Caller ID flashed Beryl… Beryl… Beryl.
A determined woman.
I gave her time to leave a message, then checked. None from Beryl, but four I’d missed during my short run and swim. One from Michael, two from Elliot, all brief: Call me!
The fourth was longer. A woman’s voice, furtive, talking as if she feared being overheard. “Hey, it’s me. I just heard about your wife. My God, it’s terrible and all, but they say she’s gonna be okay. So maybe we can actually, like, spend some time together, you know? Call me at the club.”
Georgia accent. Valley Girl rhythms. Club was a nightclub. The word becomes a proper noun when referring to a country club, spoken with affected emphasis. So she was a waitress, a hostess, a stripper, or a regular at a favorite bar. A woman Vance knew well enough that her name should have been logged in caller ID. But it wasn’t.
Vance, who was desperately jealous of his wife, had a girlfriend on the side. An opportunist. She was looking forward to the free time Corey’s near-suicide provided them.
As I wrote the number in the Medusa notebook, the phone next to my bookshelf began to ring. It’s an old black desk model with buttons. No caller ID-same as the cheap answering machine. But because I recognized the woman’s voice when she began her message, I rushed to answer.
It was Beryl. She couldn’t get Vance, so she was calling me.
I answered, “Beryl?”
She said, “Why the surprise? You knew it was me, or you wouldn’t have picked up. Eavesdropped on any good conversations lately, Dr. Ford?”
I replied, “Nope. But not because I haven’t tried,” pleased with the secret honesty. She caught it.
“I believe you. I think you’re one of those people who ducks the truth by telling the truth. The innocent-looking type. You know the kind I mean? When actually they’re hell-raisers.”
“This morning you accused me of being a drug mobster. Now I’m an innocent type? I feel like I let you down.”
“What I said was, ‘drug lord or government assassin.’ ” Beryl listened a beat, as if I might reply. When I didn’t, she added, “And I don’t know you well enough to be disappointed. Shay gave me your number. Hope you don’t mind.”
I didn’t.
Beryl had just left the hospital, she said. Corey was conscious and doing better. Corey’s mother and father also were doing better. Their attorney had delayed questioning by the police.
“They called their lawyer after talking to Shay. She-the lawyer-had a private talk with Corey. The overdose was accidental. Corey knows how important that is. Her parents are really relieved, but they’re also very pissed off at Vance-as in pushing for prosecution.”
Shay was doing well, too, Beryl added. She would be released soon, possibly tomorrow.
I said, “Smart girl, your pal, Shay. Savvy and tough.”
Beryl became more businesslike. “From what Shay tells me, she’s got a very savvy godfather, too. I hope it’s true, because she told me something surprising. It was something you could’ve told me at breakfast, but didn’t. I thought we were supposed to be confidants, Dr. Ford.”
“Drop the prefix,” I said. “Maybe it’ll help me open up.”
“Okay… Ford. I just found out you plan to pay a visit to our favorite island. That you’re going there to try and solve our little problem. You know-the thing that doesn’t exist, and the night that never happened?”
I replied, “I have to be in the area anyway, so why not?”
“Oh, please.”
“It happens to be true. I’m working on a project that has to do with jellyfish. There’s a rare species found in that section of the Caribbean, so I have to go anyway. Not very interesting, but it’s what I do.”
“True?” Her signature question, I realized.
I echoed, “True.”
“Then you are going.”
“Yes-but not for fun. When I’m not holed up working, reading journals and making notes, I’ll use the free time to talk to authorities and ask a few questions. I doubt if there’s much I can do.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. Sunday at the latest.”
Beryl asked, “Do you want company?” She said it so coolly, it took a second to register.
“What?”
“You heard me. I can help. I know details you don’t. Who, what, when, where-it’ll save a lot of time. And I am motivated.”
“You sound mad, not motivated.”
“I’m both. You said Shay-shay’s tough? Have you ever asked her about me?”
“No. Should I?”
“I’ll leave that up to you. Maybe she’ll tell you the truth.” That hint of animus again-Beryl and Shay weren’t as buddy-buddy as I’d believed.
I said, “I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Okay. I’ll skip the personal history and give you the short version: I don’t like being manipulated, and I won’t tolerate being bullied. I’m not some naive airhead. I’m a big girl, reasonably intelligent, and I’m good at getting what I want. Can’t we at least talk about it over drinks?”
Whew.
Tempting, but I couldn’t.
I said, “Sorry, Beryl. The problem is-”
“I know, I know, you always travel alone. Shay told me you’d say that. But know what else she said? She said your marina has a party every Friday night. And if I really wanted to convince you, I should show up whether you invited me or not, and have an honest talk. Shay says you’re big on honesty.”
When I started to speak, the woman interrupted again. “Tonight’s Friday. Maybe I’ll be at the party, maybe I won’t. But I’ll tell you this, Ford-I don’t need your permission to go to Saint Arc. If I decide to go, I’m going.”
“But, Beryl-”
She hung up.
I wandered around the lab, too wired to sleep, too much on my mind to work. Tried different scenarios that included an auburn-haired female who left a wake of staring men when exiting a room, and whom the bad guys already knew.
Beryl was right. I travel alone. How could I explain carrying weapons and night-vision gear to a woman who’d grown up in a privileged, protected world?
No way.
To get my mind off it, I went to the computer, sat, and researched techniques for restoring charred paper. Found an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences that was useful, and e-mailed the two experts it quoted, and a third expert who was mentioned in the footnotes.
A handwritten letter of personal interest was damaged by fire before I had a chance to read it. I have no interest in restoration, but I would like to know the letter’s contents. Would you be willing to advise me on methods of data recovery…?
Next, I compiled background material on Saint Arc.
Officially named Saint Joan of Arc, this tiny island in the Eastern Caribbean chain is eight miles long and four miles wide, and a member of the French Commonwealth. The island is one of four French overseas departments in the Caribbean. The others are Martinique, French Guiana, and Guadeloupe-all former French colonies.
Because of this, Saint Arc is governed by French law and its citizens are legally French citizens, although France seldom interferes with the local government.
First inhabitants were Arawak who mixed with escaped slaves called Maroons (derived from the Spanish, Cimarron, meaning “untamed” or “wild”). Later, pirates used the island as a base. Saint Arc remained unsettled by Europeans, and was a lawless stronghold until the mid-1700s, when a French weapons manufacturer began purchasing bird guano, used in the making of gunpowder.
In the 1770s, when England took control of nearby Saint Lucia, Loyalists fleeing the American Revolution were commonly awarded land grants by the crown as a reward. The growing population of Loyalists soon spilled over onto nearby Saint Arc. Today, tourists are often surprised to discover that a large percentage of native islanders are white…
Escaped slaves, pirates, gunpowder. On an island with that kind of history, blackmail would be considered a benign enterprise.
I went for a short run, stopped at the beach at the end of Tarpon Bay Road, and swam two laps around the NO WAKE buoys before returning to the computer. I still had to book a flight.