Lily got down from the massage table. “You mean like a Winnebago?”
“Not a motor home,” said Dealey, “a mobile home. I’ll never be able to get the angle I need.”
Lily wrapped herself in a towel. “Is she with him? I don’t understand.”
“Let me paint you the picture. I’m sitting in an SUV at a trailer court in some glorified fish camp in the armpit of the Everglades. I can’t even get out of my vehicle because there’s not one but two pitfucking-bull dogs waiting to gnaw my nuts off. Meanwhile your bonehead husband and his fake-Fonda lady friend just carried their bags into a mobile home that looks like it was built when Roosevelt was president and decorated by one of Tarzan’s apes.”
Dealey sounded very discouraged. Lily said, “This doesn’t make sense. Boyd always stays at Marriotts.”
“Mrs. Shreave, there are no Marriotts here. They’re lucky to have running water.”
Lily asked the private investigator if it was possible to peek inside the trailer.
“Negative. Curtains on all the windows,” he reported, “and, like I said, the dogs won’t let me out of the truck anyway. I’m parked a hundred yards down the road.”
“So what’s the plan?” Lily said.
“The plan is for me to drive back to civilization and get an air-conditioned hotel room with a king-sized bed, order up a sirloin steak and watch the fights on HBO. Then, tomorrow, I wake up and catch the first flight back to Dallas. That’s the plan, Mrs. Shreave.”
She sensed that Dealey wasn’t keen on the great outdoors. “You can’t bail on me now. Give it one more day.”
“Sorry. This is above and beyond.”
“How bad can it be? It’s Florida, for God’s sake.”
Dealey snorted. “Right, maybe I’m at Disney World and I just don’t know it. Maybe it’s a fun ride-Trailer Trash of the Caribbean.”
Lily couldn’t imagine why her husband had dragged his mistress to such a place, but she was intrigued. Perhaps it was some grungy swingers’ club he’d dredged up on the Internet.
“You cannot leave yet,” she told Dealey.
“Yeah? Watch me.”
“Suppose I bump the fee to twenty-five.” The moment Lily said it, she knew she’d gone over the edge. This wasn’t about humiliating a wayward husband; this was about getting off.
“What?” Dealey said.
“Twenty-five grand.”
“You’re a sick woman-no offense.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Lily could hear the pit bulls barking in the background. “Boyd and his bimbo have gotta come out of that trailer eventually,” she said to Dealey. “I bet they’ll do it on the beach at sunrise. Throw down a blanket and go at it like animals-that sounds like her, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure there is a beach, Mrs. Shreave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Florida is one big beach.”
Dealey said, “Twenty-four hours. Then I’m outta here.”
“Fair enough. But trust me on the sunrise thing.”
“I’ll be sure to set my alarm,” the investigator said. “You’re not bullshitting about the twenty-five large?”
Lily Shreave smiled on the other end. “The pizza business is good, Mr. Dealey.”
Boyd Shreave wasn’t nearly as slick as Honey Santana had anticipated.
“Would you and Mrs. Shreave care for some fresh-squeezed orange juice?” she asked.
The woman accompanying Boyd Shreave started to say something but he cut her off. “Orange juice would be fine,” he said, “wouldn’t it, Genie?”
Honey knew from her Googling expedition that Shreave’s wife was named Lily. Days earlier, when he’d faxed her the information for the airline reservations, Shreave had listed his wife as Eugenie Fonda, parenthetically explaining that she preferred to use her maiden name. The slithering lie did not surprise Honey. That Shreave would bring a girlfriend only ratified her initial harsh appraisal of his character.
“So, this is the ‘lodge’?” He scanned the interior of the double-wide. “We were expecting something different,” he said.
“Temporary quarters until the new facility is finished,” Honey fibbed sunnily. “We’re building it way up in the treetops, just like they do in Costa Rica.”
Shreave was skeptical. “People give away a free trip to paradise, they don’t usually put you up at a trailer court. Am I right, or what?”
“Well, I think you’ll be pleased.” Honey was stung that neither Shreave nor his companion had commented upon her tropical mural on the outer wall.
“So, when do we hear the big pitch?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“For the swamp land you’re supposed to sell us. Royal Gulf Hammocks, remember?” Shreave chuckled sardonically. “This is some four-star operation you’re running.”
“Yes-the Hammocks. Of course,” Honey Santana said. “We’ll talk about all that later.” She’d almost forgotten that she was supposed to be working a land-sales scam.
The woman named Genie spoke up. “Isn’t there a beach around here someplace? Or at least a damn tiki bar?”
“Where we’re going is better than the beach-tomorrow morning we leave for the islands.” Honey smiled. “Excuse me, would you?”
The trailer being trailer-sized, Honey could hear the couple arguing in low tones while she was in the kitchen. She was relieved that Shreave hadn’t pegged her as the voice of Pia Frampton, the fictitious telemarketer who’d offered him the trip. Her Laura Bush drawl seemed to have done the trick.
Although Honey owned an electric juicer, she chose to squeeze the fruit by hand. The exercise was therapeutic, keeping at bay temporarily the two tunes-“Smoke on the Water” and “Rainy Days and Mondays”-that had been colliding unbearably inside her head following the unwise visit to Louis Piejack. Earlier in the evening, before the Texans had arrived, Honey had thought she’d spotted Louis in a dark-colored pickup cruising her street. She wasn’t a hundred percent sure; half the guys in town owned trucks like that.
The woman named Genie materialized in the kitchen, offering to help with the tray. Honey said it wasn’t necessary.
“But thank you just the same, Mrs. Shreave.”
“I’m not Mrs. Shreave,” Genie whispered somewhat urgently.
Honey whispered back: “I know.”
“Really? What gave me away?”
“That pearl in your tongue, for starters.”
The woman nodded ruefully. “My name’s Eugenie Fonda. I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Honey said. “I won’t try to sell you any real estate.”
“No, you don’t understand-”
Shreave called out Genie’s name, and Honey touched a finger to her lips. The two women returned to the living room, where Shreave had been nosily examining the contents of Honey’s bookcase, which she’d neglected to purge of personal memorabilia.
“Who’s the track star?” He pointed to a shelf of trophies.
“My son.”
“Yeah? He must be pretty fast.”
Honey wanted to change the subject. “Have some OJ, Mr. Shreave.”
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Eugenie Fonda said. She was clutching the glass as if it were the rip cord on a parachute. “Got any vodka to go with it?”
Shreave said, “I ran some seriously swift relays myself, back in the day.”
At first Honey thought he must be joking, but she was set straight by Eugenie’s scornful expression.
“Until I blew out my knees,” Shreave continued.
Soon the rising babel in Honey’s skull made it impossible to follow what he was saying. She considered the possibility that she, too, had made a large mistake. Boyd Shreave didn’t seem like a person who could be easily chastened, moved or transformed. He presented no convictions, or true sense of himself. He’d made the Everglades trip only to prove to his girlfriend that he wasn’t a wimp.
Honey prepared herself for three challenging days.
She said, “You folks do know how to kayak, right?”
Twelve
Gillian’s real last name was Tremaine but in college she’d changed it to St. Croix to piss off her parents. It was the same reason she was majoring in elementary education; her parents had wanted her to take a degree in finance and join them at the discount brokerage house in Clearwater. That’s what Gillian’s older sister had done, and her unhappiness was currently manifesting itself as sloppy promiscuity.