Randy White - Dead of Night

“That’s right. I haven’t opened them yet, but they’re on my computer.”

“If you’re right about Dr. Matthews… Doc?” The woman was thinking about it. “You need to be on your toes.”

It was nearly sunset when I backed the Aquasport into the slip beneath my house. As I tied off, Mack, the displaced Kiwi who owns the marina, yelled to remind me that this wasn’t just any ordinary sunset Christmas party I was about to miss. It was a Friday-night party. He emphasized the word in case I’d forgotten my social obligations.

I was still dazed by the news about Frieda. Felt an inner fury that I kept hidden as I waved acknowledgment. Called back that I’d try to make it.

Among the indignities of a tragic death is that the rest of the world carries on as if tragedy does not exist. A coping mechanism, and a healthy one.

Dinkin’s Bay was carrying on.

Each and every Friday, the marina hosts its Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion-acronym: PERBCOT, or P’COT, which intentionally lampoons EPCOT, as well as bewilders first-timers who expect there to be similarities.

Attendance isn’t mandatory for locals, but it’s considered rude not to at least make an appearance on the docks and say a quick hello to all the people having fun.

“Folks are askin’ for you at the party, ’Cobber,” Mack yelled. He was wearing a Cuban shirt, a plantation owner’s white strawhat, and smoking a fresh cigar. Judging from the ring of keys in his hand, he’d just locked the swinging gate that marks the terminus of Tarpon Bay Road, which is publicly owned, and the beginning of the marina parking lot, which is not.

Even though I was reeling, seeing the key ring catalyzed a slight smile. Locking the gate is part of the ceremony. Once the gate is closed, the outside world is physically, and symbolically, excluded from all demonstrations of strange and potentially embarrassing behavior that are acceptable among the marina family, but probably nowhere else.

“JoAnn’s wearing that slinky tangerine dress of hers none of us has seen in a while,” he continued. “Since she took up kickboxing, my God, what a change. A body like hers, you don’t care if a woman’s in her forties, fifties, or sixties.” He paused for a moment, puffing on his cigar. He seemed to notice Rona for the first time. “Your friend’s welcome to come along, of course. Pretty women are always welcome at Dinkin’s Bay.”

Her mood had sobered while telling me about Frieda, but she masked it well. With a damsel-like flair, she replied, “Why, thank you, sir. I don’t know if I’ll be able to attend, but I’m honored that you’d ask.”

Now ignoring me, Mack said, “You’ll have a great time, there’s plenty to drink, and the food’s as good as it gets. Oh, but a warning: You might run into a character named Tomlinson. He almost always wears a sarong but no underwear. Don’t let him scare you. He’s harmless.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. One day, I’d like to meet a man in a sarong who wasn’t harmless.” Using the cheery mask to show she had a touch of vixen in her, too.

Mack liked that. “In that case, I may go ask Tomlinson if he has something soft and silky I can wear.”

Rona made a purring sound. “You do that, big fella.”

I telephoned Fish and Wildlife and told the lady in charge that the shark was now free, and that one of the helpful amateur skippers on-scene had collected the remains of the net for disposal.

Mission accomplished. But I felt sick.

Rona had fetched her overnight bag from the car. While she used my house to freshen up, I took a warm shower beneath my outdoor cistern, changed into fresh shorts and a gray wool shirt that felt good, because the temperature was falling along with the winter sun.

Back in the lab, I leaned over the computer keyboard to make sure I could open the files Frieda had sent. No problem. There were three documents, nothing but numbers. There were spaces between some blocks and columns of numbers, and some punctuation, too.

It was a substitution cipher, but it wasn’t obvious.

There was also a note from Frieda. Painful to read. It ended: “I know my brother would have wanted these files to go to you, old buddy. He admired your work so. Opposite sides of the same coin-if Jobe believed that, he made a good choice.”

I didn’t like the way I felt, so I turned from the computer and dialed Dewey’s number. I’d already spoken with her twice that day.

No answer, so I left a message. Told her to call when she got back from Christmas shopping in the big cities of Davenport, Moline, and Bettendorf.

Hearing her voice made me feel better. We are all prone to behave as if our friends are as enduring as the stability they contribute to our uncertain lives. The death of one punches a hole in that delusion. It leaves us clinging, for a time, to our protective bubbles, staring off into the void, until other friends rally to patch the communal leak.

The death of a friend reminds us that nonexistence is a cold and solitary place.

As I waited for Rona, I stood outside on the deck. I sipped my first beer of the evening, then lifted the bottle northward, in the direction of Tallahassee. A private toast. Stood thinking secret, reflective thoughts until Rona appeared. The lady wore black slacks and a silk blouse the color of wet pearls. She’d combed her black hair until it glistened, and added a touch of makeup to made her dark skin darker.

As I walked her to the marina, I told her she looked very elegant, and meant it. It surprised me that she flushed, embarrassed. “Thanks. I get so flustered when I hear something like that because I was such a gawky nerd for so many years. My body didn’t start to fill out until I was in my thirties, so I’m not used to compliments. I’m just now starting to enjoy what it’s like for men to be interested. Oh, and Doc”-she touched my arm; this was personal-“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Matthews. That I had to be the one to tell you.”

I said, “She was a good woman. You told me I needed to see where she died for myself? I think I’ll drive to Kissimmee tomorrow, and have a look around. Tonight, though, I think Frieda would want us to do what she did whenever she visited these islands. Have fun.”

The party was reaching its cruising rhythm…

We’d missed sunset, but the earth’s rotation continued to spill color over the horizon. Above a mangrove rim, the western sky was streaked with citreous mesas, bands of key lime and orange. Behind us, high shoals of cirrus clouds were a firestorm of lavender.

Mack had the dock lights wired to a timer, and they’d just come on: pale pearl bands on a bay streaked with bronze. Added to the light show were the marina’s Christmas decorations. Every houseboat, sailboat, cruiser, and sports fishing boat was trimmed with strings of holiday bulbs-red, green, or strobing white. Almost every mast or fly bridge sported a climbing plastic Santa, a lighted Christmas tree, a reindeer frozen in flight, a white cross or Star of David.

I paused outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop next to the bait tanks, my eyes taking it in, attempting to fix the scene, in memory: seeing the docks, the sky, the multicolored lights, the rows of boats. Seeing islanders mingling near picnic tables covered with platters of food; the marina’s Christmas tree-actually, an Australian pine, twelve feet tall-decorated with fishing lures, and greetings cards from clients around the nation. Beneath the tree were stacked piles of presents, brightly wrapped and bowed.

Frieda had liked this place. She would have enjoyed being here now.

Beside me, Rona said, “Gee, what a great little marina. It’s kind of warm and old-timey, the way the shops are built next to the docks. Everything wooden, but like the wood has gotten way too much sun. And I love the Christmas decorations. I can see why so many people are here.”