I could not deny it. For the same reasons, I could not continue a theater of innocence as if unaware of the outcome.
This was me, who I am.
Finally, my mind was made up.
I exchanged the pistol for my phone. It was late, too late to contact a man who was probably asleep beside his wife. I texted anyway, rationalizing Kermit could use smudge pots and the threat of frost as an excuse if his wife heard the ping.
Must cancel our business meeting tomorrow. Will reschedule when appropriate. Capt. Smith
The decision regarding how to sign the note took a while.
I hit Send and went to bed.
TWENTY-ONE
An hour before sunrise, I exited Interstate I-75, toward Marco, on a road that darkened between islands of neon. My phone rang. The car’s Bluetooth screen showed Kermit’s name, so I touched Accept.
“You’re up early,” I said. “You saw my text, I hope.”
A woman’s voice demanded, “Who the hell are you? How do you know my husband?”
I was stunned. Guilt makes no concessions to fantasy or imagined events. It was several seconds before I could say my own name. “I don’t,” I said. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I apologize for texting so late, but I had to cancel an appointment we’d made-”
The woman, Kermit’s wife, said, “Where is he? For god sakes, if you know, tell me. I don’t give a damn what he does anymore. Take him, for all I care, but my daughter cried herself to sleep last night. Is he with you now?”
In the background, I heard a man say, “Mrs. Bigalow, I asked you not to touch anything. Is that your husband’s phone?”
Kermit’s wife, speaking to me, said, “Tell me! I know you were together yesterday; that he called you in the morning, then again in the afternoon. It was after midnight when you sent that text, so don’t pretend-”
“I have no idea where he is,” I said, “I truly don’t, but I’ll help if I-”
A man came on the phone, saying he was Arnold-something with the sheriff’s department, meaning Sematee County, not the department my friend Birdy works for. “Who am I speaking with?” he asked.
I told him, and explained I was driving. Could he give me time to pull off the road so I could concentrate?
“I’ll keep it short. Are you the person who sent a text around midnight to a man named”-he had to check to refresh his memory-“Kermit Bigalow?”
“We had a meeting scheduled for this morning,” I said. “I wanted to catch him before he left. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Have you spoken to Mr. Bigalow since?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
The deputy said, “I’ll call you from another phone if he doesn’t turn up,” and we were done.
Doesn’t turn up?
It was fifteen miles to the boat ramp east of the Marco Island Bridge. I spent the time ruminating over what might have happened. Kermit had been home last night when we’d had our lengthy exchange via messages. That was around ten. He’d already read his daughter a story, which meant she was in bed. So why had Sarah cried herself to sleep after I’d texted around midnight?
I got a sick feeling in my stomach. In my mind, a scenario played out. My text had awakened the wife. She’d gone through Kermit’s phone log and messages. They had argued. Sarah awoke as her father stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
But his phone… Why hadn’t he taken his phone?
Reggie came into my mind. Then Kermit saying, Suicide, my ass… Lonnie had him killed… We might be next.
If not his exact words, the meaning was the same. Lonnie was dangerous. All because of a prenuptial agreement that contained a fidelity clause. And her greed.
I slowed. My turn signal bounced light over a sign that read Collier Boulevard Boat Park. It was an elongated parking area adjacent to the road, water and mangroves on both sides. Six a.m. on a frigid morning is a poor time to fish. The lot was empty save for an RV at the south end and a van parked close to the ramp. A mile away, the Marco Island Bridge a blazing silver arc. Here, only a few sodium lights provided pools of visibility. I’d hoped to see the white Lexus owned by Sabin Martinez. My disappointment added to the gloom of a frigid winter morning.
I turned in, parked in the closest slot, and got out to prepare to launch my skiff. The morning air had the sting of alcohol. My fingers numbed while battling ratchet straps. Inside my car, the phone rang again, and I rushed to answer. Heat spilled out when I opened the door. I stood there and warmed my hands as I spoke to the deputy, whose name I finally heard clearly. Arnold Nix.
He said, “Mrs. Bigalow shouldn’t have called. Sorry about that. But, if you don’t mind, there are a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I said. In the background, I heard the whoosh of a semi passing by and pictured the deputy on a country road, in a patrol car, with the window down.
“How well do you know Kermit Bigalow?”
I said, “I know what you’re getting at and you’re wrong: there’s nothing between us but business. Tell me what this is about, maybe I can help.”
“Did you two have lunch together yesterday?”
It was a trick question that caused me to remember the barbecue I’d given to Kermit to take home.
After I’d explained, the deputy said, “You can understand why the guy’s wife is upset. She checks the phone and sees you texting that late at night? It was signed Captain Smith. Some might assume you were trying to hide the fact you’re a woman. You know, in case his wife happened to-”
I said, “Some might assume they should get their facts straight before making accusations. I’m a fishing guide. Fairly well known, which is easy enough to confirm. I can understand why she jumped to that conclusion. I don’t mean to be rude, but-”
“Whoa, back up. You’re not the one I read about in Florida Sportsman? The woman guide? You specialize in fly-fishing for tarpon.”
“Tarpon and anything else. I only use Captain when it pertains to business,” I added, which was a lie.
“I’ll be darned. I didn’t put it together. You know, because Smith is such a common name. The reason I noticed the article was because of your picture. We’ve met before. Well, sort of met; I shook your hand. About two years ago, you came into the courthouse with Harney Chatham. It was at the hearing after… after you-”
The deputy caught himself before saying shot a man. My guess was, he did so out of respect for Mr. Chatham, who still carried a lot of weight in Sematee County.
On Collier Boulevard, a pickup with giant tires flew past. Behind me, in the canal, the red-and-green running lights of a boat were noted by my peripheral awareness. Only a mullet fisherman or crabber would be out on a morning so dark and cold. The boat swung toward the seawall; lights blinked out, the engine still running.
I said, “Deputy Nix, I’m not asking for favors, but I would like to know what’s going on. I’ve had maybe three or four conversations with the-”
“Hang on,” he said. I heard muffled voices conversing, then he was back. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“I was talking about Kermit Bigalow. I don’t know him well, but he seems nice enough; and he’s a good father, from what I’ve seen. We’d arranged to meet this morning to discuss-well, actually, look for-a certain kind of citrus tree. I’m sorry his wife’s upset, but I barely know the man.”
It was another lie that went unchallenged. The deputy saying he didn’t doubt my story, then explained, “Domestic squabbles-that’s how we spend half our time. I think Bigalow and his wife argued about something and he took off because he was mad. Around ten, she called him in as missing, then kept calling. I spotted his truck about an hour ago, and it took her a while to get here with the keys. What probably happened is-”