Maureen said, “I want my lawyer.”
Guidry nodded. “Fine with me. He can meet us at the station.”
Maureen said, “She. My lawyer is a woman.”
She said it so defiantly that I felt sorry for her. Maureen was still stuck in an earlier time when it wasn’t so common for women to become lawyers. I guess being the in-house bimbo of a drug dealer would keep you from noticing that a lot of old ideas had changed.
She was right about one thing, though. She definitely needed a lawyer.
29
With a promise from Guidry that Hef wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail, I left the marina. Actually, I was pretty sure that Maureen’s lawyer would have them home by midafternoon. Filing a false claim of kidnapping is only a misdemeanor, and so is illegally disposing of a corpse. More than likely, they’d each get off with a fine for those crimes. On the other hand, while I believed Maureen’s story and expected the cops to eventually accept it, I expected them both to be suspects in Victor’s murder.
On the way home, I thought how freaky it was that a group of big-time drug dealers were gathered somewhere in Sarasota right that minute. Every Floridian suspects that some of the tasteless megamansions that ruin our views have been built with money made from drug trafficking, but we like to believe they’re retired drug traffickers. If what Maureen had said was true, a lot of them were still in business. I imagined their counterparts flying into Sarasota’s private airport in their personal jets, each of them as rich and well armed as some countries, all of them in silk suits and dark glasses, all of them anxious about losing power to the man who would be named the new jefe of the North American drug-trafficking business. It made me feel like an extra in The Sopranos.
By the time I got to my lane, the rain had resolved into a gentle soaker. The oaks and sea grape along my drive were drooping with the weight of water, and all the parakeets were hidden under their leaves. I parked under the carport and squished up the stairs to my apartment. Inside, I was undressed by the time I got to the stacked washer and dryer in the hall alcove. Everything went in, wet shorts, soggy T-shirt, damp underwear, water-logged Keds. I had been in so much water, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d sprouted fins.
I padded to the bathroom and hauled my tired self into the shower to let blessed warm water beat away the film of bay scum and disillusionment. I barely made it to bed before I fell into exhausted sleep.
I dreamed I went to a place with a lot of filmy white stuff that I guess was clouds. I was excited because I figured I was in heaven and that if I asked God nicely, he would send me to be with Todd and Christy. I came to a big golden gate with an arched top, the generic kind of gate you see in cartoons about heaven. I rang a doorbell and waited, a little annoyed that nobody was there to greet me. In a while, I heard a voice that wrapped around me with no source that I could see. It was a melodious voice that I associated with harps or cellos, the kinds of instruments you would expect in heaven.
The voice said, “Are you sure you want to enter here? You can’t change your mind, you know.”
I said I was sure, and the gate clicked open. I walked through and looked around. It was clear in there, with no rain or clouds, just pretty flowers and butterflies and songbirds and little gurgling streams—a standard heavenly environment.
The voice spoke again, and this time it was ahead of me. It said, “Come this way, honey.”
That struck me as funny, to have an archangel or whatever he was call me honey. I followed the voice and came to a place where a lot of women were having a picnic. They had fried chicken and watermelon and potato salad and the little green olives I love so much. The women were all different ages and colors and shapes. The only thing they had in common were big satisfied smiles. These women were enjoying life, big time.
I said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for God.”
They all turned their happy faces toward me and spoke with the sound of wind singing through silver flutes.
And the voice said, “Honey, I AM.”
I woke up smiling, and lay for a minute feeling happier than I could remember feeling in a long time.
Then I remembered that Jaz was missing and perhaps killed, which made me get up and get busy so I wouldn’t think about it. I’d done all I could do that day.
Naked, I padded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. While I waited for the water to boil, I looked out the window over the sink. Rain was still falling and from the looks of the sky, it would continue to fall for a long time. As I carried my tea to the closet-office, I flipped on my CD player to let Patsy Cline’s no-nonsense, no-equivocation, no-shit voice break the silence. With a fresh burst of energy, I returned phone calls to new and old clients, then whipped through all the clerical part of my business. Then, still naked, I hauled out the vacuum cleaner and sucked up all the dust in my apartment. I cleaned my bathroom too, and washed damp towels along with my wet clothes. Like Harry Henry, I like my environment to be clean and neat. It makes me feel as if I’m in control of my little corner of the world.
When I finished, I still had a little time before my afternoon rounds, so I got dressed in jeans and T-shirt and pulled on a reflective yellow rain slicker. I even put on the matching sou’wester hat with a dorky wide brim that drooped in the back like a dragging butterfly wing. Wearing all that rain stuff made me feel like a kindergarten kid, but at least I wouldn’t get soaking wet again. Just sweaty and claustrophobic. I was careful going downstairs because the steps were slippery, and then I dashed across the deck to Michael’s back door. He was sitting at the butcher-block island with a cup of coffee and a slice of pie in front of him. He looked miserable.
Ella sat beside him on her adoring stool, and when I came in she let her eyes open all the way for a moment. Cats do that in the dark, so maybe she thought my presence caused the lights to dim. Either that, or the sight of my big yellow self had made her think a lion had entered the kitchen.
Michael said, “Want some key lime pie?”
Like Guidry, he had new stress lines around his mouth. We were all too aware of dark fears lurking in the basement of our minds.
I shrugged off the coat and peeled off the hat and poured myself a cup of coffee. He sliced a wedge of pie for me, and I joined him at the island.
I said, “No word from Paco yet?”
He frowned. “I told you, Paco’s fine. He’ll call when he can.”
“I just thought he might have called.”
“I’ll tell you when he does.”
Ella watched us with a worried expression on her face.
I ate a few bites of pie. I drank some coffee. I said, “Guidry has taken Maureen and Harry to the sheriff’s office for questioning.”
Michael’s eyebrows raised. Good, I had distracted him.
He said, “I’m almost afraid to ask you what those two numb-nuts managed to get arrested for.”
“First you have to know that Maureen says her husband was a drug importer.”
“A what?”
“A major drug trafficker in heroin and cocaine. Bought it direct from the big cartels in South America and Afghanistan. I’m talking big dealer. She calls it importing.”
He made a face. “And she stayed with him?”
I said, “Remember, this is Maureen Rhinegold we’re talking about. She’s not any smarter now that she’s Maureen Salazar. Anyway, she says there’s a big shake-up going on in the drug world. Some Colombian top dog, one of Pablo Escobar’s men, has come to Sarasota to meet with all the drug bosses in this country. He’s going to name one American to head the whole North American drug operation. Maureen thinks somebody killed Victor so it wouldn’t be him.”