Kelly angle?”

Dustin smiled. “The Darryl Kelly angle is that a couple of months before he died, Darryl Kelly arrested Buddy Burke. Darryl Kelly is the one who sent Buddy to jail.”

She thought about it. “Have the people investigating Darryl Kelly’s death thought of talking to Buddy Burke?”

“No doubt they have, but there seems to be less to the connection than meets the eye. In the first place, Buddy himself was in jail when Kelly disappeared.”

“But what about his associates?”

Ruminatively, Dustin slid his thumbs beneath his suspenders. “Buddy did have a couple of associates— the guy who was growing the stuff over in the woods near Westpoint and the guy’s cousin, who was helping him. That’s about it. The cops got them, too. What I’m saying is, these are local boys without fancy connections. It’s hard to imagine them going after Darryl Kelly for revenge or something dramatic like that.”

Isabel was not eager to think of Kimmie Dee’s father as a potential killer. Still, Darryl Kelly’s involvement in Buddy Burke’s arrest seemed a strange coincidence. She finished her tea, waved the newspaper, and said, “Thanks again.”

“No problem. If you spot Buddy, give me a call. My deadline’s tomorrow afternoon.”.

She glanced through the paper as she sat in the car. Darryl Kelly had disappeared on May twentieth. Nobody knew exactly where he had been when fate overtook him. He had driven to the Westpoint Marine Patrol substation early in the morning, before his shift started, and taken out a boat. He had not said where he was going. When his shift began and he hadn’t radioed in, the dispatcher tried to raise him. He never answered, never turned up, was, in fact, never seen again. His arm was found in the shark three days later and was identified by a plaid fragment of a jacket sleeve.

May twentieth. Isabel dropped the papers on the seat and drove around the corner to Clem Davenant’s office.

The place was modest but comfortable, with old maps of St. Elmo and Cape St. Elmo and historic photos on the wall. Clem’s secretary buzzed him, and soon he stuck his head out the door of his office and told her to come in.

After Isabel sat down Clem opened a folder on his desk and launched into a discussion of the value of Merriam’s property (not great, because it wasn’t beachfront); the taxes (considerable); the condition of the house (terrible). “After her expenses are paid, there’ll be a little cash left over,” he said. “I’m not sure exactly how much. Maybe ten thousand.” He closed the folder and sat back.

Isabel tented her fingers and pressed them against her lips. “I’ll have to sell the place. What else can I do?” she said at last.

He tapped his gold pen on the blotter. “The house is a local landmark. It ought to be preserved.”

“Yes, but you’re talking about a lot of money, and I don’t have it. I can’t look after the place any better than Merriam could.” She had never been happy there. Why should the thought of selling the house be so painful?

“You don’t have to decide right now. Give it some thought.” He opened his desk drawer. “Here are the keys.” He pulled out a small stainless-steel ring and handed it to her.

She dropped them in her bag, started to stand, and said, “One other thing. What day was it that Merriam had her accident?”

“What day?”

“The date. Do you remember?”

He leafed through a leather-bound calendar on his desk, ran his finger across it, and said, “I have a notation here that she was taken to the hospital on May twentieth.”

“Thanks.”

“Isabel—” He played with the pen again, let it go. “I’m disturbed by what you said about Merriam yesterday. About your suspicions.”

“Oh, well—” She shrugged. She didn’t want a replay of their disagreement.

“I hope you’ll let me know if you discover anything.”

“All right.” Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.

The drive to the Cape gave her a chance to muse about her research. Both Merriam and Darryl Kelly had been extremely unfortunate on May twentieth. Darryl Kelly could have been at Cape St. Elmo that morning, although nobody had seen him.

Unless Merriam had.

Preoccupied, Isabel walked into the trailer. She was standing on a white envelope— a blank envelope. She had not put the weather stripping along the bottom of the door, damn it. She picked the envelope up. Sealed, like the one before.

She tore it open wearily. The printed message, in red felt-tip pen, was similar to the first: NOW YOU CAN GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, YOU WHORE. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.

Harry and Scooter got in late from a long day of diving, and Harry really didn’t have time to stop by Isabel’s. But when he got in his truck to go home, he turned toward the Anders place anyway.

Isabel must have heard him, because she was looking out the window. By the time he had gotten out of the truck, she was standing in the doorway.

Harry stood by the step. He said, “I came to see how things went today.”

“Not too well.”

Harry didn’t know whether her bad mood had to do with him or something else. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh”—she pushed hair off her forehead with a worn-out air— “I talked to Clem Davenant about Merriam’s estate, and I think I’m going to have to sell the house. There isn’t enough money to keep it up.”

“Did you want to hold on to it?”

She looked toward the old building. “I don’t know. Why should I, really?” The corner of her eye jumped, the way it used to when she got jittery.

He said, “Something else is wrong. What is it?”

He wasn’t sure she was going to answer. Finally, she said, “I’m getting anonymous notes.”

The mosquitoes were descending. A cloud of them had congregated around the lamp by the door. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody is writing notes calling me a whore and saying I should go back where I came from. I found the second one when I got home this afternoon.”

“Can I see them?”

She let him in. A piece of paper and a torn envelope were lying on the table. She handed the paper to him.

Harry studied it. NOW YOU CAN GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM, YOU WHORE. Written in red felt-tip marker. He shook his head the way he did when water clogged his ears. Isabel handed him another paper. Same general message.

A drumming had started up inside Harry’s head. “I can take care of this for you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t happen again.” He dropped the notes on the table. He had to get out of here.

“Wait a minute, Harry. I want to know if you—”

He didn’t wait. He remembered the door slamming, but he didn’t remember getting in the truck. The first thing he knew he was on the road, heading for home.

***

“I wrote them because I wanted her to go away and leave us alone, Harry,” said Kathy Mercer.

Harry tried to feel something besides revulsion. “You’re damn lucky she didn’t tell the cops,” he said. He was overcome with disgust.

Harry and Kathy were in their kitchen breakfast nook. An uncut meat loaf and cool baked potatoes sat untouched on a platter. Limp green beans swam in a bowl.

“You used to be in love with her,” Kathy said.

Harry had an impression of watching this scene from a long distance away. Kathy’s distress couldn’t touch him.

Harry had not confessed to sleeping with Isabel. He had stormed in to confront Kathy, and he had told her he happened to run into Isabel and she happened to complain about getting anonymous notes. He had taken the high ground, gone on the offensive before Kathy could start asking questions.

Blindly, Kathy reached across the table toward him. Her arm hit a tea glass, knocking it off balance. He caught it before it tipped over and said, “Watch out, for Christ’s sake.”

Kathy quailed. “Don’t you love me at all?” she whispered.

Harry couldn’t answer. He couldn’t say a word. To put everything back like it used to be, all he had to do was say yes, he loved her, but his jaws might as well have been welded shut.

He didn’t even have to conceal what had happened with Isabel. He could speak up and tell Kathy everything. Kathy wouldn’t like it, but she would forgive him.

Or, if he could force himself to speak, he could gloss over the whole thing with lies. Kathy would jump at any flimsy, farfetched excuse. Everything could be exactly the same.

Harry closed his eyes and willed himself down into the cool underwater world of the Cape St. Elmo shoals. He felt himself becoming weightless, unencumbered. All he could hear was his own breath, in and out. The surface shimmered above him, silvery and remote.

“Harry?” Kathy’s voice sounded like she was choking.

He opened his eyes “What?” His own tone was dry and brittle.

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

The time had come. He had to speak his piece now, make everything all right. He wet his lips. “Maybe I should move out,” he said.

Kathy recoiled as if he’d hit her. “No!”

“Yeah. I think I better.”

Kathy scrambled around the table and threw herself against him. He could feel her heaving as he rocked backward. Woodenly, he put his arms around her and patted her back. He was going. It was so simple and obvious.

“
I hate her!”
Kathy screamed, her voice reverberating in his ear.

Harry winced. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Isabel,” he said. He thought maybe it was the truth.

“I don’t believe you!”
She pulled back to look at him, her face smeared and damp. “I don’t!” She pounded his chest with her fists.

Breath jerked out of him. He caught her wrists in his hands. He was calm but sensed the beginnings of a yawning sadness.

She struggled briefly before pulling away. She stood up. “All right, go, you bastard.”

Jerkily, as if his legs were likely to give way, he walked down the hall to their bedroom and got his duffel bag from the top of the closet. He stared at his clothes hanging on the pole: his one good suit; a metal hanger contraption holding the Christmas-gift ties he never wore; his jacket, chinos, sport shirts. He couldn’t imagine what to take.

He went to his dresser and started unloading his underwear drawer, stuffing jockey shorts into the duffel bag. He would need underwear. Somehow, it seemed as if he could do without most of the rest.

He was in the bathroom getting his toothbrush and razor when Kathy came to the doorway. She wasn’t hysterical now or even crying. Her face was yellow-white, her eyes behind the lenses of her glasses big and shocked. “You aren’t really leaving, Harry?” she said.

Of course he wasn’t really leaving. This was his house. Kathy was his wife. He had two daughters who would be coming home from camp next week. This was his life, a bedroom with a satin spread on the bed and a big TV and meat loaf on the table and a truck in the driveway and a boat berthed out at Cape St. Elmo.

“I better go,” he said. He saw himself in the bathroom mirror. His own eyes looked big and shocked, too.

“Don’t,” she said, but now it was clear in his mind.

“I’ll be at the Beachcomber,” he said. Less than five minutes later, he was on his way.

Buddy Burke stood in the dank mud at the river’s edge and listened to cars whizzing by on the bridge over his head. In the near cool of morning, the concrete pillars around him emitted a clammy chill.

Buddy could feel his heart beating. He could smell his own rank smell mingling with the other odors around him.

If Buddy had been smart, which he would be the first to admit was questionable, he would have gotten here to cross the bridge early, when the traffic was light and the chances of being seen slim. He hadn’t done that. After he arrived and assessed the situation he had scrambled down the bank with the thought, humorous as it was, that he might find a skiff here, or even swim across. He took three seconds to discover that his fairy godmother had not left any skiff for him, and two more seconds to decide he wasn’t about to swim.