Joey resumed the role of a gentleman host. “’Course you didn’t. The Cadence place, there’s a lot of stories we heard as kids. In high school, too. There’s nothing wrong with stories, but what a man keeps on his property is his own business. Circus animals in Florida, there’s nothing new about that around here”-his eyes found Birdy-“but maybe the laws have changed. Either way, it’s none of our business.”
Birdy’s questioning look transitioned into surprise. I understood. He had just hinted that, yes, chimps-monkeys of some type-might be found at the area. He had also refused to snitch on neighbors, even though they lived thirty miles away.
Birdy got it, too. “We didn’t go there to spy or arrest the guy. Hannah wants to meet the owner for business reasons.”
Brit said, “Oh?”
“Yeah. She’s… well, she’s collecting stories about the old Cadence house. Like you said, it’s got quite the history. There was a TV show a while back, they did a piece. Maybe you saw it. That’s the sort of thing she’s after, which means interviewing people who know the area. Like the stories Joey mentioned.”
Voice flat, Brit said, “News reporters. Sure.”
It was a question, not the statement, which Birdy decided to answer. “No, like I told you, I’m a sheriff’s deputy. But I’m off duty, just tagging along. Hannah’s the one who has to keep notes and do all the work.” She turned, her eyes asking, Should we go?
We were sitting on the aft deck of the houseboat, an orange crate between Birdy and me, while the men leaned on the railing. I wasn’t ready to leave, so I put down my drink and looked from Brit to Joey in a frank way. “Let’s back up here. It was rude of me to pry and I apologize. I don’t tolerate people snooping into my life. No reason you should either.”
The modern cow hunters seemed to appreciate that. After a cue from his partner, Brit said, “Already forgotten.”
That wasn’t true, I could tell. “I’m not a journalist either. I want to be clear about why we’re here. I am getting paid to collect stories about the Cadence property, but the job doesn’t include being nosy about your neighbors.”
I waited, expecting one of them to ask, Paid why? They didn’t. The invisible door, I realized, had opened a tad, but the next move was up to me. I said, “Truth is, I inherited a part-time investigation agency from my uncle and this is”-I had to think back-“only the fifth job I’ve had that requires fieldwork. Mostly I’m a light tackle guide out of Sanibel and Captiva.”
“A fishing guide?” Brit asked the question, but both were skeptical.
I said, “October’s my slow time, which is why I’m doing this. Fly-fishing is what I prefer, but I’ll take just about anything that comes along. Except for peak tarpon season. I’m fussy about clients during tarpon season. Last year, I booked more than two hundred full days, plus some casting lessons. And the Lauderdale boat show, two years in a row, I’ve done demonstrations for Sage fly rods.”
They asked a few questions to test me, then asked a few more because they were convinced it was true and they both enjoyed fishing.
“My uncle was a guide,” I said. “It’s a hard way to make a living. He told me, ‘Some weeks, you think you’ll get rich, but you never do. And some weeks, you think you’ll starve, but you never do.’ That’s the way fishing is, so I keep the agency going on the side. I hope I’ve explained myself.”
Brit, while reassessing Birdy’s legs, said, “Yep.”
Joey said it, too-“Yep”-but added, “We get tarpon up here sometimes. Bass, of course, and snook you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’ll remember that when my bookings pick up. Right now, I’m focused on what I’m being paid to do. If you remember stories about the Cadence house, I’d sure like to hear them-unless it’s too late, which I understand.”
Joey, for some reason, gave me a private wink after catching my eye. Then said to Brit, “You’re the one who loves to talk. Tell ’em some of the things we heard back in high school. Bore the ladies while they enjoy their drinks.”
That broke the uneasiness. We became a chatty, sociable little group, although increasingly quiet while Brit told stories of murder and madness and a woman who could be heard weeping from the balcony on moonlit nights. I got out my spiral notebook and asked questions. But had the good sense not to pry when Brit, after eyeing me, said, “I’d be careful walking that area. There’s an ol’ boy there some say is slap-ass crazy-and not in no fun way. Monkeys would be tamer. If I knew it was fact, I’d say his name, but I try to avoid gossip.”
Birdy assured him, “We can take care of ourselves,” while I finished a drink I hadn’t planned on finishing. It was nearly one when we stood to leave. They insisted on walking us back.
I hadn’t anticipated that.
There is a natural pairing process when four people exit a dock: Birdy and Brit led. That was expected. I’m used to following extroverts in such situations. I felt no awkwardness until the pairings were further defined by the distance that separated our rooms, Birdy’s room being three doors down from mine.
Brit followed when she turned left. I veered to the right and felt a sudden tension, figuring Joey would follow. So far, both had been respectful and polite, but these were two high-testosterone men. They rode horses and carried guns, as they’d told us, and often had to sleep rough with nothing but mosquito netting and the stars. Nice guys, true, but this was a rare weekend in town for them. The advantages of two single women sleeping in separate rooms had to be on their minds.
Pointless, my worrying. When I reached the door, I was alone. My escort was standing, lanky and long, in the moonlight, a discreet distance separating us. I felt relief at first, then it stung my ego. Three doors down, a latch clicked. Birdy, for our benefit, warned Brit, “Okay, but just for a minute,” then they both disappeared into her room.
I had to say something. Inanities such as “Thanks for a nice evening” had already been exchanged, so I decided to soften my escort’s disappointment. “I still have some work to do,” I explained from the railing.
No need for that either. He had already started toward the dock but did manage to reply, “Good luck,” over his shoulder and wave.
He’s married or real, real tired. That’s what my ego decided. Then reminded me, You’re not interested anyway.
True enough. Even so, I felt a spark of girlish redemption when the man stopped, thought for a moment, then turned. “Do you drink coffee in the morning? I get up awful early, but you’re welcome to drop by.”
“Coffee or hot tea,” I answered. “Either’s fine, but how early’s early?”
“Before sunrise. I gotta have my horse trailered by six.” A pause before explaining, “Brit’s off ’cause of his fire-starting class. So I’m working alone.”
He sensed me smiling. “Is that funny?”
I said, “If Brit’s learning how to build a fire, I suppose it is.”
“The boy could use some help in that area, too. But this is a state certification thing. Ranches do a lot of controlled burns to clear out undergrowth. I could explain it to you over coffee.”
I already knew about burn backs yet it made me feel better. “I appreciate that, Joey. If I’m up, I’ll knock on the hull. Do you prefer Joey to Joe?”
“Either,” he said, “but not Joseph. That was my father-according to Mom.” Dark laughter while he added, “That man got around a lot, but never stuck around, if you know what I’m saying.”
I replied, “I’m sorry to say I do.”
“His last name was Egret. Like the bird. If I wasn’t used to the darn thing, I’d think about changing.”