I sighed, unsure if I should take Loretta seriously. There were times, as a girl, when I’d wondered if my mother was a mind reader. Even during my teenage years, Loretta’s intuition had been maddeningly accurate-although often aided by her snoopy behavior.
The grandfather clock opposite the fireplace was tocking solemnly. It read 4:20 p.m., which meant it was nearly five. At sunset, which was around eight, I had a date with the biologist, whom I’d allowed myself to phone only twice since leaving his bedroom in the early hours of the morning. Sunset was less than three hours away, and I still had to finish some work in my late Uncle Jake’s office before I showered, changed, and then boated across to Sanibel Island. Marion Ford lived there in an old stilthouse next to Dinkin’s Bay Marina, where, every Friday night, there is a party. I didn’t want to be late, nor did I want to give Ford the impression I was a slave to the whims of my addled mother. What kind of man would tolerate such a partner?
What to do?
“Lord A’mighty,” Loretta gasped, breaking into my thoughts. “You’re in love with that fish doctor! That’s why you’re refusing to help poor Pinky!”
“I am not!” I shot back and instantly regretted my denial. It invited bad luck, as lying often does, and somehow cheapened the good feeling inside me. But I wasn’t going to allow my mother to poke around in my private thoughts without a battle, so I stuck by the lie, saying, “What’s Pinky’s number? If she doesn’t answer, I’ll take the truck and knock on her door. But you’re staying right here. Mrs. Terwilliger just pulled into the drive.”
The keys to the truck, though, were gone from the storage shed, which was my latest hiding spot.
“Where are they, Loretta?” I demanded, which should have put my mother in a difficult position. If I was to check on her friend, she would have to admit she had been sneaking out and driving illegally or, at the very least, letting someone chauffeur her into town.
“How would I know?” my mother replied with some heat. “That poor little Thurloe boy is the one I let use the truck when he needs it. Ask him.”
“You’re making up another story,” I said, because it couldn’t be true. There was nothing “little” about Levi Thurloe. The man was the size of a field hand and older than me, but his development had been stunted by a fever in infancy or some accident. Local gossip varied. Levi walked everywhere, didn’t even own a bike. I’d seen him miles from the island, going to or coming from the mainland, head down, earbuds always plugged into his ears, using music to block the outside world. Walkin’ Levi, locals called him-or worse. He was a solitary young man, commonly seen on the roads, but he seldom spoke so was the target of jokes and nasty rumors that I, at least, didn’t find entertaining. More than once, as a girl, I had backed down some taunting bully, then been rewarded with Levi’s shy, “Thank you, miz.” The man was harmless in my opinion, but a poor choice when it came to loaning the family pickup truck.
“Levi doesn’t know how to drive,” I reminded my mother.
“People say the same thing about me!” Loretta countered. “He’s working for the new neighbors as a handyman, and I can’t say no to a half-wit who needs transportation. If you want the keys, find Levi-don’t believe he’s as dumb as some say. And for god’s sake, hurry up!”
Luckily, I checked the truck’s ignition before setting off on my search. The keys were there. So was Levi Thurloe. He was sitting on the passenger side, a big arm hooked out the open window as if already enjoying the ride. His sad, slow eyes stared straight ahead to avoid looking at me when I climbed in.
“You can’t go,” I said gently.
“Can,” he replied without making eye contact-something he refused to do.
“Please get out.”
“I can,” he said again but not forcefully. It was more of a request.
I looked at my cell phone to check the time, aware the sun had already begun its slide west. “Levi, you don’t even know where I’m headed.”
“Don’t matter,” he responded, staring at nothing beyond the windshield.
It was five miles to the Helms place, a spooky-looking house in the mangroves at the end of a shell lane. Because the last stretch of road was bad, getting there would take awhile. Levi wasn’t wearing his earbuds, I noticed, which was unusual, so I made him an offer. “Don’t you miss your music? We’ll go for a ride another day when you’re better prepared.”
The man shrugged but didn’t budge.
I sighed, thought about it for a moment, then started the engine. “Put your seat belt on,” I told him, “and keep your hand inside the window once we get moving.”
Levi didn’t speak again until we had crossed the line into Sematee County, driving north.
“You’re nice” was all he said.
“THE NEIGHBOR LADY threatened to hire Mexicans to shoot the owl,” I told Marion Ford, cell phone cradled to my ear as I drove. “Then she threatened me. Said she’ll have me arrested if I pick up clients at Loretta’s dock because it’s not zoned commercial-doesn’t matter Uncle Jake chartered out of there before he died. Fifteen years? Longer-he was only forty when they retired his badge. Scariest thing is, the neighbor lady didn’t sound crazy, just mean. One of those women who’s used to getting what she wants.”
The biologist had called to ask if I would be at Dinkin’s Bay before dark, but his voice had assumed the role of comforter and counselor now that I was sharing details about my afternoon.
“I wouldn’t worry about the owl,” he said. “Mexicans, especially the illegals, are too smart to risk jail or their jobs. And the neighbor, it’ll dawn on her a sheriff’s deputy was there listening. She’s a physician? She’ll think it through and that’ll be the end of it.”
“A doctor of some type,” I responded. “I was tempted to do a background check through the office, but it seemed sneaky.”
Ford found me amusing. “It’s a poor private detective who lets ethics get in her way.”
The agency had been part-time even for Jake, which is why I replied, “I’m already the poorest one around. It hasn’t cost me my principles, though. And it gives me something to do when the wind’s blowing too hard to fish.”
“Good, keep your license current,” he agreed. “Personally, I wouldn’t hesitate to check out someone harassing your mother. First the vegetable garden, then the dock. You want me to have a talk with her? Tomlinson says Loretta’s a lot of fun, and it’s about time we met.”
Tomlinson, of course, smoked weed and said, “Float on, honey!” to charm-addled women. He didn’t mind escorting Loretta to the mounds at night to eavesdrop on her conversations with an Indian king who had been dead a thousand years. Ford, thank god, was from solider stock, which meant my mother would hate him at first sight.
“As soon as Loretta’s feeling better,” I lied. “She’s still all torn up about that little dog.”
“Sounds as softhearted as you, Hannah.”
There was no way for me to reply to that without another lie. Fortunately, the biologist in Ford saved me by inquiring, What kind of owl?
As we chatted, Levi watched the scenery of Sematee County flow by: raw land that had been clear-cut decades ago, then had gone wild with palmettos and melaleuca trees, awaiting the next small-time developer to go bankrupt. Lots of billboards-Chatham Subaru & Honda, I noticed-then walls of vegetation that were interrupted by ATV trails or small housing developments, a couple of nursery farms, and a trailer park or two. The turnoff to the Helms place wasn’t marked, and I hadn’t been there in a year, so, after another few minutes, I had to tell Ford, “Mind if I call later?” Because Levi was sitting right there beside me, however, my words came out sounding formal and abrupt. It created a silence between us.