Randy White - Black Widow

I let it go.

“No matter what your fiance thinks of me, trust shouldn’t be an issue. You have nothing to hide. Same with Shay and the other girls. Right?”

“Ah,” Beryl said, “the official story. I haven’t gotten used to it yet. The video doesn’t exist. The night on Saint Arc never happened. But you have the tape, Dr. Ford. You saw what went on in the swimming pool.”

“Wrong. If the tape was in my hands-and it isn’t-I wouldn’t watch it. And I didn’t.”

“Oh, please.” I received the tilted withdrawal, like a horse shying.

I put my hands out, palms up. Honest.

“You admit you enjoy eavesdropping.”

“That’s right. But there are lines I won’t cross.”

“You don’t strike me as the Boy Scout type, sorry.”

“I’m not. My lines have lots of curves and angles. What about yours?”

The woman had a gift for draping sarcasm in encouragement. Or vice versa. “I don’t discuss my boundaries in public. But I can tell you this- I’m trusting you, damn it-I’m way too curious to have that kind of willpower. Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape-my God. I would’ve watched. I’d pretend like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.”

“Because you’re in it? Or because you’re not?”

“Make up any answer that pleases you. That night’s sort of foggy and dreamy, and maybe I want it to stay that way. I still don’t understand why we did what we did-I’m referring to the party we didn’t have, by the way. On the night that never happened. Elliot would’ve been shocked.”

“You’re a quick study.”

“Really? Then why did it take me so long to figure out that I’ve wasted the last two years of my life?” The woman checked her watch. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

I had spoken to Beryl Woodward maybe a dozen times since Shay finished her master’s degree. She’d struck me as a one-dimensional mall diva. Too much money, a daddy’s-girl ego, and too attractive for life ever to require that she risk an encounter with reality.

Not now. But Beryl had never invited me to breakfast before.

She’d told Elliot she would call from work, so I asked, “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”

“I manage the spa at Naples-on-the-Bay Racquet Club. I’m the boss-which means I work twelve to fourteen hours a day. I’ll write myself a note.”

Ten minutes later, we were drinking coffee at First Watch on U.S. 41, six lanes of asphalt jammed with commuters hurrying into this new summer day.

Vance had used Merlin Starkey’s letter as a torch… Starkey’s letter along with unopened bills, and the envelope containing my lab results.

I found the remains on the kitchen floor a couple of minutes after walking into the house, hurrying to clean up the mess before my 10 a.m. meeting.

The front of the envelope was the color of burned toast, my name and address unreadable. The back had flamed through. Hold a match to tissue paper, results would be similar.

I opened the envelope to find out how much of the letter had survived. The paper began to crumble. A flake came off in my hand, and I saw the date. It was written in pen by Starkey.

I tried again, even though I knew it shouldn’t be rushed. A larger flake broke off. I read, “Howdy, Marion. If you’re reading this, I reckon it means I’m dead, which is a disappointment to me, being outlived by the kin of that snake Tucker Gatrell…”

The paper that remained was as delicate as ash. Was there a process to restore stationery after it had burned? Had to be. Somewhere at a museum, or some forensics lab, there was an expert who knew how to do it. Now was not the time to experiment.

9:35 a.m.

I had twenty-five minutes to clean up Varigono’s mess, finish a ream of unfinished paperwork, shower, and change. The place stunk of kerosene and smoke, and I hadn’t even touched the lab yet-which was okay, because I’d left it in pretty good shape. But the house was a disaster.

Impossible.

Well… maybe the team flying in from D.C. would be late-the weather had been terrible up there, stormy and cold even though it was June.

No, they were early.

I was placing the letter inside a Ziploc bag when I heard a decisive ding-ding-ding. Then a woman’s voice called, “Dr. Marion Ford? Do we have the right place?”

I went out to the deck, pulling the wooden door closed behind me. I would usher them straight to the lab, and spare myself explaining why someone had tried to torch my house. Two men and a woman stood near the brass ship’s bell, looking up from the lower platform. Efficient, professional, humorless. Exactly what I’d expected.

My new employer was one of the best-known U.S. intelligence agencies. The organization recruited heavily from the Ivy Leagues. These three had the look. They’d put in their time, had moved up the corporate ladder, and they were dressed for business. Briefcases and suits. I was wearing khaki shorts and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms.

I was buttoning one of the sleeves as I called, “Welcome to Sanibel. Ready to de-ice?” I smiled, trying to set the tone for what awaited them.

Pointless to try. I had no idea…

As I held the screen door open, the woman, whose name was Margaret Holderness, stepped into the lab, then stopped, forcing the two men behind her to stop.

“My God,” I heard her say, “is that a cadaver?”

What?

I slipped past them and took a look. Tomlinson was lying on the steel dissecting table, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest, wearing nothing but one of his idiotic sarongs. Black silk with red-and-yellow surfboards. No underwear, as usual-obvious.

I told the woman, “It’s not a cadaver, but he’d make a good one,” attempting the same nervous smile, which she didn’t notice because it was impossible to look anywhere but at the dissecting table.

I crossed the room, calling, “Tomlinson? Hey! Time to wake up,” which was overly generous. The man was passed out, not asleep judging from the empty rum bottle at his elbow. Nicaraguan rum, Flor de Cana.

As I removed the bottle, I said, “At least he has good taste. If you ever get a chance, try this rum. Really excellent,” playing it cool like this sort of thing happened all the time here in the subtropics, so why not relax, enjoy it?

“Tomlinson… Tomlinson.” He stirred when I shook him, then sat up, wide-eyed as if he didn’t know where he was-which he didn’t. It took a few seconds.

“Doc?” His eyes found the Flor de Cana bottle as he focused. “Ummm

… looks like I caught the red-eye to Rummyville, huh? Demon sugar cane. Yep-” He smacked his lips; made a face. “-Awwg. Molasses mouth. What time is it?”

“Time for you to be going.”

“Huh?”

“Time to be going now.”

“Okay. Okay!” He swung his feet to the floor, yawning, rubbing his face. “I would’ve bunked in your house, but the place smells like fucking kerosene, man. Whew. So if you don’t want me sleeping in the lab, maybe consider hiring a cleaning lady, because there are other places I can-” He stopped, aware I had visitors. His eyes studied the three people wearing suits before he said to me, “Are you buying insurance? Or getting sued?”

I said, “These are clients. I’m showing them around the lab. We’re going to discuss new projects-if you don’t mind.”

I could tell he hadn’t heard about Shay or Corey, because he slipped seamlessly into his Harmless Hippie persona. He nodded to my supervisors, adding a friendly salute. “You folks are in for a treat. Don’t let this guy’s nerdy side fool you. Get a few drinks in him, he actually has a sense of humor-”

I dug my fingers into his elbow to shut him up. “Too bad you can’t stick around-” I glanced at his sarong, then looked away fast. “- but you’re in a hurry to get to your boat. Right?”