“He said that?” I tried not to sound overly hopeful, although I was. Sitting in Marion Ford’s laboratory, watching him work, listening to his voice, I’d never felt so comfortable and at ease with a man in my life. We hadn’t done anything improper, of course. He hadn’t even attempted a kiss when we hugged good-bye despite my best effort to make my lips an easy target. It was the memory of the biologist, the size of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, I had taken to bed with me after trying on my best dresses when I got home.
“Maybe that’s not the phrase he used,” Tomlinson muttered, trying to remember. “He said you’re… that you are a very nice lady. That you have a nice laugh. And to give you that.” He nodded at the box.
“Nice?” I said. I was thinking, So are cats, but hid my disappointment.
“Trust me, that’s effusive for Doc. Oh!” The skinny man snapped his fingers, a look of discovery on his face. “There was something else. He said you’re a man’s woman. His exact words. A man’s woman-and there is no higher praise. Not from him, anyway. And that you were a competitive swimmer, so he might have a new swim partner.”
I nodded, pleased the biologist had spoken of me but also aware that Tomlinson was suddenly uncomfortable.
“Hannah, there is something I want you to know. We want you to know because Doc feels the same. It’s… not easy to talk about, which is why the coward couldn’t bring himself to do it. But the fact is-”
I interrupted to spare him discomfort. “My Aunt Hannah wrote about Dr. Ford in her journal. If that’s what you’re trying to tell me, I already know. I saw no need last night to mention her private business.”
“She did?”
I nodded. Actually, Hannah Three had written about both men, which was why, the night before, it had required a ton of willpower on my part not to go through my bawdy aunt’s diary and review her scoring system. I couldn’t remember the numbers she’d awarded the two men-if any-and truly didn’t want to know, although she had obviously preferred one man over the other. She’d put that in words, not numbers.
“And you’re… you’re still comfortable with having us as friends?” Tomlinson’s face had the kindly, weathered look of a marble angel, which made it impossible to enjoy his embarrassment.
“Sure… as friends,” I replied, stressing the word. “Apparently, I’m not as prudish as some folks who live alone on sailboats.”
That caused the man to grin, then look at what I’d taken from the box. The grin faded. “He gave you a garage opener?”
No, it was a spare remote for the wireless spotlight on the boat I’d bought. Dr. Ford had been meaning to get it to me, but it had taken a phone call from Cordial Pallet to jog his memory and also to provide my cell number. Stupidly, I’d gone off and left the thing-or so I pretended as I explained events to Tomlinson. In truth, the lapse was sneaky. It was intended to provide me an excuse to return to the biologist’s stilthouse, which was in Dinkin’s Bay, Sanibel.
“Doc said there’s a note in there, too,” Tomlinson offered, indicating the box.
I found it, a handwritten note, which I opened and read privately by turning my shoulder as if needing more sunlight.
You are valuable, Hannah, please remember what I said: If you surprise a dangerous man, expect to be surprised. Tarpon on Friday?
I folded the paper and gave Tomlinson a quick hug. “We’ve got a fishing date,” I said, grinning, then hurried off toward my boat. I was flattered the biologist was worried for me even though, as I’d explained to him, there was no longer a need. Early last night, the county sheriff’s department had finally given in to Martha’s pestering. If Ricky Meeks showed up at Caxambas to buy fuel and supplies tomorrow, there would be two deputies waiting-along with me, Martha, and Lawrence Seasons.
Now the only question left to answer was, would Olivia be aboard his boat? We’d find out soon enough, but pride told me I would come closer to earning my paycheck-and a year’s use of the Marlow yacht-if I provided my employers with that information, too.
SEVENTEEN
THE TIKI BAR IN CAXAMBAS WAS NAMED RUM ’N’ COKE, which had the dirty sound of smugglers and meth addicts, so fit a tile room with fake palm thatching, two video games, and initials carved into the tables.
“Heart attack in a basket,” Nathan said, disappointed by the menu. “Why not stop in Marco and get a smoothie? There’s a vegetarian restaurant, too. Lots of decent places to eat.”
It was hard to believe that Marco Island, with its million-dollar sky-rise condos, silver beaches, and golf courses, was five miles north of this trailer park village, separated only by mangroves and a shell road. To the east was Goodland, an historic fishing village, another nice place my uncle liked, but not as close by boat.
“The lady’s grandson said he’d have her call,” I reminded Nathan. “I’d hate to come all this distance and leave without something new to tell Martha.” I was referring to the Caxambas postmistress, who wasn’t at work, of course, this being Sunday. We’d asked half a dozen locals before finding the right house, then knocking on the postmistress’s door. A snotty-nosed ten-year-old had answered, telling us, “Maw-maw will be back soon, write your number on this matchbook.” Turned out the kid’s Maw-maw was a notary public who did weddings when she wasn’t sorting mail.
This was after the disappointment of confirming that no one at Caxambas marina had gotten even a glimpse of a passenger on the white Skipjack cruiser with blue canvas that showed up Mondays for fuel. The same was true of Cordial Pallet’s friend, a nice old man who smoked a pipe and had hands the color of sugar-cured ham from being in the sun, fishing pompano and pulling crab traps, all his life.
“Martha, huh?” Nate said, smiling up from the menu. “You sure mention that woman’s name a lot for not liking what she did in the swimming pool. Come on, be honest. You didn’t tell me everything.”
“Now I’m sorry I said anything at all, the way you’re acting,” I replied, tapping my foot on linoleum, looking from my menu to the woman ignoring us behind the bar. “The least she could do is bring napkins and water,” I said. Then raised my voice to call, “Excuse me, miss! Could we get a couple of iced teas over here? Sweet tea if you have it.”
Nate wasn’t going to miss this chance to goad me about secretly preferring women, a topic he enjoyed and often hinted at. “I think Martha’s gorgeous,” he said, “but in a frosty, ball-breaker sort of way. You said yourself you find her attractive. And that you were flattered.”
Being honest has its risks, and my friend had caught me at a soft moment during our ninety-minute drive south. First, he’d impressed me with background information on three ex-cons who might be using the name Ricky Meeks, as well as a paragraph that seemed to describe the unusual gun I’d found. Twenty years ago, a gun-customizing company named Devel had produced a concealment weapon for a State Department agency that was still classified. Fewer than two hundred of the guns had been made. The weapon was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard and “window” grips, plus some other tweaks for fast shooting.
“I’m not sure if the name’s pronounced Dee-vel or Devil,” Nate had added, telling me with his tone that he preferred the second. There was no photo, but it sure sounded like the mysterious weapon I’d brought along for him to see.
Then my muscular friend had softened me more by giving me a photo of Barbara Stanwyck framed in polished aluminum. The frame was too modern for my taste, but I was touched by his thoughtfulness and loved the picture. It was different from the one in Darren’s magazine, but I’d seen it on the Internet when researching the actress. I’d never been compared to a beautiful Hollywood star before so, naturally, was hopeful of finding other similarities that would support Darren’s compliment. To my surprise, I’d discovered a couple that even the skeptical girl inside me couldn’t deny.