Randy White: Haunted

She reminded me of Loretta, my manipulative mother. I settled down in a sullen way, doomed to participate. I said, “I was dating a marine biologist. We even talked about marriage, but he travels too much. Now I’m dating an airline pilot and an attorney-a special prosecutor-but just for something to do. I enjoy my women friends, but sharing a bathroom or a bed isn’t part of my makeup.”

“Good for you-I’d ride a bus before I’d share my bathroom. You say this biologist, he claims he travels too much?” The socialite’s raspy laugh chided What a bullshit excuse. “Good riddance to him, then. You’d be living in a condo that hosts happy hour and allows children. Liberty has god-awful taste in men, too. And, let’s be honest, neither one of you are beauty queens. Can you believe my airheaded sister named her that?”

I said, “Beg your pardon?”

“Her name, dear-Liberty Grace. It sounds like a slogan for herbal tea.” The woman turned to look through the glass, where, among chatty guests, two men in blazers had cornered Birdy, who was holding a drink and wearing a blue cocktail dress that brightened her ginger hair.

I said, “I think she’s cute. And she certainly has good taste in clothes.” Then took the offensive. “As names go, Bunny is a heck of a lot stranger than Liberty, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask. Or are you just being snotty?”

I replied, “I’m interested ,” mimicking her.

The woman glared for an instant. Then a slow smile. “Yes… I can see you doing it-shooting a man right in the balls. Okay, then. Bunny is an old nickname. In Palm Beach, it’s a sign of acceptance, especially for a New Yorker named Eve Katz-that’s me. I got the name Bunny at boarding school”-her smile became sly-“because I enjoyed boys. You know, had fun hopping from one bed to another. Small tits and a hellacious sex drive, those are the only things Liberty inherited from me-so far. There!” Smoky laughter. “That’s something I didn’t even tell Abe-him with his donkey pecker and rooster strut. Can we retract the claws now?”

Her reference to farm animals threw me for an instant, so it took a beat to remember that Abe was the husband she’d wanted to shoot. I said, “You should thank your schoolmates. Your nickname could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Oh, it was, dearie, it was. Bunny was for social functions, but it stuck. That’s why I worry about Liberty. She’s been man-crazy her entire life. Which is fine for recreation. But she’s going to inherit my money, which makes her a target.”

Because Mrs. Tupplemeyer had mentioned business, I said, “I’m a poor choice if you’re looking for a bodyguard. And you’re forgetting that Birdy is a trained law officer. I’d be willing to bet she has a gun in her purse right now.”

“Really?” Surprised but hopeful, the woman turned to peer through the sliding doors. “Do you think she’d do it?”

“Shoot a man? She goes to the target range once a week. I doubt if she could miss something that big.”

“No,” the woman said, “I mean pull the trigger. Trust me, every bachelor in that room sees a bull’s-eye on her ass when they look at her. Or what passes for an ass. I own a derringer, but was never able to get drunk enough.”

“Drunk enough to fire,” I said to confirm.

“Of course. On several occasions. And the one time I did drink enough, I spilled the goddamn bullets in the sink and the maid refused to call a plumber.”

I cleared my throat. “My advice to you, ma’am, is give that gun to your niece. She’s too smart to mix alcohol and bullets. What I think is”-I hesitated, wondering if I should say it-“well, I think you’ve got anger issues, Mrs. Tupplemeyer. And you drink too much to own a firearm.”

“Anger issues?” The woman threw her head back and laughed, then noticed her martini glass was empty. “I like you, Hannah Smith. How about stopping by in the morning? By morning , in Palm Beach, we mean noon . There could be a nice retainer if you help me with a certain problem.” A studious pause. “You’re a Gemini, aren’t you? Early in June, with Leo rising. I bet half of you still feels guilty about that pervert you shot-but your better half wishes his nuts were in your trophy case. Am I right or am I right?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. When I finally did respond, it was with caution. “I’m not going to shoot a man for you, Mrs. Tupplemeyer, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

The woman, opening her cigarette case, said, “Call me Bunny. Oh… and would you mind getting me another martini? Cold- tell one of the servers. I’ve got other guests to attend to.”

MRS. TUPPLEMEYER-I couldn’t bring myself to call her Bunny-had her slim, handsome attorney explain the details to me. Not at her apartment. His Palm Beach office was at the corner of Hibiscus near the arts center, marble statues and a fountain outside.

Birdy came along. Her Aunt Bunny didn’t arrive until we were almost done.

The attorney, his sleeves rolled up, pulled two chairs close to his computer and opened a county tax map that showed land parcels west of Lake Okeechobee, closer to Labelle than Arcadia, in central Florida. He zoomed in.

“Mrs. B-your Aunt Bunny-she’s part of an investment consortium that purchased this section of land, a little over six hundred acres. It’s north of the Caloosahatchee River between Arcadia and this little town, Labelle.” He touched the screen. “Are you familiar with the area?”

“She is,” Birdy said, deferring to me.

My friend was correct, but that didn’t make me unusual. On a map of Florida, the Caloosahatchee River is difficult to miss. It crosses the state west to east, Fort Myers to St. Lucie or Palm Beach, depending on how a boat chooses to exit Lake Okeechobee on its way to the Atlantic Ocean.

“Why do you ask?” I asked the man.

He talked a while about the complexity of investors combining properties into a single parcel for development. “What it comes down to is,” he said, “Mrs. B is on the hook for approximately one hundred acres of mostly cattle and timber that runs along this creek.” He touched the screen again. “The creek-actually, it says ‘Telegraph River’ here-it runs into the Caloosahatchee, which is starting to boom. On the other side of the creek, there are a few small-time ranchers, a fundamentalist church or two, and a mom-and-pop RV park. But development is coming to the area. So far, so good.”

He looked to confirm we were following along. “Bunny, she’s a damn smart woman. I know she did her homework. Unfortunately, she also let her friends-certain associates as well-talk her into committing to this project before she came to me. A project like this, you need to do a thorough analysis before you write a check.”

A country club community with a strict covenant to build million-dollar homes on five-acre lots is what the investors envisioned.

Birdy jumped ahead. “How badly is my aunt getting burned?”

“A quarter million, so far,” the man said, “plus a second payment of a million dollars is due next month. Unless we can find a way to turn this around. No, actually, Mrs. B needs to bail out because, if this project does happen, it’ll be years down the road. And here’s why.”

The screen changed. Now we were looking at an abandoned two-story house, a roof of rusted tin, windows boarded over, and a strange-looking cupola built higher than the chimney. The chimney was brick, the cupola sided with clapboard. Once upon a time, it might have been the main residence of an elegant estate.

“Is that a water cistern?” I asked, meaning the cupola. I’d never seen anything like it. Or so I thought, until he explained that the place had served as a school after a foreclosure in the 1940s. The belfry had been added to house a bell.