I watched her flick the photo toward the middle of the table as if to create some distance. No… that wasn’t the reason. Mrs. Whitney was disappointed, I realized, which told me a part of her, at least, had hoped Meeks wanted to see her again. Her pride was hurt, and now the anger inside was starting to build. “Then I’m confused,” the woman said, her tone sharper. “You’re a fishing guide on the island?”
“I’m Hannah Smith,” I repeated for the third time. “I pick up some clients at South Seas. Sometimes Jensen’s Marina. Mostly, though, I work out of my house.”
“Then why the questions like some kind of cop?”
Before I could explain, the woman shushed me with a wave of her cigarette. “Let me guess. You’re carrying his photo because the guy knocked you up, then dumped you. Which fits from the little I remember about that bum. Or you lost a bar napkin with his phone number.” The woman blew smoke toward the ceiling. “God spare me the trailer park dramas of the island locals. It’s one of the blessings of money.”
I don’t have much experience with jealous women insulting me, but that’s what was happening now. Mrs. Whitney had refused to unlock the door until I’d held up Ricky Meeks’s photo for her to see. After that, she’d hurried us inside to find out the connection-or because she was ashamed someone would make the association. That’s why I wasn’t offended by the woman’s mean words. She was revealing more about her relationship with Meeks than she realized.
“Admit it,” Mrs. Whitney pressed. “You’ve got what we used to call a ‘wet crush’ on the man-figure out for yourself what it means. Now you’re trying to find him. Am I right?”
In my chest, I felt regret because I knew she was talking about herself, not me. So I tried to reassure her by saying, “I’ve never met him, ma’am,” then immediately regretted using ma’am. It’s something an older woman doesn’t like, especially if that woman has invested in a face-lift, breast implants, and injections to make her lips so full that she had to feel to confirm her cigarette was in place before taking another long, aggressive drag.
“Sorry, kitten, don’t believe you. Besides, I don’t get involved with my employees’ personal problems.”
I replied, “I don’t work for you, Mrs. Whitney,” but the woman talked over me, saying, “If I hadn’t been expecting my shopper, I’d have never let you two through the door. Where in the hell is that absurd little fool?” Suddenly, the woman got to her feet, pulled her white silk robe tight around her neck, and crossed the room to the front window, apparently hoping her groceries had arrived.
Silhouetted by the window, Mrs. Whitney’s coil of orange hair had a chemical tint. Sunlight pierced the sheer robe so I could see that she was naked beneath it, her skeletal legs too frail to support the unhappiness I sensed inside her, let alone her melon-sized implants.
Nathan looked at me and mouthed the words She’s drunk, which was something I knew from the whiskey stink of the room and the glass of melting ice on the table. Maybe drunk for days or weeks, judging from the woman’s gray skin and shaky hands.
That wasn’t the only evidence that Mrs. Whitney didn’t have someone to look after her. Not even a maid. There were empty glasses piled atop magazines, volcanic ashtrays everywhere, clothing strewn on floors, and what might have been a Chantelle bra, raspberry lace and glitter, draped over a velvet divan. Seeing the bra caused me to feel even sadder because it was a pretty thing that Mrs. Whitney had probably had fun buying back in happier days. Near the door was a gorgeous mahogany secretary with feet sheathed in ornate copper. A month’s worth of mail had been stacked there until a landslide had scattered envelopes onto logs of sodden newspapers below.
Something I expected to see, but didn’t, were dirty dishes. If the woman had been eating, there would have been dishes, or takeout boxes, scattered among the litter. And she wouldn’t have looked so sickly skinny. The realization replaced the sadness I was feeling with a chill. Why didn’t a woman who lived in a ten-million-dollar palace have employees looking after her? That’s when Mrs. Whitney hinted at the reason by flinging the curtains closed and calling across the room to us, “That lazy son of a bitch! And my attorney wonders why I fire every goddamn person I hire!”
Nathan and I looked at each other before I said, “The Island Store’s close enough, we can be back in five minutes if there’s something you need-” Just in time, I caught myself before calling her ma’am again, but the woman wasn’t listening anyway. She was concentrating on her balance as she returned to the table, legs so wobbly that she zigzagged until she was close enough to reach out and grab a chair.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, worried because Mrs. Whitney appeared woozy, tilting the glass of melting ice to her lips.
“A drink?” she said. “That’s a laugh! There’s nothing to drink in the whole goddamn house. The idiots I hire, they want my money, sure. But they don’t want to do a damn thing to earn it. This little man who calls himself a ‘personal shopper,’ he’s just another example. On the phone yesterday, he promised he’d be here no later than two. Three times, I made him promise! He’s got a five-hundred-dollar order, groceries and liquor. That’s worth how much to some out-of-work fool? A fifty-buck gratuity, just for starters. So where the hell is he?”
I noticed Nathan check his wristwatch, same as me, even though we both knew it wasn’t even noon yet. The person doing her shopping wasn’t late. Truth was, Mrs. Whitney didn’t know what time it was. There wasn’t much we could do, though, but sit and listen as the woman took off on a talking jag, ranting about undependable workers, then switched to the maid she’d fired a few weeks back for stealing.
Despite his size and all those muscles, Nate is sensitive. Loud voices make him wince. Angry voices cause him to retreat inside his head, often rocking where he sits, hands cradling his knees, even when he’s not in a rocker. Nathan was rocking now, I noticed, but then he did something that showed his improved confidence. He got to his feet, saying, “Maybe the maid didn’t put things where they’re supposed to be, Mrs. Whitney. Mind if I take a look in your kitchen?”
The woman looked at him for the first time, her eyes struggling to focus. “I know you,” she said finally. “I’ve seen you before.”
“You usually drink Johnnie Walker Black, easy on the soda,” Nate replied. “But sometimes you’ll do a daiquiri, no sugar. Or Bloody Marys, if it’s early. How about I see what I can find?” My friend had a soft look on his face that told me he was worried about the woman, too.
“Good luck!” Mrs. Whitney laughed, sounding more cheerful, but it was scary the way she said it. Way too loud, with a warble of hysteria. As Nate disappeared into a hallway, she hollered, “I’ve been through every goddamn cupboard and cranny in this house. In fact”-she gripped the arms of her chair, ready to stand-“I’ll help you look.”
Because her balance was so poor, I was already on my feet and prepared when the chair went over backward. I threw my arms around the woman and lifted her clear, startled by the way loose skin moved over her bones and the birdlike lightness of her body. It was like catching something warm but barely alive in a plastic sack.
“Get your goddamn hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?”
If the woman was trying to wrestle free, she was so weak I didn’t notice. I held her by the shoulders until she seemed steady, then pulled the chair I’d been using under her. “Have a seat, Mrs. Whitney. Are you okay?”