When she’d finally closed her menu, he told her about his afternoon following Maggie, and what little he’d discovered about ownership of the cottage.
Beth said, “Sounds like Maggie might have a drug problem.”
“I only saw her drinking booze.”
“Same thing, if you can’t control it. Doesn’t matter if it’s booze, tobacco, or cornflakes-if it’s got you instead of the other way around.”
Carver didn’t debate the point. Beth was sensitive on the subject. She saw no real difference between users of illicit recreational drugs and people who drank and smoked uncontrollably; she thought alcohol and tobacco were the latter’s drugs of choice merely because they were legal and readily available. It was, to her way of thinking, an area where only the law defined morality, and with no real concern for the destruction of the addicts.
“A woman grieving the death of a lover might drink only to ease the pain, but she wouldn’t do it in a dump like you described unless she was used to being there.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s got a drinking problem,” Carver said. “Maybe she likes unwashed guys with tattoos.”
“That could be,” Beth said.
He saw she was serious and didn’t answer. The part of her past he didn’t know about bothered him sometimes. It took effort to set it aside and leave it hers alone.
“This Dredge Industries might not be incorporated in Florida,” she said. “If you want, I can find out more about it through Burrow.”
“It might help,” Carver said.
The waitress returned with their drinks and a broad smile. Beth ordered salad and lobster tail, Carver asked for the salmon steak special. The waitress seemed pleased, as if she’d sold him on the special, then sashayed away toward the kitchen.
Carver said, “Cheers,” and sipped his drink and looked out the long curved window at the ocean, still rolling blue-green and vast, unchanged from when he’d sat looking at it and talking with Donna Winship, unchanged by thousands of years. Ships seemed to sit motionless in the haze of heat and distance out near the horizon, as if time were a slower process far out from land.
“You don’t look cheerful,” Beth said. “Did you and Donna sit at this table when you met here?”
“No. Two tables away.”
Beth said, “Won’t do you any good to dwell on it and muck around in a lot of sentimental bullshit, Fred. The past is the past. We live in the present and can try to do something about the future. That’s all there is for any of us.”
“You’re cold.”
“You know better.”
He sighed and smiled at her. “Yeah, I do. What you are is realistic. And probably tougher than I am.”
She raised her glass, not smiling. “I wouldn’t argue either point.”
Carver knew she was right about how futile and destructive it was to dwell on the irrevocable past, but she hadn’t seen Donna Winship walk from the restaurant alive, then seen her minutes later mangled and dead on the pavement. That sort of thing made a vivid and lasting impression, and one that visited in dreams.
Beth put down her glass and bent sideways to reach something on the floor, causing one of her breasts to strain against her blouse. The move drew men’s eyes like laser beams. She said, “Got something for you, lover.”
He waited while she laid a yellow file folder on the table and opened it.
Inside were copies of catalog pages. They were fastened together with a paper clip and there was a yellow Post-it stuck to the top one with the date and name of the catalog scrawled on it. He assumed they were copies of the pages missing from the catalogs in Gretch’s apartment.
“I found eight of the catalogs so I could see what was on the torn-out pages,” she said. She turned the folder around so Carver could examine the pages right-side up.
He removed the paperclip and leafed through them. They were sharp copies, though not in color like the pages themselves. They all showed a series of male models wearing foppish clothes, from evening wear to bikini swim trunks.
“So whaddya think?” Beth asked from across the table. She placed the olive from her martini between her lips, sucked on it to enjoy the gin flavor, then deftly let it roll back on her tongue. Probably giving the Gator Baiters fits.
Carver said, “I think I wouldn’t wear much of this stuff. Well, maybe the black leather jacket with the steel spikes running up the arms.”
“You could bring it off,” Beth said.
They were both aware that he sometimes dressed in a way not all that different from the catalog models. Wore dark pullover shirts, dark slacks, and Italian loafers he didn’t have to lace. No steel spikes, though.
He started to close the folder.
Beth said, “Look again.”
He did.
This time he saw it immediately.
He examined each of the copies carefully. One of the models on every page was Carl Gretch. There he was in a European-cut sport coat, there in a striped silk shirt with a wild tie, there in an elaborate and probably wildly colorful kimono. In one shot he was seated at an outdoor table dining with a smiling blond woman with a spiked hairdo and a see-through top.
Carver straightened the copies and closed the folder, grinning. “Great work, Beth. I can check with the catalog publishers, get the photographers’ names, then the name and address of the modeling agency that represents Gretch.”
Beth tossed down the rest of her drink. “I already did that, Fred. It’s the Walton Agency on Sunburst Avenue in west Del Moray.”
Carver touched the back of her hand. “I’m proud of you.”
She said, “Sometimes I’m proud of you, too, Fred.”
19
The Walton agency was a small, modern brick building angled on a narrow lot on a pretty good block of Sunburst. The bricks had been painted the dull brown color of an apple that surprises when you bite into it and find it rotten.
Carver entered the lobby through a tinted glass door, and found himself on plush beige carpeting. A middle-aged woman with unnaturally dark hair and troweled-on makeup sat at a marble-topped desk that had nothing on its surface but a complicated, many-lined white phone and an acrylic plaque that said Verna in graceful green script. On the wall behind her were dramatic color and black-and-white photographs of beautiful people. Years ago she might have been one of them. She was still hanging on by her long, painted nails. She smiled at Carver with lips the color of fresh blood. It was a wicked, guilty smile, as if she were a vegetarian caught being a carnivore.
He said, “You’re one of the models, right?”
Verna’s smile didn’t seem to change physically, yet somehow it became more genuine. She had great-looking capped teeth. “Once upon a time,” she said in a husky voice that probably sounded sexy on the phone. He saw that behind the makeup she was pushing sixty, but you had to look closely to know it.
“Is Mr. Walton in?” Carver asked.
The smile stayed on the red lips but faded from her mascara’ed eyes. She dragged a large appointment book up from a shelf behind the desk and started to open it slowly, as if its leather cover were almost unbearably heavy.
“I don’t have an appointment,” Carver said, “but Mr. Walton will see me. It’s about one of his clients.”
“Are you looking for a model?” Verna asked.
“Yes. A man named Enrico Thomas.”
She studied him for several seconds, as if trying to determine if he was one of the good guys. “Just a minute, please, Mr. . . . ?”
“Fred Carver,” Carver said, smiling.
She got up from her chair and walked to the nearer of two oak doors, the one with VINCENT WALTON on it in black block letters. She still walked like a model, as if confidently and contemptuously striding along an invisible tightrope.
When she emerged from the office less than a minute later, she stood to the side and held the door open as an invitation for Carver to enter. He caught a whiff of strong perfume and sour breath as he slid past her.