The big insurance payout, the death certificate provided by her brother-in-law, the quick marriage and the escape to Florida. Had they all been planned? Was it any wonder I felt suspicious?
My holiday routine altered. Next morning I made sure of passing the house on my way to the shops. I lingered across the street for ten minutes or so. Wherever I went in Key West I was hawk-eyed for another sighting.
It came the next evening. Merle stepped out of Fausto’s Food Palace on Fleming Street, crossed my path to a moped and put her bag on the pannier. My heart-rate stepped up. The hours of watching out for her, passing the house and so on, had made me feel furtive. NowI was ready to panic. Ridiculous.
I don’t like being sneaky. That isn’t my nature. I like to be straight with people. Confrontation is the honest way. So I steeled my nerves, stepped towards her and said, “Hi, Merle.”
She stopped and stared.
“Remember me?” I said. “Danny’s oppo from his Air Force days. Isn’t this amazing? I must buy you a drink.”
She couldn’t deny her identity. Recovering her poise, she said in her very British accent that she would have been delighted, but she had to get back to the apartment. She had something cooking.
I almost laughed out loud at the phrase. Instead I insisted we must meet and suggested a nightcap later at one of the quieter open-air bars. She had a hunted look, but she agreed to see me there at ten.
“You got your wish, then,” I said when we shared a table in a dark corner of the bar drinking margaritas.
“What do you mean?” She was tense.
“A warm place to live. I presume you live here.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And not alone. You’re Mrs Finch now.”
She frowned. “How did you know that?”
“I was told. Is he British, your husband?”
She gave a nod.
“Anyone I know?”
She said, “Why are you asking me these things?”
I said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to talk about them?”
She said, “I left all that behind. It’s painful. I don’t want to be reminded.”
“I wasn’t reminding you about the past, Merle. I was enquiring about the present. Your present husband. What’s his name?”
She took a long sip of her drink. “Have you seen him?”
“No. But I’d love to meet him — if you let him out.”
She pushed aside the drink. “I’ll pay for these. I’m leaving.”
I put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Don’t take offence.”
She brushed my hand away and got up. I didn’t follow. I knew it would be no use. I had been insensitive. But she had fuelled my suspicions. She had behaved like a guilty woman. Meeting me had been an unpleasant shock. The geography of the Florida Keys — the long drive south from Miami over bridges that span the sea — fosters a feeling of escape, of reaching a haven in Key West bathed in sun and good will. You don’t expect sharp questions about your conduct.
I believed Merle and her brother-in-law Ben had conspired to murder Danny. A lethal injection seemed the most likely means. Ben had written something innocuous on the death certificate and Merle had claimed the insurance, paid Ben for his services and escaped to Florida to marry her lover, the fascinating Mr Finch.
I believed this, yes. But it was only belief so far. The evidence I had was circumstantial. A cheap funeral, an alleged insurance payout, some sly glances and a quick marriage. None of this was sufficient to justify fingering Merle for murder.
Unable to sleep that night, I asked myself why I wanted to pursue the matter, for it was taking over my holiday. Was it anything as highminded as a concern for justice? Or was it morbid curiosity?
No.
It was more personal. Danny had been important in my life. The link between us was stronger than I’d admit to anyone. I was angry, deeply angry, at what I believed had happened. Our lives had touched only intermittently since 1961, and I regretted that. Face it, I thought. His murder killed a part of you.
Yet I knew if I pursued this, I was putting myself at risk. If I threatened Merle with exposure I would give her a reason for killing me. Or having me killed.
These were the thoughts I grappled with next day. They made me sick with self-disgust because I had discovered I was a coward. I was scared to do any more about my suspicions. I despised myself.
So I became a tourist again, instead of a snoop. I lounged by the hotel pool in the morning and later took a trip to the coral reef in a glass-bottomed boat. I spent an hour in the cemetery. Morbid, you may think, but the gravestones are on the tourist trail. I found the famous epitaph “I told you I was sick.” It didn’t seem funny when I saw it.
Late in the afternoon, I had a quiet drink in one of the smaller bars on Duval Street watching the movement of people towards Mallory Square. There’s a tradition in Key West that people converge on the dock to celebrate the sunset. When I’d finished my drink, I joined them.
I didn’t expect to meet Merle there. As a resident, she’d regard the sunset spectacle as a sideshow for tourists. Even so, as I sidled through the good-natured crowd I caught myself looking more than once at women who resembled her and the men they were with. I still wanted keenly to catch a glimpse of Mr Finch, the new husband.
The sky became pastel blue and the sun dipped towards the sea, becoming ever more red. The heads of some of the crowd were in silhouette. At one end a tightrope was slung between tripod posts and the performer was teasing his audience, keeping them in suspense with patter and juggling. I ambled on, past a guitarist and a dog-trainer. Ahead, someone else had drawn a fair crowd. A fire-eater, I guessed. There’s something hypnotic about the sight of a flame, particularly in the fading light. But I decided the aerialist would be better value and I turned back. I was actually retracing my steps when I heard a scratchy sound that froze my blood, an old 78 record of a band playing some song from way back. It was coming from behind the crowd at the end.
I returned, fast.
I couldn’t see for the tightly packed people. I circled the crowd in frustration while that infernal tune blared out. Unable to contain my feelings I scythed through the crowd saying, “I’m sorry, I have to get through” — until I had a view.
Danny was wowing them in his straw hat, blazer and flannels, hoofing it just as smoothly as he had in the old days. Far from dead, he had a better colour than most of his audience. The old gramophone was behind him on the ledge, grinding out “Let’s Face the Music.”
He saw me and winked.
I stared back, stunned. Maybe I should have rejoiced, but I’d grieved for this fraudster. I was more angry than relieved. It was a kind of betrayal.
Coward that I am, afterwards, when the sun had set and the crowds had dispersed I sat tamely with Danny on a ledge of the sea wall at the south end of the dock, our backs to the sea. He had a six-pack of Coors that he systematically emptied. Dancing, he explained, was thirsty work. He offered me some, and I declined.
“Merle told me she met you,” he admitted. “She didn’t want me to come out tonight, but I’m a performer, damnit. The show goes on. She doesn’t understand that you and I go back a long way. You wouldn’t blow the whistle on your old RAF buddy.”
I didn’t rise to that. “You’ve played some cool poker hands in your time, Danny, but this beats everything. I don’t know how you managed it.”