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I said, “It’s an unusual gift.”

Women employ delicate understatement when dealing with topics they believe men are too naïve or insecure to handle. It’s part survival mechanism, part kindness. “Doc, it might surprise you some of the gifts I’ve been offered during my lifetime. Some of them from men who were supposedly friends of my husband.

“I was offered the deed to a villa in Majorca if I agreed to spend a month there each winter. I’ve been offered the use of private planes and apartments. A gentleman once showed me a magnificent eighteen-carat emerald pendant on a chain of Mayan gold. He said it was mine if I would spend the weekend with him in Paris. Instead, I spent the weekend with his wife, helping her shop for his anniversary present.

“In comparison, the only thing unusual about this gift was that I couldn’t keep it. But at least there were no strings attached.”

Through her uncle’s attorney, Chestra accepted. A Sanibel real estate agency that specialized in rentals opened the house to her and gave her the keys.

“Uncle Clarence brought boxes of family pictures; put them up personally to make this old gal seem like home again. The poor man wept as he hammered away. That was in March. I returned here last month, after the hurricane.”

Her benefactor died around the same time, and his name was finally revealed.

“It was Frederick Roth,” Chestra said. “I couldn’t believe it. That’s why I want to find out what’s among the boat’s wreckage. If there are no human remains, it tells me that maybe my godmother’s lover really did survive. I’m not being made a fool by some elaborate hoax.

“But it also leaves a terrible hole in what I’ve always thought of as a beautiful, romantic story. If Frederick loved my godmother, why did he leave her? The first letter was addressed to Marlissa—he didn’t know she was dead. Why did he never return? It was such cold behavior for a man who was so gentle and decent.

“Yesterday, this arrived, addressed to me. From the same law firm, but signed by Jason Goddard.” Chestra touched the open FedEx envelope. “They know I’m her only heir; we had to get that straight before I moved in. Have a gander. I’m still in shock.”

Ms. Mildred Engle, As executor for the estate of the late Frederick Roth, and acting on Mr. Roth’s wishes, I write to make amends for a regrettable oversight. Many years ago, Mr. Roth borrowed money from Ms. Marlissa Dorn and purchased several hundred hectares of Florida real estate, much of it waterfront. In good faith, Mr. Roth signed promissory notes, using properties he’d acquired as collateral. Due to circumstances, my client never satisfied these debts, nor paid interest on monies due.

Many of these properties are still titled to Mr. Roth’s Florida land holding company. It was my client’s desire to leave this world with a clear conscience, and so I write to inform you, as Ms. Dorn’s heir, you may be due reasonable compensation. You may have claim to some assets associated with the company which owns real estate worth in excess of nine hundred million dollars.

The wording of the promissory notes, signed by Mr. Roth, is important, as well as date stipulations, if any. It’s my understanding that you are in possession of these documents. Please notify me when and if you have them available. You will then be contacted at this address by a company representative.

This representative is a trusted family member, personally selected by Mr. Roth. It was my client’s hope that you two will engage in private negotiations, on behalf of a man and woman who were once friends, and thus avoid the complex legalities and expenses involved.

The letter was signed: Jason Goddard, Executive Assistant to Frederick Roth.

I asked, “Do you have the promissory notes?”

Chestra had been pacing nervously, using her scarf to carve the air. “Yes. I’m sure I do. But not here. They’re in New York, although I can have a friend ship them down. I’m not so sure I should, though.”

“Why?”

“Do you see how the letter’s signed?”

“Yes.” I still didn’t understand the significance.

“The man Marlissa writes about in her diary, H. G. Goddard, begins with a G. Don’t you see? His name could have been Goddard. Don’t you find it frightening? Frederick Roth and H.G. on the same boat that night. Now both names reappear so many years later…”

I watched her twirl the scarf, aware that she was omitting information. Was she being unreasonably fearful, or did she somehow know H.G.’s last name?

Her expression became hopeful when I said, “Goddard and Roth are both common names. It can’t be the same man. A Wisconsin attorney? There’s no way—” I was interrupted by a determined knocking on the door below.

I waited as she descended the stairs, then heard her call, “Doc!”

It was Tomlinson. The instant I saw the stricken look on his face, I knew something was wrong.

Javier Castillo, he told me, had been shot and killed. His body found floating near Indian Harbor Marina.

35

The EMTs and medical examiner’s people didn’t leave with the Cuban’s body until after sunset, and it was nearly eight by the time the cops finished questioning Moe and Bern. They’d kept the men separated, interviewing them in unmarked detective cars that smelled of plastic and electronics.

The cops wouldn’t tell them, but a local fisherman said the Cuban had been shot in the meaty area just under the arm near the armpit. Not a bad place, if there’s help around, but the Cuban had headed for the water for some reason, trying to escape through the mangroves, and bled to death because the bullet nicked an artery.

Before the cops had arrived, Bern had said to Moe, “Tell the story exactly as it happened. Only difference is, when the black guy jumped out of the boat you thought he had a gun, so did I. You fired a warning shot, the guy maybe stumbled and fell. We’re not sure. It was dark. He ran off. We searched for a while before I called the cops.”

Moe was feeling better about things after reading the newspaper article four or five times. He said, “We thought Javier had a gun, and we were standing our ground.”

“Damn right we thought he had a gun. The asshole already threatened to shoot somebody if he didn’t get his boat.”

“The warning shot—did I fire it into the ground or up into the air?”

Jesus Christ, Bern knew running backs who were smarter than this guy. “You hit him and killed him. So why don’t you say you shot in his direction. At his feet, maybe, wanting to scare him. You shoot up in the air, and what? The bullet comes straight down, hits the guy on top of the head, and comes out his armpit? Back there in French Lick, I’m thinkin’ babies get dropped a lot. Your doctors must be missing fingers; some kind of genetic deal.”

It was eight-thirty now as Bern walked into his condo and noticed the FedEx package from the old man’s assistant, Jason Goddard, on the desk. He still hadn’t opened it, and thought: Why not? His luck was improving—one witness dead, one witness to go, and a new self-defense law that seemed custom made for Bern, considering how many times Moe had nearly killed him.

The Hoosier’s time was nearing.

He found scissors and sat.

Inside the FedEx package, there was a cover letter that stank of mothballs, just like the tight-assed attorney who’d sent it. Bern didn’t bother to read the thing. He went right to the contents, two more legal-sized envelopes, which he ripped open, staring out the window at the sky, which was graphite streaked with orange and pearl.