Randy White - Seduced

“If we’re going to be partners,” she said, “there’s something you should know up front. I hate being lied to. Save the cat claws for social events, Hannah-what fun would they be without friendly competition, right? But not when it’s just you and me. Understood?”

In black riding boots, with her blond hair piled in a loosely braided updo, the woman was as tall as me. We stood eye to eye. Her focus lingered on the few faint acne scars I no longer obsess about disguising by the careful placement of my hair.

“We don’t know each other well enough to make promises,” I said. “As to lying, that’s not my normal practice. But Lonnie? If we stick to the truth, it’ll have to go both ways.”

After a ride in a golf cart, Lonnie Chatham led me into an office off the barn. It smelled of leather and hay-a load of freshly baled clover had just been delivered, she said. The walls were covered with ribbons and pictures of livestock, mostly horses, but a few bulls. One was the massive Brangus that Reggie had called Jessie James.

The wall above a walnut desk was Lonnie’s personal space. Sun stains from previous photographs told me it had been recently cleared. Hanging there now were memories of her college years; photos and ribbons, glassed and framed. She was the buxom cheerleader in various uniforms. A more elegant Lonnie smiled at me as Miss Florida runner-up, no date on the brass tag below.

“Don’t ask the year,” she said. “That’s one subject where lying is always allowed… Cigarette?” She fitted a Virginia Slim between her lips. Didn’t light it until after looking me up and down as I took off my jacket. “The only reason I started was, my pageant coach-this was for Miss Tangerine Bowl, way before college-she told me smoking was the best way to stay thin. She was right. I’ve never needed to diet, or wear baggy shirts to hide a body I was ashamed of.” She offered the pack. “Sure you don’t want one?”

A pattern had emerged during our ride in the golf cart. Her subtle slights and insults were packaged as kindly observation. Pity was her favorite disguise for criticism. She gazed at me with concern while smoke framed her face. “How’s poor little Reggie getting along? I worry about that man. He was never the brightest bulb, but Harney had a soft spot; let him get away with incompetence he would’ve fired anybody else for. I can’t keep him on here-the man’s useless at everything but washing that damn car-and, at his age? He’s either senile or drunk. Even Walmart wouldn’t hire him. Any ideas, Hannah?”

We had toured the estate, from riverfront to the road, and this was the first she’d broached a serious subject or asked my advice.

“I don’t know what’s in your husband’s will except what I’ve been told. Reggie seems happy doing what he’s doing.”

Her focus narrowed. “Really? You haven’t seen the will? Who told you that you inherited the gun club acreage?”

Not flustered, I replied, “A man who worked for Mr. Chatham stopped by the house today. He asked me not to discuss the matter or mention his name. I agreed. Hope you understand… Lonnie.”

“Ah-hah,” she said. “The mysterious Sabin Martinez. Am I right?”

I gestured in a noncommittal way.

“Thought so. He’s yet to show his face around here, but I’ve seen him in a hundred of Harney’s old scrapbooks. Always somewhere in the background like a shadow, or… I don’t know, a raven in those movies where you know something bad’s going to happen. Early on, I figured Sabin was just a bodyguard, but he was a lot more than that, turns out. Is he still trying hard to look like Ernest Hemingway?”

“I’d have to see the photos, I guess, to understand what you mean,” I said.

“Smooth; you’re pretty good.” She smiled and brushed back a curl. “Last week, I started to organize Harney’s personal correspondence. Sabin Martinez, turns out, did what some might call Lysol work. A cleanup man. Men with money and power always need someone like Martinez, but Harney despised the guy. I don’t suppose he mentioned that. Harney didn’t trust him, Hannah. But why tell you? You’re too smart to fall for whatever bullshit scam he’s pulling.” She reached for an ashtray and took a long, last drag. “Hope I’m right about that.”

“I thought you wanted to discuss the citrus groves.”

“We are. If you won’t level with me about Martinez, let’s get back to Reggie. I’m curious. Did he tell you I blackmailed Harney into marriage because of something that happened a long time ago? Wait-” She focused on my handbag, which was on the floor. “Turn your phone off. I want to see you do it.”

Something big was coming. Why else would she go to such extremes to be nice instead of ordering me off the property?

“In that case, we both should,” I said, then waited to speak until she had complied. “Did your husband mention that I run a small investigation agency? My uncle started it, but now that he’s dead-”

She waved me off. “The way this works is, I talk and you listen-for now anyway. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I’m about to share something I’ve never told anyone. Not out of guilt. I want us to trust each other. Understand?”

“I think you’re rushing things. We’ve barely met.”

“In a way, but not really. The law firm I pay way too much money has a team of investigators, so I know more about you and your mother than you realize. Don’t worry, I’ll leave Loretta out of it-for now. This is about us, you and me. There’s something we have in common. Something that if a woman hasn’t experienced it, she can’t understand. Are you with me now?”

I sensed where the conversation was heading. Lonnie Chatham had read about my past. Now she was probing, testing for empathy, before risking details about her past and, possibly, a murder she had committed more than twenty years ago.

Lonnie already suspected Reggie had told me what happened on that New Year’s Eve night long ago. Perhaps she also suspected he’d shown me the cement weir where she’d left a handprint and signed her name. I had neither confirmed nor denied what the chauffeur had confided, but she would know if I appeared too eager to talk.

I said, “Like every woman, I’ve had experiences I don’t feel comfortable sharing. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Her glare accused me of playing dumb. “A traumatizing event. The kind most women don’t have to deal with, thank god. What happened to you made the news, for christ’s sake. Does that help?”

I let down my guard in a visible way by unfolding my arms. “It’s not an easy subject,” I said, “but I figured that’s what you were getting at. This has to do with the man who attacked me. You read about what happened.”

“The man you shot, yeah, but only wounded. Thank god. I was starting to think you’re one of those Xanax twits who needs to be coaxed like a child. I want to ask you something, and there’s a reason. Did you shoot the guy-I forget his name-did you shoot him after he…? What I mean is, did he get his hands on you first?”

“He tried,” I said, aware of what she wanted to know.

“But he didn’t…?”

“No,” I said. “Never touched me. I didn’t give him a chance.”

A glossy fingernail tapped another cigarette from the pack. “It must have been close, though, if you’re reluctant to talk about it. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Rape is a hell of a sad way for a girl to lose her virginity. I’m not talking about you, by the way. From the stories-you were never quoted in the articles-but they gave the impression you were so scared, you might have pulled the trigger accidentally. Is that true or just some bullshit they fed the jury?”