She nodded. “They never paid a bean for medicines.”
Malice must be infectious. This wasn’t Mean-mouth speaking. This was a short, chunky woman in a grey suit. She introduced herself as their neighbour. Not for much longer, it seemed. “Merle told me she’ll be off to warmer climes now. She was always complaining about the winters here, was Merle.”
“To live, you mean?”
She nodded. “Spain, I expect.”
I remembered the life insurance payout. Merle’s antique had, after all, turned out to be worth something if she was emigrating. Watching the newlyweds at their wedding reception, only four years ago, it hadn’t crossed my mind to rate Danny as an insurance claim. Had it occurred to Merle?
What a sour thought to have at a funeral! I banished it. Instead I talked to the neighbour about the weather until she got bored and wandered off.
I did some circulating of my own and joined a crowd at a table in the main bar I recognized as more of Danny’s close family. They all had large teeth and lop-sided grins like his. A man who looked like another younger brother was saying what a shock his death had been. “Fifty-seven. It’s no age, is it? He was always so fit. I never knew Dan had a dicky heart.”
“He didn’t look after himself,” a woman said.
“What do you mean — didn’t look after himself?” the brother retorted. “He wasn’t overweight.”
“He didn’t exercise. He avoided all forms of sport. Never learned to swim, hold a tennis racket, swing a golf club. He thought jogging was insane.”
“He danced like a dream.”
“Call that exercise? He never worked up a sweat. I tell you, he didn’t look after himself.”
“He had two wives,” one of the men chipped in.
“Not at the same time,” another woman said, giggling.
“What are you saying — that two wives strained his vital powers?”
There was some amusement at this. “No,” said the man. “You said he didn’t look after himself and I was pointing out that he had two women to do the job.”
“That’s what marriage is for, is it, Charlie?” the woman came back at him. “So that the man’s got someone to look after him?”
“Hello, hello. Have you turned into one of those feminists?” retorted Charlie.
“I’m sure being looked after wasn’t in Danny’s mind when he married Merle,” said the giggly woman.
“We all know what was in Danny’s mind when he married Merle,” said the feminist.
Resisting the temptation to widen the debate by asking what had been in Merle’s mind, I went back to the bar for a white wine. When I picked it up, my hand shook. A disturbing possibility had crept into my mind. The law allows a doctor considerable discretion in dealing with the death of a patient in his care. Provided that he has seen the patient in the two weeks prior to the death, and the cause of death is known to him and was not the result of an accident, or suspicious circumstances, he may sign the death certificate without reporting the matter to the coroner. Merle’s brother-in-law Ben had treated Danny.
Across the bar, Ben was talking affably to some people who hadn’t attended the funeral. This was his village, his local. Most of the family lived around here. He was at ease. Yet there was something more about his manner, a sense of relief; or perhaps it was triumph.
As for Merle, she was remarkably animated for a woman who had only just buried her husband. It must be an act, a brave attempt to get through the day without weeping, I tried telling myself. Watching her, I wasn’t convinced. Her eyes shone like a bride’s.
Another curious thing I noticed was that Merle spent time with everyone in that bar except her doctor brother-in-law, Ben. She kept away from him as if he were radio-active. Yet they were keenly aware of each other. Each time Merle moved, Ben would look across and check her position. Occasionally their eyes locked briefly. I was increasingly convinced that they had agreed not to be seen talking together. They weren’t being hostile; they shared a secret.
When I left about six, the party was still going on. I didn’t blame anyone for turning it into a wake. I was sure Danny would have approved. He would have been in the thick of the junketing, well pickled by this time, full of good humour, just as long as he didn’t have to buy a round.
My unease about the circumstances of Danny’s death dispersed within a week. I had more urgent things going on in my life that don’t play any part in these events except that by February, six months after the funeral, I was tired and depressed. Then someone made things worse by breaking into my car and stealing my credit cards. The police were useless. The only positive thing they suggested was that I inform the people who issued the cards. When my shiny and pristine replacement cards arrived, I had an impulse to use them right away to give myself a boost. I walked into a travel agent’s and booked two weeks in the sun. Immediately.
In Florida I spotted Merle Fox. By pure chance, or fate, I walked into the Guild Hall Gallery on Duval Street in Key West and there she was, looking at stained glass pictures of fish. She’d bleached her hair and cut it short and she was deeply tanned and wearing a skimpy top and white trousers that fitted like a second skin. Something new in widow’s weeds, I thought unkindly — for I recognized her straight away. Of course she hadn’t altered her features, but her stance was the giveaway, the suggestion of swagger in the shoulders. It was no different from the way she’d swanned around the bar of the Red Lion after Danny’s funeral.
I didn’t speak to Merle. In fact, I moved out of range, hidden from her view by a rotating card-stand. But when she came out of the shop I followed, intrigued, you may say, if you don’t call me nosy. I was pretty inconspicuous in T-shirt and shorts like most of the tourists strolling along the street.
Halfway along Duval Street she turned up a side road that was mainly residential and lined with two-storey Bahamian-style wood-frame buildings shaded by palms and wild purple orchid trees and fronted by white picket fences. She walked two blocks (with me in discreet attendance) and let herself into an elegant three-bay house with a porch and — more irony here — a widow’s walk. Had I really seen Merle? The moment she’d stepped out of my view I became doubtful. It isn’t the custom in Key West to have one’s name on the mailbox, so it was difficult to make certain without speaking to the woman. I wasn’t sure I wanted a face-to-face.
I crossed the street for a longer view of the house. The shutters were open, but the louvred windows effectively screened the interior.
You wouldn’t believe that a leafy street bathed in sunlight could make you feel uneasy. After the crowds on Duval Street, this was eerie in its quietness.
A cat leaned against my shin and made a plaintive sound. I stooped to stroke it.
A voice startled me. “We call him Rocky, after the boxer. He has the most formidable front paws.”
I looked behind me. This elderly woman had been sitting unnoticed in her porch swing in front of a small white house.
“He’s a champion,” I remarked, wondering if my luck was still running. “I was looking for a friend of mine who came to live in Key West. Mrs Fox. Do you know her?”
She paused some seconds before answering, “I can’t say I do.”
“She must have arrived some time in the last three months,” I ventured. “She’s a widow.”
“The only lady who came to Southard Street since the summer is Mrs Finch in the house across the street and she’s no widow,” she informed me.
My confidence ebbed. “Mrs Finch, you said?”
“Mrs Merle Finch, from England. They’re both from England.”
“Ah. That wouldn’t be the lady I know,” I said, mentally turning a back-flip of triumph. “But thank you for your help, ma’am. Rocky is a cat in a million.” I walked away, reflecting that Merle must have kept her hair extra nice to have charmed Mr Finch, whoever he was, into such a quick marriage. A little over six months since she had buried Danny she was re-married, settled in her new home. If her tan was any guide, she had already been in Florida some time.