She was definitely not pleased with me.
The rain was stopping. I wished it wouldn’t.
“What did Melanie do? Substantial, I mean.”
“Children, she worked with children. Raised money, gave money to local groups that support abused mothers, children. She couldn’t have children of her own.”
“Why?”
“Some illness,” Caroline Wilkerson said, running a narrow manicured finger around the rim of her water glass. “I don’t know what it was. She didn’t talk about it. I have to go.”
I got up and said, “That’s about all I have for now. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope so.”
Now she got up and looked at me without the contempt I’d felt since she first opened the door.
“Find Melanie,” she said. “Find her quickly.”
“I will,” I said.
She put out her hand. I shook it gently and she walked me back through the house and out the front door.
Melanie Sebastian and Caroline Wilkerson might have been best friends, but Caroline knew very little about her buddy. Maybe Melanie wasn’t the kind who shared. Maybe Caroline made it clear she wasn’t interested in getting too close and knowing too much.
There are people who live on the surface. They don’t want to get below their own veneer and they certainly don’t want to get below the surface of others. There is something behind the face we show the world that threatens the life of people like Caroline Wilkerson. Caroline Wilkerson would remain plastic surgery, diet, exercise and makeup handsome to the last second and then she would repaint the veneer with peach self-deception.
The truth was that I didn’t know what I was telling myself. It was a fantasy that felt true but might be a lie. It probably came from my having a surface that hid almost nothing, at least nothing I was aware of.
I drove off. When I left the Key over the north bridge, the reality of Dwight Handford hit me again. I had put it away, but it wouldn’t stay down. I had to make the rounds. I had to ask questions that risked my losing the few friends I had.
Well, Lew Fonesca did hide his gargoyles and demons and he told no one about his grandfather’s mandolin. Why hadn’t I told Ann Horowitz about them? Reminders of guilt and pain soothed by a childhood memory of an instrument now plucking out “The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise,” my grandfather’s arthritic fingers moving madly. There are some secrets we want to hold on to, cling to-the last piece or two of flotsam that keeps us afloat in our private sea of doubt. Did the Handfords of the world have secrets, doubts? Did he take some piece of jagged driftwood memory to his grave? I hoped not. We, at least I, need monsters. Without monsters there are no heroes. Something has to be black and white.
Ames had told me he hadn’t killed Handford. Ames wouldn’t lie. He would know that I’d never turn him in. I knew I’d never turn in one of my other friends if they had killed Dwight. I just had to know.
First stop, Flo Zink.
The sun had come out when I was about halfway to Flo’s. I knew it was now hot and humid, sweat-drenching hot and humid, just outside the air-conditioning of the Geo. A little old man in a big new car swerved out of his lane and almost forced me off of Tamiami Trail. I looked over at him. He was hunched over and looking dreamily ahead. He had no idea what he had done. I accepted this hazard of Florida life and drove on.
Flo was home, waiting. She opened the door, the voice of a man behind her sang about the Texas wind and Flo announced, “One drink so far today,” with pride. “I’m shooting for four a day. How do I look?”
She was wearing a beige knit skirt and matching top with a brown sweater. Her hair was brushed and her earrings small and silver.
“Fine,” I said. “What’s the occasion?”
“I thought we were going to see some people about that foster parent business?” she said.
“I haven’t worked out the details yet.”
“There’s a phone. Work it out.”
Flo didn’t sound or act like a woman who had shot a man a few hours ago, but maybe she was in a mood for celebrating after having done a righteous deed.
“Flo, Dwight Handford is dead.”
“Maybe there is a God,” she said solemnly. “Makes things a lot easier. Who killed him? Forget it. I don’t care.”
“I had the idea that you might have done it,” I said.
She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and said, “Lewis, I’m flattered. But I didn’t kill him. How did he die?”
“Lots of bullets from a handgun.”
“Sounds like what I’d do if I did it but I didn’t. Can you make whatever calls you have to make now?”
“Who’s that?” I asked, looking at the tape player.
“Roy Acuff,” she said. “Not much of a voice, not much emotion, but he sounds like the real thing and the words get to me. The phone, Lewis.”
I called Sally on her cell phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“It’s Lew,” I said. “When can you set something up for that foster placement for Adele? I’m here with a very expectant lady.”
“My office, one P.M. I’ll have someone there who can take care of it.”
“I have to talk to you, Sally,” I said.
“Can’t talk now,” she said. “I’m in a client’s home. See you at one.”
She hung up.
I hadn’t told her about Dwight Handford’s body up in Palmetto. I knew why. I wanted to catch her off guard, see how she took the news. She had sounded normal on the phone, but that didn’t mean much.
“One o’clock,” I told Flo. “You sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”
“Lewis,” she said, touching my cheek. “You sure you know what I’ve been through in my life? Someday I’ll tell you some stories. Right now I’d like a drink, which means it’s up to you to take my mind off of it.”
“Let’s go to Mote Marine,” I said.
“Never been there,” she said. “Fish.”
“It’ll take your mind off of human life,” I said. “I like it there.”
We went to the Mote Marine Aquarium on City Island between St. Armand’s Circle and the bridge to Longboat Key. We smiled at a shark, grinned at a giant grouper, examined eels and searched for alliteration in the clear seawater tanks.
“You’re right,” Flo said. “It’s… a different world.”
The blue angel was there, in his car not far from where I parked. I wanted to invite him in. I had the feeling he would like the fish, several of which resembled him. Some probably resembled me. I also wanted to talk to Angel about the death of Dwight Handford.
“Lunch?” Flo asked when we had finished the cycle and seen every fish and sea creature.’
“Had a late breakfast,” I said, “but I’m up for salad.”
“Columbia?” she asked. “They have a mean house salad.”
“Sure,” I said, and we walked back to my car. I let her in and asked her to wait for just a second.
“Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“No,” I said, and moved toward the blue Buick.
I knocked at the driver’s side window and he rolled it down and looked up at me. No music played in his car, but there was a pile of magazines on the passenger seat. The top one was the latest Cosmopolitan. He said nothing.
“Dwight Handford is dead,” I said.
“Who?”
“The guy who tried to beat me up. The guy you saved me from. The guy who shot a hole in my window last night.”
He nodded, accepting the information.
“You followed him last night after he blew my window out.”
He shrugged.
“You kill him?”
“No. What’d I tell you yesterday? Do your job.”
“I’m doing it,” I said. “What’s your job?”
He rolled his window closed. I couldn’t see through the tint. I gave up and went back to Flo, who had found a country-and-western station on the radio.
“Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward the Buick.
“An angel,” I said.
She seemed satisfied.
“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding at the radio.
“Eddy Arnold,” she said. “Got all his CDs. They ran a special on television a while back.”
The Columbia, a Cuban restaurant on St. Armand’s Circle, wasn’t far. The original Columbia was opened in 1908 in Ybor City in the heart of Tampa. I’d been there once to serve papers on a computer salesman. Old, big, authentic, lots of colorful tile, lots of big solid wood tables. Zorro country. The night I served the papers there was a quartet of flamenco dancers. My wife would have liked it. She would have liked the sense of stepping into the past.