It depended on how far Calloway was willing to go to circumvent the ethical demands of his former profession and how badly he wanted to get specific information to his ex-wife.
So the file should have been handy, right? Maybe not out in the open, but at least in an accessible place. Didn’t matter that Calloway had decided to take a swim before our meeting, the file had to be nearby.
Right? Right.
So why couldn’t I find the thing?
Calloway’s study: Heavy wood and leather, chromium steel and thick champagne-colored carpeting. Plaques, diplomas and framed photographs beneath a white ceiling fan.
Frank’s face dominated most of the photographs. Dark eyes, fixed smile. The man owned suits. Lots of suits.
There was a shot of him with his arm around Amanda’s shoulder. She wore a green cap and gown. They both looked very happy, particularly Amanda. Proud daughter with proud daddy. Maybe she and her stepfather had been better friends than she’d let on. Maybe she was reluctant to admit that she, too, felt betrayed by the man’s behavior.
In the corner was a well-organized computer station. Lots of shelves rising above the computer screen in tiers. Through the bay window, the Gulf of Mexico and western horizon were a panel of pastel blue on a ribbon of rust and turquoise.
It was getting late. How much longer did I have before Frank’s wife returned?
I was still carrying the dish towel, wiping off my prints as I went. Sound is amplified and sharpened when one is inside the empty home of a stranger. It jabs like a needle. Each time a car slowed outside, I froze. I went through the roll-out drawers. Checked for little hidey-holes behind the desk, beneath the heavy plaques. Got down on my knees and looked under the desk. Had he taped the file underneath?
Nope.
Kept pausing to listen.
Couldn’t find the file.
In the massive bedroom, with its bathroom sauna and pool-sized tub, there were all kinds of interesting discoveries to be made in the dresser drawers and beneath the bed.
Frank and the new Mrs. Calloway apparently enjoyed sexual aids and pornography. Lots of plastic toys and interesting photographs and unmarked videocassettes.
If such sexual play had been a part of Gail’s life before the divorce, perhaps Merlot had had an easier time talking her into it after the divorce.
But still no file.
I was very happy to leave that bedroom. Snooping through the personal belongings of married couples does not mesh with the self-image upon which I rely to govern my daily activities. I felt like a sneak. I felt like some low-life voyeur.
I’d already searched the downstairs thoroughly. Decided to give it one last quick sweep. I was in the den, looking under magazines, looking under sofa cushions. If I turned my head one way, I could see into the kitchen: Frank’s torso and bare feet were visible through the doorway. Turn my head the other way, I could look through translucent curtains to the driveway and street outside.
Good thing, too. I was shuffling through a stack of books when I saw a car swing fast into the drive. A new ‘Vette convertible, black on black, top down. I stood there just long enough to see an attractive blond woman slide out. Hair spray and a body that bounced and flexed within an expensive white tennis outfit.
The quickness of her movements suggested that she might be irritable, maybe angry. That was my impression.
I recognized her face from photos all around the house. It was Frank’s trophy wife, Skipper. I didn’t linger to assess or admire. She appeared to be not just irritable but also in a hurry. In a few long strides, I was through the kitchen and out the busted glass door into the pool area.
It was there that something odd and unexpected caught my attention. Something lying on the deck: A checked scarf lying near the screen door. Bright checks on a white field. The little squares were raspberry red.
What was a scarf doing there? It seemed out of place, accidental. I’m not sure why I did it, but I did: I leaned and swept the scarf up in my right hand like a rider on a horse, then closed the pool door very, very quietly behind me.
A few moments later, I was on the beach strolling along, the scarf bunched up in my big hand. I had a role to play. It was not a difficult role: big wind-burned tourist in khaki fishing shorts and gray polo shirt enjoying the sunshine through his wire rimmed glasses. I did not allow myself to meet the eyes of fellow strollers who now paused to exchange glances that, at first were puzzled, then concerned.
There was a noise…
What was that noise?
Even above the sound of rolling waves, everyone on the beach could hear it: a shrill staccato howl that seemed to grow progressively louder. It originated from the shadows beyond the sea grapes.
A lady in a gigantic sun hat waddled toward me as if seeking shade or protection. She wore a blue polka-dot swim dress and was carrying a basket of shells. Zinc oxide was smeared across her pink face. The rapidness of her breathing illustrated a neuron fear. The next level is panic.
To me, a stranger, she said, “Sir? Is… is that the sound of a woman screaming?”
I continued walking, as I answered, “Yes, ma’am, a woman screaming. I believe that it is.”
The Temptation Restaurant, a fixture of Boca Grande’s tiny crossroads downtown, is only a few blocks from the beach and so was a short walk from the late Frank Calloway’s home. It’s in an old stucco building next door to an art gallery, across a sleepy street from Island Bike amp; Beach, not far from Italiano Insurance and the Boca Beacon newspaper offices.
If I’d hustled to Whidden’s Marina, hopped in my skiff and really pushed it, it was possible, just possible, I could have been making the turn past Woodring Point and into Dinkin’s Bay during the last, last pearly glow of dusk. Truthfully, that’s what I would have preferred to do. Get home, speak confidentially with Tomlinson, let him help me decide the best way to break the news to Amanda that Frank was dead.
How do you tell someone that she is now twice a paternal orphan?
But racing away from Boca Grande was not the smart thing to do.
Nope.
I needed to be seen around town. I needed to do some talking and be remembered. If asked, the efficient Ms. Betty Marsh would quite accurately inform the police that, yes, the late Mr. Calloway did have an appointment on Thursday afternoon. It was with a man named Ford, a Dr. Marion Ford.
The police might say to me, You want to hear something really strange? After Calloway died, somebody went through his stuff and wiped all the prints clean. They might say, Someone was there, someone was in the house. So why didn’t you call us and tell us the man was dead?
If the police had questions, any questions, I wanted my answers to be easily corroborated. The Temptation was where I chose to be seen and be remembered.
Annie was behind the bar when I walked in. She’s a large chestnut-haired woman with a good smile. When I straddled a stool, she raised her eyebrows and said with mock anger, “So? You don’t have time for your old friends anymore? You too busy to jump in that skiff of yours and fly north more than once or twice a year?”
For all the tourism, for all the transient comings and goings rightfully associated with the ratty, tacky character that is Florida, the community of waterfolk remains tight and dependable and it doesn’t change much from generation to generation. Annie had been born and raised on the islands. She knew everyone that I knew and more.