Bethany Campbell - One True Secret

With that, she got up and walked toward the door.

Emerson frowned. “I can’t. The caftan has a spot on it.” It did, a small but dark stain on the bosom.

“All the better,” Nana said loftily. “It will look less studied.”

With that, she was out the door and was gone.

Emerson rolled her eyes, thinking, I will not wear something with a spot on it. Why it’d look as if I didn’t care a bit what impression I made—

But then she grinned. “Damn,” she said softly. “She’s right. Exactly.”

WHEN IN THE TROPICS, rent a convertible and don Ray•Bans; this was Eli’s philosophy. Except, of course, in certain parts of the tropics, where it was more prudent to rent a Humvee and wear Kevlar.

He drove north, up Highway 1, while Merriman stared at a map of the Keys in perplexity.

“How many of these islands are there?”

“Around eight hundred or so.”

Merriman shot him a disbelieving look. “Get real. There aren’t eight hundred on this map. No way.”

“A lot are too small to chart. Only about thirty are inhabited.”

Merriman looked at the map again, frowning. The Keys stretched 120 miles from Key Largo, the northernmost, to Key West, the farthest south. “There’s only this one highway connecting them? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Eli said. “One highway in and out.”

The convertible, a red Chrysler, was crossing a long bridge. Merriman grimaced uneasily. “These damn bridges go over the ocean, man.”

“Right.” Eli nodded calmly. “The Overseas Highway. Forty-two bridges. Great feat of engineering.”

Merriman was unimpressed by the great feat. “What if there’s a wreck or a traffic jam or something?”

“You’re stuck.”

“What if a bridge collapses? Or washes out?”

Eli shrugged. “Same thing. You’re stuck.”

Merriman’s expression became a bit queasy. “At breakfast I heard people talking about a hurricane warning.”

“Tropical storm. It was downgraded.”

“Technicalities,” Merriman grumbled. “I heard the word evacuation. That this thing might hit the Lower Keys.”

“And it might not. It’s been diddling around out there for a week. People are tired of worrying about it.” Eli gave him a measuring glance. “I didn’t take you for a worrier.”

“I’m from Toronto,” Merriman protested. “We don’t have hurricanes. Well, there was one, but it was before I was born. Look, if we have to evacuate, and planes are grounded, this is the only way out? One dinky road?”

“Relax. It’s hurricane season. There are always watches and warnings.”

Eli had played waiting games with hurricanes before. They could change course swiftly, and the storm Merriman was fretting about might never touch Florida.

But right now, the photographer was eyeing the sky with suspicion. It was blue, but gray clouds were sweeping in from the south. The wind made the palm trees bend northward, fronds streaming.

“Don’t worry about the damn weather,” Eli said out of the side of his mouth. “We’re nearly there. Another five minutes, we’ll be at Mandevilla.”

“Maybe they have a storm cellar there. Maybe they’ll share it.”

“Most people don’t have cellars on the Keys.”

Eli turned down a graveled road. Scrub pines and lingam vitae trees grew in a wild tangle on both sides of the road, blocking any view beyond them.

They came to a high iron gate. On either side of it stretched a wall of limestone, six feet tall. Its top was jagged with gray coral that had been cemented into place. Eli stopped beside a limestone kiosk with a speaker. Next to it was a mailbox with no name on it.

They were close enough to the ocean to smell the salt, and under the rush of the wind, Eli heard the murmur of the waves, low and even. Merriman looked about warily. “All of a sudden we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah.” Eli recognized the trees growing along the wall. They were poisonwoods, the Keys’ equivalent of poison ivy. Along with the sharp coral, they were there to discourage outsiders from climbing the wall.

Merriman said, “I get the feeling that they really don’t want visitors.”

“There’s a couple of million bucks worth of art behind those walls,” Eli murmured, gazing at them. “You can bet this place has some high security.”

He pushed the button beside the speaker, which crackled into life. “Yes?” A woman’s voice, low and rich, came through the static. “Who is it?”

“Eli Garner and Merriman from Mondragon Magazine. We have a ten o’clock appointment to speak with Miss Roth. Miss Emerson Roth.”

More static. Again the woman’s voice. “All right. Come to the front entrance.” The speaker went dead.

Half a minute passed, then the gate creaked open. The road grew narrower and bumpier, and then, as they rounded a curve, they clattered over a rickety metal bridge that crossed a gully. It was shaded by a grove of tall trees that stood like sentries.

At last they saw the house, almost completely screened by a row of royal poincianas and oleanders. The lawn had a scruffy look. It needed mowing, and its green came as much from weeds as grass.

Eli drove past the trees with their red and white flowers, and for the first time, saw the house clearly. He’d seen it dozens of times in photos, of course, but the photos were old.

The place, no mansion, was smaller than he’d imagined. Although not decaying, it had an air of having seen better days. Still, it was made of blocks of granite, and looked as solid as a vault.

It was the setting, not the dwelling that drew the eye and held it. The house stood on a slight rise, facing a magnificent view of the Gulf. For two hundred yards, the lawn extended, ragged and dappled with wildflowers. Then the lawn gave way to a stretch of clean, dun-colored sand.

The waves pounding the beach were more gray than blue today, but in the distance was a scattering of small islands so green that they seemed jewellike. Out in the cove, Eli saw a dolphin jump and smiled in spite of himself.

Merriman whistled. “What’s that they always say about real estate? Location, location, location.”

Eli didn’t answer. He stared out over ragged grass and flowers, past the beach to where the sea met the sky in a hazy blue-gray line.

“If you’re going to be a hermit, this is a great place to do it,” Merriman said. “A little piece of paradise is right.”

But paradise is showing signs of wear, Eli thought, his gaze drifting back to the house.

The paint on its wooden trim was peeling from the salt air, and a large crack zigzagged up the cement walk that led to the front stairs. The roof of the porch sagged slightly. The flame-of-the-woods shrubs flanking the porch on both sides sprawled untrimmed, an uncontrolled mass of fiery blossoms.

“Scenery’s one of the hardest things in the world to shoot,” Merriman grumbled almost to himself, his eyes still on the waves. He looked as if he was already calculating how he’d have to do it.

Eli put his sunglasses back on. “Come on. You can figure it out later. Let’s get the introductions over with.”

He got out of the convertible, and so did Merriman, who followed him up the walk with obvious reluctance. He wanted to play with his viewfinder so much that his face was pained as he stared at the vista.

Eli noticed hairline cracks in the floor of the porch and that the old-fashioned doorbell seemed tarnished by years of sea salt. The white paint of the front door was peeling, like the trim.

He pressed the bell. He heard it chime, echoing within the house. He glanced about the house and saw no sign of anyone. Surely there had to be a groundskeeper or yardman, with this much land.

No one answered. She knows we’re here, Eli thought with cold irritation. All right, baby, play your games. He rang again, leaning on the bell a little harder, just to annoy her.