1 Margarita Nights Page 3

  Evan had his disapproving-grandma look on and couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You don’t mean that.”

  “You didn’t know Jimmy.”

  There was a flicker of something in his eyes before he looked away. “I did actually,” he said lightly. He picked at the rim of his cardboard coffee cup.

  I sat perfectly still. “Where did you meet him?”

  With a soft lift of his shoulders, he said, “He was popular guy and was invited to every party in town. I met him several times. I didn’t like to tell you.”

  “Why?”

  Again the soft lift of his shoulders. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “What happened, Evan?”

  He started to deny it, and then he rubbed his hand across his mouth and gave a huge sigh. “Ab out a month ago Noble and I were out sailing. We anchored in the lea of Little Jose Island and were swimming in the nude when Jimmy sailed in. Jimmy knew Noble, of course, and understood the situation immediately.” Evan looked up at me. His jaw was set like granite. “He just got this big grin on his face like it was the best joke he’d ever heard. Noble has been terrified ever since, waiting for Jimmy to out us.” “Sooner or later it has to come out.”

  “Yes, but not yet. Noble needs time. I don’t want him pushed into it.”

  We had this discussion about a million times a day. I popped to my feet. “I’ve got a tee time.” I went to get my sunglasses off the counter.

  “You’re going to play golf?” His voice went up an octave and his eyes grew round at this latest example of my poor social graces. Evan was my arbitrator of good taste and he’d been working hard to take off my rough edges, but even with all his hard work the Junior League wasn’t coming to call anytime soon.

  “Today?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  He looked so serious, I laughed. “You mean people will talk ’cause in polite society you don’t play golf the day after your husband is blown to Kingdom Come.”

  “Not usually, at least not anywhere I’ve ever been.” He followed me to the door, still fussing over me. “You can be your own worst enemy sometimes. Stay home and we’ll hang out.”

  I opened the front door and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “I wish I had a mamma just like you.”

  I ran down the stairs, opened the car door, and slung my bag onto the passenger’s seat.

  I looked back up at Evan leaning over the railing. “Oh, by the way, Cordelia came into the Sunset last night.” Spread the joy, I always say. “She thinks I’m having an affair with Noble.” Well, that should take his mind off my troubles.

  Chapter 6

  I swung out on Airport Road and drove the two blocks to Main. Jeff had changed the radio from my normal Tampa Bay rock station to a golden oldies one, but I was too preoccupied to care. At Main the light changed just as I got there and I was making the left when some stupid song about a guy named Jimmy Mac coming back started playing on the radio. Then it hit me. Jimmy wasn’t coming back. The angry conviction that this was all a scam fled and I bumped up onto the center median and stopped with the ass end of my puke green Dodge hanging out in traffic. I couldn’t breathe.

  A rush of traffic caught up to me. Cars with out-of-state license plates dodged around me, blasting their horns while I bawled and cursed them, not knowing who I hated more at that moment, the tourists or Jimmy. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if I was crying for Jimmy or myself, I only knew my life was never going to be the same again. Lost dreams, Styles had said. I sure as hell had a few.

  When the light changed again, I eased carefully back out into traffic without killing anyone. By the time I hit Jacaranda Boulevard I was back to believing that the fraud artist I married was at it again. Call me Ms. Inconsistency if you like— you just had to know Jimmy to understand.

  When I hit Raintree Avenue, I turned south without thinking, instead of north towards the golf course and pulled into Harry’s Diner. I saw Clay’s white Lexus parked out front before I realized why I was there. I left my sunglasses on and headed for the door.

  Harry’s is a tiny place, one long counter with a dozen stools and about five tables pushed up against the outside wall. Left over from the fifties, the diner’s chrome shines from all its edges and a large glass pie shelf sits in the place of honor on the center of the counter.

  I stepped inside and waited a moment while my eyes adjusted to the light. The buzz of conversation dropped and finally ceased. Clay Adams, always tuned to the world around him, glanced over his right shoulder to see what had caused the sudden silence. His eyes lit up when he saw me and a grin pulled at his lips. I crossed the black-and-white-tiled floor to the counter where he was having breakfast with Brian Spears.

  “Bacon and eggs a re bad for you,” I told Clay as I slipped onto the red leatherette stool next to him.

  He looked hard at me. Those sharp obsidian eyes always see more than you want them to. “Not doing so good, are you?”

  “Says who?”

  “Tough girl. If you were all right, you’d be on the golf course instead of here.”

  “Damn. Can I use your cell phone? I need to cancel my tee time.” He reached into his suit jacket for his phone and handed it to me.

  Clay went back to his breakfast while Brian studied me anxiously over Clay’s back as I made the call. Brian’s gray eyes are set deep in a fair-skinned face covered in sunspots from years of sailing. He shows up regularly with tape over the latest blemish he’s had removed. Even this early in the day Brian’s suit was rumpled and his tie was undone.

  Clay is the exact opposite of Brian; with dark hair and skin, he is always meticulous about his person and perfectly presented no matter what hour of the day or night. Lean to the point of gaunt, there’s a hungry look about Clay that no food could ever satisfy, and his restless eyes always seem to be searching for something they can’t quite find.

  Clay has never married, likely because he gets a bigger thrill seeing someone sign on the dotted line for one of his overpriced properties than he ever gets from seeing a woman in his bed. He lives to make deals. Seven days a week he’s buying and selling properties up and down the west coast of Florida, making his real estate company the biggest in the county.

  Val arrived with a cup of coffee for me. “Sorry for your loss, honey,” she said, her plump brown face full of concern. She reached out and rubbed the back of my hand. “Sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I had a hard time meeting her eye, uncomfortable and wanting to tell her that there was really nothing for her to be sorry about—it was just Jimmy being an ass again.

  The silence around us was palpable now. Jacaranda is mostly a small town where everyone knows everyone else, except for the tourists, and they don’t count. Like one big family: acrimonious, battling and often nasty, but still family, so everyone had heard about the explosion on the Suncoaster and was feeling real sorry for me.

  Only Clay seemed comfortable. He just went on neatly eating his artery-clogging breakfast without worrying if I was falling to pieces beside him.

  “Can we go outside, guys?” I whispered. I wanted to get out of there before everyone in the diner started coming up to me one by one to express their condolences. “I need to talk.”

  Clay pushed his plate away and threw some money on the counter. “See you tomorrow, Valentine,” he said and led the way to the door. Brian took my hand as we followed him out. Hand-holding wasn’t normally the kind of relationship Brian and I had. Our bond was more like insult and injury, so a big lump came up in my throat.

  “What can I do?” Brian asked as the door closed behind us.

  “Let’s sit in my car,” Clay suggested, leading the way.

  I started by telling them about Styles. “The thing is . . . well, you know Jimmy.” I ran my index finger under my nose.

  Clay pulled some tissues from a box in the glove compartment and held them out to me.

  “You know all the things he’s done in the past. Get-rich
projects with other peoples’ money. Selling things he didn’t own. This is just one more scheme, but I don’t know why.”

  “Sherri,” Clay said, “denial is a normal part of grieving. I know it’s hard to believe he’s dead, but you have to know the police wouldn’t tell you this lightly.” Clay turned in his seat to look at Brian. “They must know Travis is dead, right Brian? They wouldn’t just say someone was dead if they didn’t have a body.”

  Brian adjusted his glasses, thinking it over. “I wouldn’t think so, but from what I read in the paper there was an explosion and then a fire. How much would be left of him? Sorry, Sherri.” He patted my shoulder with his sausage-sized fingers.

  “Do you think you can find out how certain they a re Travis was on board?” Clay asked.

  “I know a few people. I’ll make some calls.” Clay turned back to me. “You just have to sit tight, Sherri, and wait ’til we know more.”

  “If there was someone on the boat and it wasn’t Jimmy, who was it?” Saying my fears out loud made them real.

  “We have to know that there was a body, before you start worrying about that,” Clay told me.

  But I couldn’t wait. “Someone had to start the engine. I’m worried it might be Andy Crown. He’s Jimmy’s best friend. Jimmy takes him out on the Suncoaster a lot.” “Is he that paranoid guy?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah.” Of all the other ways of describing Andy, like funny and clever, it had come down to this.

  “I know the Crowns,” Brian said. “Nice people. Shame they got a kid like that.”

  I swung violently around to face him. “Well, schizophrenia was no great present for Andy, either.” The look on his face stopped me. I slid down into the white leather. “Sorry, Brian.”

  “It’s okay, kid.” He patted my shoulder again. “Only natural to be upset.”

  All of this went right by Clay. He handed me his phone and said, “Call him.”

  Clay switched on the ignition to roll down the windows while we waited. Andy didn’t answer. I slapped the phone shut. “No answer.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Clay.

  “True. He thinks the CIA can control his thoughts through the telephone. Plus he thinks his telephone is bugged.” I tried to laugh. “All things considered, if I were him, I wouldn’t answer it either.”

  Depression reached out and grabbed me. All our bright promise had fallen into madness, death and failure. I opened the door. “I have to go.”

  Clay leaned over and called, “But keep in touch,” as the door slammed shut.

  Cypress Island is a barrier island situated halfway between Tampa and Naples. There’s a metal lift-bridge over the inland waters at the north end of Cypress Island and another lift-bridge at the south end connecting the island to the mainland. In-between the two bridges there are about eight miles of paradise and Florida’s best-kept secret. Most visitors to the west coast of Florida stop at Sarasota or hurry on down the interstate to Fort Myers without ever knowing our island exists—a bonus for those of us who don’t want it to become another Dade County.

  I drove through the town of Jacaranda, past houses sheltering under live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, past old Floridastyle houses with wide verandas running across the front and metal roofs shining in the sun. There’s a whole parcel of white clapboard churches, and everywhere you look scarlet bougainvillea and orange trumpet vine climb on fences and sheds. The tourists love it.

  When I was a kid it was still mostly a fishing village, but in the last ten years it has become gentrified, sending prices skyrocketing and pushing all the fishermen off the island.

  At Banyan, I turned left onto Beach Road and headed for Indian Mound Beach, which is two miles past the south bridge and the most exclusive part of Cypress Island. The road twisted and turned around trees and bends in the shoreline. Overhead, the trees met, forming a living canopy. At middle beach, where the land narrows and the inland waters and the Gulf of Mexico nearly meet, the beach was full of colorful umbrellas, pink and blue and yellow, their borders dancing in the breeze while their owners walked along the edge of the water, heads down concentrating on finding shark teeth. This beach is famous for its teeth, ancient reminders of sharks long dead, and it draws people from all over the country.

  Most of the owners on this part of the island are either from up north or they’re the most successful doctors, lawyers and Indian Chiefs in the whole county. The houses, set in lush tropical jungles overlooking the Gulf of Mexico on the west side or bordering the inland waterway down the east side, are all worth millions of dollars. It has always been my belief that nothing bad or chaotic could possibly happen out here. It just wouldn’t be allowed.

  I pulled into the drive of number three Spyglass Court. Fill had been brought in to raise the house up on its own little knoll, where it rose above the palms like a fortress. Built of concrete and glass with a flat roof, the house’s circular stainless steel balconies jutted out on either side of the second floor and glinted in the bright morning sun.

  I looked around carefully before getting out of my Green Puke. Even though the lots were large and thick plantings separated this house from the Travis house next door, I still felt uneasy. Everyone knows that being an evil witch gives you superpowers. Bernice Travis just might have some sixth sense when it came to me, might fly over the dense lady palms to cast a spell on me and turn me into a toad. I power-walked to the front door and rang the bell, still scanning the greenery for the evil one.

  A voice with a Spanish lilt answered my ring and asked me to wait one minute and she would see if Mrs. Crown was at home. From the silver Jaguar sitting in the drive it seemed pretty likely. The question was would she be at home to me.

  Chapter 7

  The front of the house was all glass, even the door, opening the house to the most casual of visitors. Inside everything you could see was all chrome and glass with hard edges with no place to curl up. It was a house that had always made me uncomfortable. Past the great room another glass wall at the back of the house showed the borderless pool. With water spilling over the far edge, it looked like an extension of the gulf beyond the house. Standing there, it seemed as if you could swim from the great room to the pale blue line where the water met the sky.

  I watched Betsy Crown float down the curved steel stairs towards me wearing a short white tennis skirt and a white polo shirt, looking totally elegant and composed. Like her house, she was sleek and cool with nothing to hide. She glided across the pale granite floor with a tight little smile, a woman determined to be pleasant no matter what, and opened the door with a flourish. “Sherri, how nice.”

  She was old enough to be my mother but I had to look real hard for the proof. Only two little vertical worry lines showed between her eyebrows and judging, from the taut skin stretched across her face, she’d paid a visit or two to Dr. Travis.

  “I came to see you about Andy,” I told her.

  “Let’s go out by the pool.” She led the way without speaking.

  The caged pool was set in a two-storey, sixty-foot-long screened room facing the beach. At the deep end of the pool, a pair of stone dolphins arched into a dive through a spray of water.

  Betsy Crown sank down into a black wrought-iron chair, crossing her slender brown legs at the ankle and gestured to a matching chair across the glass table from her. The satin air coming across the gulf from Texas was warm for that time of year and scented by the pungent smell of the gardenias spilling out of a crystal vase on the table.

  I perched tentatively on the edge of the cushioned chair and said, “I’m trying to find Andy. I’m not sure he knows about Jimmy and I don’t want him to see it on the news or hear it from someone else.”

  “He isn’t here.” She looked out to the gulf, where a sailboat skimmed across the water. It was worth watching. You’d swear the boat could sail right up to the edge of the tiled pool and join us. Betsy Crown seemed mesmerized by it.

  “Have you told Andy about the Suncoaster?�
�� I prompted, wanting her to relieve my fears.

  “No.” She watched the sailboat. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Has he called?”

  She gave a little shake of her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon. “No.”

  “Then he probably doesn’t know.”

  There was no response from Mrs. Crown for several moments. We just sat there like two idiots watching that stupid boat while I tried to think of a nice way to get what I needed out of her. At last she turned to me and said, “Jimmy was here looking for Andrew.” That was jolt. “When?” “Sunday afternoon.”

  “Did he say why he was looking for Andy?”

  “No.” She looked at me now, a hesitant smile teasing the corners of her lips. “Jimmy was in a very good mood. He danced me around the foyer. He was always so much fun.” She smiled a real smile now. “You know Jimmy.”

  I did indeed know Jimmy. “Is Andy still on Hess Street?” Was there a polite way to ask if he was under lock and key in some hospital? I blamed Evan for this new concern with propriety.

  She began to neatly press the pleats into her tennis skirt with the flat of her hand. “I don’t know where he is exactly. He cashed the check I sent last month. I sent it to him at that address.” She looked up at me, eyes bright and eager, wanting to help. “I could call the bank and see if he cashed the one for this month.”

  “I don’t know if it would help in finding him. Does he have a car?”

  “I’m not sure. I understand you and Jimmy hid his car the last time he went off his medication.”

  Now that had been a real fun time . . . Andy flying around the island, accusing people of all sorts of things: out of control and scary. “He really wasn’t safe to be driving. The paranoia was too strong,” I don’t know why I was trying to justify our actions to Mrs. Crown. She knew the situation better than I did.

  “I appreciate what you did. Did you give the car back to him?”