Randy White: Haunted

Birdy screamed so didn’t hear me say, “It’s okay, this kind isn’t dangerous,” then nearly knocked me down running for the door.

My lineage includes many aunts and uncles, some noteworthy, most not, but I have yet to refer to a family member with the word Birdy used to blame her aunt for the presence of scorpions in Florida.

The word struck me as unreasonable. On the other hand, it also comforted me regarding my tolerance for a mother and at least one aunt-the third Hannah Smith in our family-whose behaviors have ranged from man-hungry to just plain crazy.

My mother, Loretta, and my late Aunt Hannah, being a mix of both.

It is true, however, that Mrs. Bunny Tupplemeyer, a Palm Beach widow, was the reason we were here.

Birdy, whose actual name is Liberty Grace, had invited me for a weekend at her aunt’s beach house, then a cocktail party at a penthouse apartment that was downtown, close to shopping, at the corner of Ocean Boulevard and Worth. It was a tenth-floor saffron high-rise not far from the Kennedy compound, I was told. The Opry mansion, with its gate and carved marble fountain, was farther down the beach.

This was two weeks ago.

I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida but had never been in downtown Palm Beach. Condos and shops possessed a gilded indifference, the streets edged with royal palms from Prohibition days. Residential areas were screened by towering hedges and a muffled Rolls-Royce hush that warned of money and double standards.

“Relax,” Birdy kept telling me in the car. “Just be yourself. If the Great Dame starts interrogating you-and she will-just smile and compliment her jewelry. Or bring up astrology. She loves guessing people’s signs. While she’s boring you with that, signal the staff for another martini. Dame Bunny likes them icy cold.”

Dame Bunny , that’s how my friend referred to her wealthy, socialite aunt.

There was no need for me to relax because I wasn’t nervous. I’m a light tackle fishing guide who deals with wealthy clients day after day in a small skiff around Sanibel and Captiva Islands, although I live across the bay on the island of Gumbo Limbo. I’ve learned that the rich are no different than the rest of us when it comes to tangling lines, or whoops of delight when a big fish jumps, or when their bladder demands a bucket and a moment of privacy.

Birdy was the nervous one, not me.

Odd, I thought. She had summered in Palm Beach as a girl and during college. Her mother, Candice, had been a Palm Beach debutante prior to graduating from Wellesley, then joined a commune near Aspen, which, I was told, had only solidified the family’s Palm Beach-Boston ties.

“To people with money, politics are more of a fashion statement,” Birdy had explained.

But when I’d spent some time with her Aunt Bunny, I understood why my friend was nervous. It was at the cocktail party. I had escaped to the balcony. An Italian banker, after backing me in a corner, had been a little too touchy-feely for comfort. My hostess noticed and followed me outside, a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

“Tired of Victor, the sex-starved poodle?” she asked, sliding the door closed. Then looked me up and down, noting the simple gray shift I wore belted at the waist, my leather flats and a lavender scarf I had bought at Pulitzer’s just down the street. “With your legs,” she added, “I’m not surprised he’s sniffing around. But you could stand to lose a few pounds, darling.”

I ignored the insult out of respect for my drunken elders. “He said his name is Vittorio,” I replied. “I asked him to spell it because of his accent.”

“Made him spell it,” the woman repeated, fascinated I would bother.

“It’s a good way to remember names. He was polite enough, but I wanted to see what the ocean looks like from out here. Very nice place you have, Mrs. Tupplemeyer.” On the Gulf Stream, miles away, tankers the size of buildings drifted, the sky blacker, it seemed, than a dark night on Sanibel.

The woman stood beside me at the marble rail and flicked ashes. “Smart girl.”

“Pardon me?”

“His wife was watching. She’s one drink away from making a scene. You’ve got enough size, I don’t think even Rita would try the slapping, hair-pulling thing. But who knows? She drinks absinthe, the real stuff, and sniffs cocaine to stay thin.” A pause. She blew smoke into the night and pivoted. “My niece says your family has quite a history in Florida. That you know people I wouldn’t know-locals.”

Hicks and rednecks is what she meant.

She continued, “She also told me you shot a man a year or so ago. Damn near killed him. Is that true?”

I pretended not to hear and asked about a bracelet on her wrist that glittered with scarlet stones.

“Don’t change the subject. Any woman who can pull the trigger, I find that damn impressive. But I’m unclear about exactly what it is you do. Are you a fishing guide or do you run an investigation agency?”

I said, “Both, ma’am, but mostly fishing. The shooting incident, I’d prefer not to discuss.” Then looked at the stars and commented, “I didn’t read my horoscope today. What about you?”

The woman fell for it, but only momentarily. “There’s an astrologician I use, she’s excellent. The summaries in newspapers are silly garbage. I have her card, if you want.”

Astrologician? The word had a scientific ring but sounded phony.

She continued, “Back to what I was saying… Liberty told me you were on a case when it happened. The shooting-a sexual predator or some such scum-that you shot him in the pelvis. Self-defense, so you weren’t prosecuted. In fact, you got some kind of award from the local police department. I admire a woman with that kind of spunk. I can think of a dozen men I’d love to shoot and that includes my late husband. Abe was his name. In my world, marrying a man for money doesn’t justify verbal abuse.”

She expected a reaction. I looked at the ocean instead.

“You used a pistol, according to Liberty. She said you had no choice. The man would’ve killed you. What I’m hoping is, you shot him in the pelvis because you were aiming at his balls. Am I right or am I right?”

I stepped back and said, “Good lord!”

The aging socialite, her chiffon gown of gold hanging from her shoulders, lowered her voice. “Honey, you can tell me anything. I’ve done things that would curl your hair. Why? Same as you. We’re both survivors.”

My ears were warming. I tried to hold it in but couldn’t quite manage. “I want to get up early to see the Flagler Museum, Mrs. Tupplemeyer. I think I should leave before you confess to any more crimes.”

“That offends you?” She put her hand on my back in a comforting way but also to guarantee I would listen a while longer. “It’s not like I asked if you were sleeping with my niece. I wish you were. But I happen to know she’s totally heterosexual.” The woman paused to smoke. “What about you?”

I created some space between us. “Are you about done asking nosy questions?”

“ No. Can it hurt so much to open up to an old woman? I’m interested. I don’t care if you’re gay or not. Trust me, I’ve had worse things than a firm young breast in my mouth. It’s a matter of personal taste, the way I see it.” She smiled, surprised by the double entendre. “By god, I ought to write that one down.”

“Why don’t you do that?”

“Don’t be snide. There’s a chance we can do business together and I have a particular job in mind. So I’m interested in who you are.”