Loretta knew exactly who I meant: a tall man with wide shoulders who appeared to be in his eighties but still had a sheen of silver hair combed slick and wore a gray suit that was tailored to fit, a quarter inch of white sleeves showing and a blue hankie. Her veil couldn’t hide the fact that she had traded looks with him more than once during the service. Now he was staring at her again… or at me, although that was unlikely.
“What man?” Loretta asked, then shushed me when I tried to answer, saying, “The preacher’s ready, no talking, dear.”
I stepped back and let my mother have her way. Watched her and her best friends join hands: Epsey Hendry, Becky Darwin, and Jody Summerlin, all from old fishing families. Together, they became a single unit, four women who had weathered a lot of life together and who were set apart by their unity even in a circle of people who had all known Rosanna Helms. At that instant, the remark A woman’s not dead until her last friend is buried took on new meaning. I realized the three women knew my mother better than I ever would. They had shared their private lives together and knew Loretta’s secrets, the things a mother can’t tell a daughter. Pot hauling, selling weed was possibly one of those secrets, although I didn’t believe it, but I had a strong suspicion they all knew the silver-haired man. He was Arnie, I suspected, Loretta’s lover until one or both of them got religion and ended their affair-he was the real reason she had offered me an excuse not to attend.
I understood now. Surrounded by so much death, their past intimacy was-if I was right about the man-still important to Loretta and him, too, which no longer struck me as tawdry. To be loved and loving, whatever the circumstances, was worth the risk and more valuable than the wobbly tower that is morality. It caused me to feel softer toward my mother and reminded me to value my own friends and to revel in love while I could because the years were ticking past.
“Nice service. Are you staying to eat?”
The man had whispered the question, but I jumped anyway, unaware that someone had slipped up behind me. It was Joel Ransler, wearing a black sports coat and a tie that set off his eyes. He hadn’t attended the earlier service, and I hadn’t seen him arrive.
I shook my head No and touched a finger to my lips, which was unnecessary. The minister had finished praying and was making people laugh by telling anecdotes about “Pinky,” so it seemed okay when Joel cupped my elbow and walked me to a spindly tree held straight by gardening wire. We could talk there if we kept our voices low.
“How’s your mother holding up?”
“She baked two pies and a ham this morning, then threatened to haunt me if I buried her here,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Would you have baked something? I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”
I was wearing a tan sleeveless dress from Chico’s and black heels, which Joel’s expression told me looked pretty good even at a funeral. I said, “Mica’s over there-see him? But Crystal didn’t show up. He told me she was sick, but I got the feeling he was lying.”
“What’s new?” Joel said. He was looking at Mica, who was dressed in a suit that might have fit when he was fifteen, standing opposite us at the back of the circle, but a foot taller than everyone but the silver-haired man, so they both stood out. Mica noticed Joel staring and used a handkerchief to wipe his face, the tattoos on Mica’s forearms showing because his jacket was so short.
I said, “You make him nervous,” then asked, “Who’s the man next to him?” and prepared myself finally to hear the name of Loretta’s lover.
“With the gray hair? That’s Harold Chatham, the richest man in Sematee County, maybe the whole west coast. I don’t know why I’m surprised to see him-he was big in politics for a while and knows just about everyone.”
Not as surprised as I was. “Harold?” I said. “His name’s not Arnold?”
Joel’s jaws flexed in bemusement. “I get the feeling I just burst your bubble somehow. But you’re pretty enough, he’d probably let you call him Arnold or Larry or anything else you wanted.” The smile faded while Joel looked at the man and added, “Yeah, ol’ Harney Chatham loved the ladies-until he found Christ. Supposedly. He owned a marina and car dealerships, then became lieutenant governor-not that anyone remembers lieutenant governors. That was years ago, but he still shakes hands.”
This was Rance the Lance talking, I could have reminded myself, but my mind was busy translating Harold into the nickname Harney. As a child I had heard it as Arnie, so it was all making sense again. But then I had to stop and put it in perspective by thinking, Loretta’s lover was lieutenant governor of Florida? My lord, she must have been good-looking and very…
Sexy was the word, but it made me wince to attach it to my own mother. The concept of her bedding a rich politician was tough enough to grasp.
The minister and attendees were singing “A Closer Walk with Thee” while my eyes found Loretta, a wrinkled bird of a woman who was now chirping out the chorus along with her friends. In old photos she was attractive enough, possibly even shapely-although it was hard to tell because Baptist women were partial to baggy clothes in those days. Even so, Loretta, my mother had suddenly become Loretta the woman in my eyes, and the perverse pride I felt was shameful, but in a delicious way that made me smile.
“What’s going on in that head of yours? They’re not singing that loud.”
Joel, I realized, had said something important. “Sorry, I was thinking about my mother. I should get back to her, we’ve got things to discuss.”
“Well, if it has anything to do with Fisherfolk, that’s what I was just saying. Don’t bother-not after what happened yesterday.”
I was surprised. “You’re firing me because of what someone else did?”
“Don’t be silly. You gave me plenty to work with in no time at all, so you’re my rising star. But you’re done dealing with lowlifes like Mica and Harris Spooner.” Joel moved close enough that I got a whiff of soap but no cologne, which was nice, while he continued, “Spooner is dangerous. Maybe psychotic, I don’t know, but he’s a killer-he killed his ex-wife, but they couldn’t prove it. Might have killed Dwight Helms, too-I’m still working on a time line, but it seems to fit. And I think he’s the guy who chased you. That’s why I stopped by. I got a search warrant issued this morning, and our guys are going through Spooner’s trailer right now. If they find the shark mask or the raincoat, or anything close, they’re arresting him. I wanted to tell you in person.”
“You move fast,” I said.
“In some areas, maybe, but I’m way behind in others.”
I pretended to be unaware of his meaning. “Maybe Mica knows,” I said. “Don’t look at him now, but see how fidgety he is?” Then said, “Hold it a second,” because I had just remembered a point that Joel had missed. “You forgot that the pit bull minded Spooner but not Mica. I told you how it happened. Spooner’s own dogs wouldn’t have attacked him, and he sure wouldn’t have killed one with an axe… would he?”
“Psychotic, a sociopath-there are so many terms, who knows? Look, Hannah”-Joel was checking his cell-“what I’m saying is, Spooner’s dangerous. I want you to stay close to home because he’s going to blame you. Guys like him, it’s the way their minds work. If we arrest him, no problem. But if we don’t, I don’t want you anywhere near Sematee County, especially Glades City. Got it?” Then Joel said, “Damn, got to go,” and pocketed his phone before giving me the kind of friendly hug people do at funerals, but he added an extra squeeze that squeezed the wind out of me, the man tall and unexpectedly powerful.