There was an entrance from the lobby to the lounge, a stucco archway with lighted Spanish sconces on each side that looked like ships’ lanterns.
Carver approached it cautiously yet casually, moved parallel to it, and saw Adelle Grimm seated alone in a booth near the rear of the lounge, facing three-quarters away from him. The lounge was crowded, with most of the patrons at the bar watching a Marlins-Mets game.
There was a shrill giggle behind Carver and he turned and saw four women in business clothes approaching in a tight group. They were talking animatedly and headed for the lounge.
He saw an empty stool where the bar made a right angle, timed his entrance, and used the four gesticulating, noisy women as a diversion and to shield him from view as he made his way to the stool.
Very neat. He congratulated himself. He couldn’t see Adelle from where he sat, but he found that if he leaned slightly to the left, he could observe her reflection in the back bar mirror. The bartender, a young dark-haired guy in a blue shirt and red vest, approached and Carver ordered a draft Budweiser.
“They can’t beat the friggin’ Mets, they oughta take up some other sport,” the man on the stool to Carver’s right said.
Carver looked at him in the mirror, a very fat man with dark eyebrows that grew together and long, greasy hair, no tie, wearing an unstructured white sport coat that made him look even more immense.
“Football, maybe,” Carver said, turning his body slightly away. He hoped the big man was sensitive to body language. He didn’t want to talk baseball right now, or any other subject.
“Yeah, football. They kick the ball around a lot anyway,” the man said.
Carver didn’t answer, glad when the batter singled and a Marlins run scored. There was cheering along the bar, which meant he wouldn’t have to make more conversation.
The four women were in a booth directly behind him. One of them said, “When he told me a raise, I didn’t think he meant my skirt.” The giggler sounded off shrilly again, causing the fat guy in the white jacket to swivel ponderously on his stool and look for the source of the noise.
That was when Carver glanced in the mirror and saw Martin Freel.
At first he didn’t believe it. But there was the good reverend, wearing dark slacks and a gray-and-yellow tropical-pattern silk shirt, passing within ten feet of Carver.
When the reflected image passed beyond the shelf of liqueur bottles next to the mirror, Carver leaned forward to make sure he hadn’t imagined seeing Freel.
This was getting better by the second. Freel was sitting down opposite Adelle Grimm.
Carver leaned forward as casually as possible so he could see them both. A barmaid walked over and Freel said something to her. Then he and Adelle leaned toward each other over the table, heads close together, and began talking earnestly. The reverend was nodding his head. Adelle seemed to be doing most of the talking.
They paused in their conversation as the barmaid returned with their drinks, a mug of beer for Freel and a fresh whatever-clear-beverage Adelle had been drinking, and took away Adelle’s half-empty glass. Then Freel reached across the table and gently clasped Adelle’s right hand with both of his, as if it were a delicate bird he didn’t want to be injured or fly away.
They sat that way talking for almost fifteen minutes, not touching their drinks, apparently captivated by each other. Now Freel seemed to be guiding the conversation. Carver watched as Adelle’s composure disintegrated. Her free hand rose to brush tears from her eyes.
Suddenly she stood up. She was gripping her purse which had been sitting on her side of the table. Freel stood also and touched her shoulder, as if urging her not to leave. But Adelle spun around and strode from the lounge. Freel stared after her with a hopeless, longing expression on his tanned face.
Carver wanted to follow Adelle, but he knew Freel would notice him if he limped away from the bar with his cane. Maybe Freel would run after her and Carver could follow them both, or have his choice.
But Freel stood watching until Adelle had disappeared out the door to the parking lot, then he slumped back down in the booth and sipped his mug of beer.
Ten minutes later, he laid a couple of crumpled bills on the table, stood up, and walked from the lounge, using the exit to the parking lot. Carver left the bar and went through the archway into the lobby. Standing inside the glass front entrance doors, he watched Freel make his way along a row of cars parked to the left. It was easy to follow the almost luminous yellow pattern of the reverend’s silk shirt in the dark, moving and undulating like a bright spirit of the night. Carver’s Olds was parked to the right. He slipped out through the door and hurried in that direction.
He was sitting in his car and had just started the engine when Freel drove toward him in a sky blue Cadillac, then steered toward the driveway. The Caddy paused, then smoothly turned and accelerated out onto the highway.
Carver put the Olds in drive and followed.
He stayed behind Freel until the Caddy turned off Highway 1 and sped west on 50 toward Orlando. That was something of a disappointment. The odds were that Freel was simply going home or to the Clear Connection.
Carver lost interest and turned back toward the coast, heading for the cottage, thinking hard all the way to the hum of the engine and the ticking of the tires over seams in warm pavement.
Maybe the Women’s Light bombing had nothing at all to do with abortion rights; maybe that was simply a blind. Freel might have set up Norton and used the anti-abortion demonstration as a cover for the murder of Dr. Grimm, and for one of the oldest, most compelling motives in the world: he wanted the man’s wife.
Freel himself might have somehow planted the bomb, timed to go off during the demonstration. Or, more likely, he’d used the unknowing Norton, instructing him when and where to plant the bomb, so he could be sure Dr. Grimm would be at the clinic that day and would be near the blast point. Some of the death threats received by Freel’s wife Belinda Lee might have been sent by Freel himself. Now he could be setting the stage for her murder so he could be free to maintain his reputation and standing with his congregation and pro-life advocates, and at the same time possess forbidden fruit Adelle Grimm.
Hypothesis, Carver warned himself, speeding along A1A with the sharp ocean breeze cutting in through the car’s open windows. He’d gotten into trouble before by hypothesizing and then acting without ascertaining the facts. His theory about Freel and Adelle Grimm might be nothing but speculation. Yet it answered so many questions.
And he’d seen them together in the motel lounge, an obviously furtive and emotional meeting they’d both driven a long way to attend in an attempt at secrecy.
That wasn’t speculation. That was fact.
And it had to mean something.
34
The lights were on and Beth was awake when Carver entered the cottage. She was wearing a black top and yellow shorts and was barefoot, seated on the sofa with her computer in her lap. There was a dreamy expression on her face and she was busily pecking away at the keyboard, as if she were playing a musical instrument only she could hear.
“Al didn’t bark,” he said.
She didn’t look up. “He knows your step. The cane.”
Carver wasn’t sure Al was that smart. “What are you working on?” he asked, limping over and settling into a nearby chair.
“Piece on the clinic bombings. Jeff wants something for the next issue.” Jeff was Jeff Smith, Beth’s often demanding editor at Burrow.