I was driving because I had insisted on driving. The alternative was to sit in the back with the late Harney Chatham, who was belted into a reclining seat that didn’t recline far enough. Our hope was, if his John Wayne Stetson stayed put, it would appear as if the big man were dozing, except his lifeless neck shifted with every turn in the road. So Reggie had to use a hand and his shoulder to maintain the desired effect. Thank god, the windows were tinted.
“Faster,” he said, “and slouch yourself down a bit. You gotta drive faster, Miz Hannah, and sit way shorter, more relaxed, sort of let your top hand drape-know what I’m saying?-if that cop is to believe you’re me. You’re one tall drink of water, if you don’t mind a compliment. It ain’t too late to put on my driver’s cap.”
That wasn’t going to happen.
Never had I ridden in a vehicle so large, so powerful and ghostly quiet. When the digital speedometer hit 70, I touched cruise control and checked the mirror. The squad car was still there, close enough I could see the deputy’s silver sunglasses and bulldog jaw.
I heard Reggie spin around in the backseat. “That’s good. He ain’t talking on his microphone. They always do that before they use the siren. Oh yeah… we got nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about! I almost laughed. “Do you recognize the deputy? You’d better, because I went off and left my purse and my driver’s license is in that purse. If he stops us, don’t say a word. I’ll do all the talking-unless you know him. Do you know him?” Jabbering like a fool is something else I seldom do.
“Miz Hannah, a driver’s license ain’t the first thing he’s gonna ask about if he sees a dead body back here. So we ain’t gonna stop even if he tries. Those toggles next to the radio? We got emergency lights installed front and back on this here Lincoln. We’ll drive straight to the hospital and tell them the governor’s sick, maybe had a heart attack. Only part we’ll have to change is, we’ll say you was sittin’ back here when it happened.”
Speaking to his former employer, he added, “It’ll sound better if you died in the arms of a beautiful young woman instead of back here alone, with a man who’s your own chauffeur. That’d look bad. Don’t you think that’d look bad?”
“I think I’m about to fire you both as clients,” I snapped, “but the hospital’s not a bad idea.” I thought for a moment. “Are you sure the deputies around here all know this car?”
“There ain’t but one black stretch Town Car in all Sematee County,” he replied, then spoke to Mr. Chatham. “I thought you said she was Florida-born, Governor? That there’s a silly question, her not knowing your car.”
I straightened the rearview mirror to make eye contact with the deputy and offered a casual wave. I didn’t expect much, but that small gesture was enough. The man lifted his hand in response, then suddenly dropped back, did a U-turn, and sped off in the opposite direction.
“Didn’t we tell her?” Reggie smiled. “She’s got nothing to worry about, riding with us big dogs.” This was punctuated with a child-like cackle. Tee-hee-hee.
It would have been wrong to say what I was thinking to a man his age, so I drove in silence, knuckles white on the wheel. Good manners began to fail me, however, when I slowed to turn into the double-winged security gate at the Chatham estate. It was a wall of ornate wrought iron attached to miles of fenced pasture where horses grazed. In the far distance, a barn was visible beneath domes of cypress and oaks.
“Uh-oh,” Reggie said.
“Now what?”
“I forgot. Today’s Miz Chatham’s day off from the ranch. Don’t slow down-keep going.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Don’t even look. Go on, now, drive right on past.”
“You wanted his wife to be here?”
“I was counting on it. Mash that pedal.”
“Reggie,” I said, “I’m beginning to hope you’re in shock instead of just slap-flat dumb and crazy. I’ve about had it with you.”
“Honey, listen. That woman never leaves the third floor, or her office in the barn, normally. But Fridays is when the governor’s daughters and grandkids come to ride and play around the ranch. See there”-he pointed, and I saw a line of trail horses, children aboard-“and there’s a bunch more somewhere, I guarantee, clomping around in the house, makin’ a mess, getting peanut butter all over her upholstery. Lonnie Chatham purely hates them kids, but they love me and the governor like Santa Claus. See now why we can’t stop?”
I hit the accelerator to jettison anger and held my tongue. A billboard that read Chatham Lincoln-Mercury-Ford flashed by before I slowed the limo to 60 and touched cruise control. “I’m going to park within a few blocks of the hospital and take a cab home, Reggie. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Please don’t, Miz Hannah. I got an even better idea now.”
“I bet.”
“At least hear me out. I should’a thought of this first.”
“My mind’s made up,” I said without looking around, or realizing I had made this claim before.
“You didn’t work for this man for goin’ on forty years. A man like the governor deserves to die in a respectable way.”
“That’s something you should take up with God, not me,” I countered.
“Would love to do that, lord knows I would. What I’m saying is, the governor should die with the things he loves best around him-not that he didn’t love your mama. He purely did. That’s why we can’t let him be hauled off on a gurney from a hospital parking lot. Most of the people who work there are too young to remember who he is or all he did for the folks in this county. Remember who ponied up the money for that museum near your mama’s home?”
This was true. Mr. Chatham had been generous when it came to helping fishermen in the area, and many illegal aliens as well, although some might argue that giving away cash earned by smuggling drugs could also be regarded as hush money.
I gripped the wheel tighter to keep myself from weakening. “Please leave Loretta out of this,” I said. “Go ahead. What’s your idea?”
“Oh, you’re gonna like it, ’cause this is a good one. Not ten minutes from here is the governor’s quail camp-Salt Creek Gun Club, way back in one of his citrus groves, a quarter mile on the Peace River. You’ve never seen a more beautiful spot.”
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered.
“Oh, you will when we get there. There’s a nice log cabin with shelves full of books, and a kennel for the shorthair pointers he used to run. They all dead now, too”-the little man’s voice cracked-“ain’t they, old friend? And all buried right there. Duke, and Buddy Rough, and ol’ Elvis. I sure do miss that Elvis. He was some kind’a dog, weren’t he, Harney?”
Harney was Mr. Chatham’s given name. I’d never heard Reggie speak to his boss in such an informal, affectionate way. Listing the dogs got to me, too. I was near tears.
“Yep, the gun club, that’s the place for you. It’s gonna get chilly tonight, so I’ll put you in the recliner and build a fire to keep you and them old dogs warm. Then later, when it’s safe, I’ll come back and find you already dead. Ain’t that smart? Make it all official-like.”
That broke the spell-almost. I’m no fool, but the little man wasn’t acting. The depth of his remorse bespoke the transience of life, and of love and loyalty. I could hardly trust myself to speak. “Reggie, I’m not going to be seen doing what you’re asking me to do. What about a caretaker? There has to be someone looking after the place. Someone who might, you know… come snooping around and offer to help with the heavy lifting?”
“Nope, just me. I got me a little cottage not far from there. Oh… and the new gentleman who manages the groves, Kermit Bigalow. He’s there sometimes during the week but never on weekends, and never this late. Miz Hannah, long as I live, I’ll never ask for another favor.”