Randy White: Seduced

It would be a way of explaining how the great man had arrived here alone.

“Don’t you think?” the aging chauffeur asked softly.

I wasn’t sure he was speaking to me, but replied, “About what?”

“Such a pretty ol’ Florida sort of place,” he said, “the way Florida used to be. Roasted many a hog in that fire pit yonder, and quail was thick along the river; they’d flush into the palmettos. Our pointers had them a time dealing with snakes. See that stretch of wire grass and river oats? That was a good place, too.”

This made little sense. “Should I park near the back porch or the front?”

He answered. “Either one, but pull up close. I’ll fetch a handcart. I ain’t as stout as I used to be.”

Then he got back to his original question, which was, “Miz Hannah… don’t you think this is where you’d want to die?”

I was returning from the limo with the cowboy Stetson in my hand when I stopped, listened for a moment, then listened a while longer.

“I think I hear voices,” I called through the doorway. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Reggie was tending to Mr. Chatham, who sat as if asleep in a recliner said to be his favorite. Within reach was a wall of books, a floor lamp, and a newly opened bottle of liquor. Whiskey, possibly. It was tea-colored, in a glass that refused to balance itself in the dead man’s hands.

“Shit fire… Sorry, sir, sorry… Spilt this good scotch all over your suit and bolo tie.”

“Reggie. Come on.”

“Who do you hear?”

“I don’t know, but I did. Someone’s coming.”

The little man was too busy finding a towel to be concerned. “Canoes paddle past the dock sometimes. That’s probably what it was. Why don’t you walk yourself down to the river and see while I finish up here. Hope you don’t mind, ma’am, but I still got my good-byes to say and I’d like to say them in private. Oh”-he hefted the liquor bottle-“how about a little taste of this for your nerves? You appear to be skittish.”

As he reached for another glass, I declined, and turned from the door. No point leaving fingerprints.

I crossed the yard to an old pump with a handle, stopping every few seconds to listen. I washed my hands and face in cold water, then took my time approaching the river, where there was a dock, and a tire swing suspended from a massive oak. There was also a dilapidated boathouse hidden by trees, a single room on stilts over the water. Normally, I would have savored how the air changed, as it always does in the hollow of a river, but I was too tense. There’d been no more stray voices, yet I was sure I’d heard someone talking.

I shielded my eyes to look through the boathouse window. I expected a place for storage but instead saw a bamboo couch and chair, minus the cushions. The cushions were laid out on the floor as if someone had been sleeping there. Aside from a lamp and some fishing gear, that’s all there was to see.

I tried the door anyway. It wasn’t locked. Floor and pilings swayed beneath my weight when I entered. The space within smelled vaguely of old wood, with a hint of fragrance that had the tang of orange blossoms at first but faded to a vanilla softness. It reminded me of a Chanel perfume I like although rarely wear.

The fragrance vanished when the wind caught the door and slammed it behind me. I jumped, and sputtered a phrase I seldom use even when alone. Then was startled again when laughter floated up through the floor. A man’s voice said, “You caught me, I surrender. But you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”

I could have sworn the voice came from inside that little room, but there wasn’t a closet, just a cabinet and some shelves. A sliding glass door looked out over the river.

I said, “Who… where are you?”

“Not where I want, considering the circumstances. I’m going to have to ask you to turn your back, miss.”

“Turn my…? I’m not doing anything ’til you show yourself.”

“I guarantee you don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t. I’d rather not warn you again.”

“This is ridiculous.” I pushed aside a curtain of beads and saw that the sliding door was open wide enough to slip through onto a walk-around deck. I stepped out, thinking I’d surprised a trespasser in a canoe, but there was no canoe, nothing, until I looked down and saw a man smiling up at me from tannin-clear water. He was naked, as I couldn’t help but notice. He was also aware of the good visibility, which was obvious by the way he tried to hide himself by clinging to a piling.

“Good Lord,” I said, spinning away, “get some clothes on. Where’s your boat? Get moving before I tell the gentleman who owns the place.”

It was a bluff, of course, and only caused the man to laugh again. “I’ll tell him myself,” he replied. “How about you step inside, young lady, and pull that curtain so I can get my britches on.”

There was a wisp of accent in his words and vocal rhythm-from out west in cowboy country, maybe. Only then did I notice Levi’s and a blue plaid shirt folded neatly over the railing, Wellington boots and socks aligned below. I asked, “Do you have permission to be here?”

“Far as I know, I’m the only one who does. I manage the groves for Mr. Chatham.”

I thought, Uh-oh , as he continued, “The water’s a bit chilly, it being winter and all. You mind hurrying a bit?”

“I am so sorry,” I said, and banged the glass door with my shoulder when I hurried inside. What was I going to do? The cabin wasn’t visible from the boathouse. I had no idea if Reggie was still paying his respects to his dead employer or waiting for me at the car. The temptation was to run, but that would have attracted the worst sort of suspicion when Mr. Chatham’s body was found.

I heard sloshing water; the little house vibrated with weight and the sure movements of a man. “Dang it. You see a towel in there?”

An orange beach towel was folded on a cushion I had nudged aside after entering. I poked it through the curtain with my back turned but got a glimpse of him in the side window’s reflection. He was fit-looking, older than expected, with matted gray chest hair and a wide rack of shoulders. Admittedly, I would have allowed myself to see more, but the beaded curtain clattered closed.

“My name’s Hannah Smith,” I said, then apologized again, desperate to buy time. This required small talk. “That’s a shame about your citrus grove. I noticed the trees when we drove in. Anything you can do to get rid of that awful disease? Our trees have it, too.”

“How big’s your grove?”

“Well, I’m unsure of the exact acreage, but big enough for me to be interested. My great-grandfather planted some of those trees a hundred years ago.”

“That old, huh?” He sounded dubious. “Tell me your name again.”

I did. “Citrus greening,” I continued. “I’d never even heard of it ’til a year ago.”

“Most call it H - L - B , and it’s been coming for a lot longer than that,” the man said. “HLB stands for a Chinese word that means ‘Yellow Dragon.’ A long word, hard to pronounce. I’m making some headway on techniques to slow it down. That’s why Mr. Chatham hired me. Say, is he up at the cabin? Yesterday, he mentioned he was going into town this afternoon. Otherwise, I would’ve checked before taking a swim.”

“Yes,” I said, “in the cabin. He’s been there most of the day, I’m told.”

“All day? Are you sure?”

“Far as I know. Reggie said he uses that old truck in the carport sometimes.”

“I’ll be darned. I’m surprised he didn’t come out and say hello. Not that I know him that well. I’ve only been here three months-a little less.” After he said it, the floor vibrated like a drum. I pictured him hopping on one foot, getting his boots on. Then he came through the curtains smiling, with an outstretched hand. “I’ve gone and upset you. I can tell because… well, I just can, that’s all. Sorry about that. Your next visit, I promise, you don’t have to worry about this happening again. Only time I swim the river is my afternoons off when I’m sure no one’s around.” He held the front door open for me in a gentlemanly way. “Do you mind if we don’t mention it to Mr. Chatham? He’s a stickler when it comes to rude behavior, as you probably know.”