“It’s nothing to joke about,” I said.
Puzzled for a moment, Tomlinson replied, “Huh?” Then said, “Oh. Well… back to the dog. The owner dude from Atlanta, he called about the delivery time. After a few minutes listening to that cyborg, I’ve decided to change his name.”
“Change the dog’s name?” I said.
“Of course! It would take a court battle to change the owner’s name. Where’s your head today?”
I was still confused. Ford had found the retriever starved and half wild in the Everglades but hadn’t named the animal during the week it took to locate the rightful owner, who lived in Atlanta. Tomlinson often said things that seemed absurd, however, so I listened patiently while he explained that the owner didn’t really care about the dog-why else would he sell him to Ford?-so this was a fresh start in the retriever’s life.
“What do you think about Largo?” he asked. “It came to me last night in a dream.”
I replied, “It’s a good name for an island, but shouldn’t you leave that up to Marion?”
“Why? You think Rex is better? Or maybe Ranger?”
I was thinking that Ranger sounded pretty good but didn’t say it because Tomlinson was implying that Ford and I both lacked creativity. Instead, I listened to him explain that the dog had been traveling south through the Everglades on his way to Florida Bay when he and Ford had interceded. “Next stop, Bogie and Bacall Land,” Tomlinson said. “Key Largo.”
I was on my way to Rosanna Helms’s funeral and had just spoken with Joel, then Loretta, and didn’t want to continue with a phone glued to my ear. So I tried to end the conversation, saying, “Lower Matecumbe might work just as well, then. Or Islamorada. How about we talk about it later when I get to Dinkin’s Bay?”
“I considered Matecumbe,” Tomlinson said, totally serious. “Cudjoe Key, too, which actually fits the dog’s personality, but only because of the movie. This is a whole new karma deal we’re trying to create, so the devil-dog thing’s out. Islamorada, however… hum. Kinda feminine, nice-but, hey! What about Ramrod-as in Ramrod Key?”
Thankfully, his phone beeped. A moment later, he told me, “It’s my pistol-packin’ yarmulke calling. Gotta run.”
Birdy Tupplemeyer, who had Mondays and Thursdays off, was spending the afternoon with Tomlinson but wasn’t going to stay late, she had told me. We had spoken only briefly. She was relieved that, according to Joel, Brenita had been found before midnight and returned peacefully to the clinic, where she was being treated for addiction and bipolar disorder. Because her symptoms included bouts of paranoia, it wasn’t surprising that we’d heard her screaming, although the two orderlies were still being questioned. For the same reason, the public defender had already asked the court to review Brenita’s case, which included several assault charges, along with prostitution.
Birdy had remarked on how unsavory a job in law enforcement can be, then asked, “You didn’t contact your archaeologist friends about last night, did you? When I go back there, if I find even a shard of human bone, the whole dynamic changes. That’s when we take it public.”
As I drove toward the cemetery, anything was better than thinking about the funeral, which I dreaded, so recent conversations pinged around in my head, vying for attention: Joel Ransler discussing Brenita and commenting on what Mica had said, telling me, With few exceptions, there’s no statute of limitations on federal income tax evasion.
Same as murder. Joel didn’t say it, but I knew it was true because of our conversation on the dock where Dwight Helms had died.
Loretta’s voice, and her odd behavior, soon displaced Joel. She had sounded nervous on the phone earlier that morning, telling me, The girls and me are taking the courtesy bus, so no reason for you to come to the services, sugar. Or even the cemetery. A woman’s not dead until her last friend is buried, so Pinky’s doing just fine.
Strange. My demanding mother had excused me from an obligation-something she’d never done before. Clearly, she didn’t want me at the funeral, and I shuffled through possible reasons but came up with only one: someone she didn’t want me to see or meet might be there.
Crystal possibly? More likely Crystal and Mica. Loretta had to have known they were out of prison, yet she hadn’t said a word to me.
Something else very odd was the comforting way she had said, A woman’s not dead until her last friend is buried, so Pinky’s doing just fine. What did that mean? Even before her stroke, my mother had chastened me with cryptic remarks, then reveled in my confusion, but now it was impossible to separate nonsense from wisdom, let alone an utterance that had the ring of divine insight.
On the other hand, maybe Loretta was just being sneaky again and laying a false trail.
I was thinking, Maybe it’s true what Mica said. Loretta really was involved with pot hauling… on the sales end, possibly. Yes… selling the stuff because she hates boats, and no one in their right mind would trust Loretta to drive a truck loaded with weed.
But then I reminded myself that Loretta wouldn’t have had to depend on her secret lover for a nice car and clothes if she’d had money. Arnie, she had called him.
I was mulling that over when something new shot into my mind: the oddity of Birdy Tupplemeyer saying, When I go back there… if I find even a shard of bone.
Why had she said I, not we?
Then I remembered her telling me she wasn’t staying at Dinkin’s Bay late enough to see me when I came to meet the dog. She hadn’t explained why, but I now knew the reason… suspected anyway.
Immediately, I grabbed my cell and called. I got her voice mail and left a message. “Don’t you dare go back there tonight alone,” I said. “Call me as soon as you get this.”
I hung up and tried Tomlinson’s cell, which went immediately to his new voice mail recording: I know why you’re calling and your suspicions are correct. A message would only murk matters… BEEP!
Talk about cryptic! I was so taken aback, I stumbled and stammered but finally said, “Have Birdy call me, don’t let her do anything stupid,” which sounded nonsensical, but that was okay because it was Tomlinson.
From the parking lot of Kirby Funeral Home, I tried Birdy’s number one more time, then turned off my phone and went inside.
THE TWO DOZEN PEOPLE who had attended services for Rosanna Helms were now reassembling at the cemetery, a modern place designed to accommodate lawn mowers rather than celebrate the dead who lay beneath plaques that didn’t exceed the height of the grass.
Dwight Helms was there, and I was careful to step over him before taking my place next to Loretta and her three bingo-playing friends. The ladies were dressed in their finest black and wore hats with lace veils. They had been whispering back and forth until I appeared, then went silent but for their sniffing. Loretta, however, was cried out and had no trouble saying to me, “This place is nothing but a strip mall for undertakers. Bury me here, I’ll come back and haunt you.”
She wasn’t trying to lighten the mood, my mother was serious. To prove it, she lifted her veil and shook her head at the indignity being forced upon Rosanna Helms. Her best friend’s coffin was elevated beneath a blue awning, fresh flowers around it that would soon be replaced by plastic-cemetery rules.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re too ornery to die, and I wouldn’t come back here if you did.” Then I asked a question I couldn’t ask during the service: “Who’s that man?”