Cutting Loose in Paradise Page 5

  Daisy kissed me goodbye with pooched-out lips. She pushed the car door open and tried a triple twirl, then a new tap step. Where I walked on the earth like Gumby, she flew like Tinkerbelle. There’s an old cliché of a heart having wings. I can think of nothing that fits that cliché as well as when a daughter continues to dance as you’re stewing over disasters. I waved goodbye and decided to take a walk on the beach.

  CHAPTER 7

  I VEERED OUT to Wakulla Key for a walk on the wide sandy beach. Wakulla Key adjoined the main town to the east and then turned south. The only real beach in the area, it stretched mostly east to west along the water. But at points, it arced back north, revealing the lights of town across the water. And what rich waters, where the St. Annes and Magnolia Rivers and the Gulf converged and mixed. As usual, the few winter tourists were finding out what good fishing meant along our coast with or without an oil spill. Three boats, which took tourists out to the islands, coasted on the gray water as the fog was lifting.

  Wealthier homes had been built on the key in what now seemed like the extravagant seventies and eighties, and a small tar airstrip lay beyond. I passed Laura’s house first. She’d already left for the paper, since her car wasn’t sitting in the drive of her perky sixties A-Frame. After crossing the short canal bridge, I passed Randy’s long, one-story California-style house on Wakulla Key. Already the FedEx guy was ringing his doorbell. I parked down the road and zipped my down jacket, then walked back up the beach I’d just driven past. The wind was blowing, and the sun sat low across the horizon. And still, no oil sloshing up on the beaches.

  But anyone knew intuitively that that much oil, and the dispersant sprayed to dilute it, would affect life somewhere under the water. When would evidence wash up?

  Evidence. Suddenly, I realized the obvious. Not about oil spills, but about Trina. I walked back to the car, picked up the cell, and circled back down to the beach, phone to my ear. Dang, I looked like a tourist, walking the beach with a cell phone. The waves broke hard against the sugar sand.

  “Laura, it’s Rue.”

  “Whoa, you’re at it early,” she said.

  “Did they do an autopsy on Trina?” I was dodging seaweed as I talked.

  “Right,” she said. “I thought of that. I’m gonna see what I can find out.”

  “Did you know that Mary Lutz thinks you’re having an affair with her husband?” I said. No working boats headed from the marina, since they had pulled out way before the sun rose. The fog had lifted enough on the island water that Sprangle Island was visible, hunkering down through the flats to the west. The lighthouse on Lighthouse Key jutted up east from where I stood.

  “She what?” Laura said, her voice rising. I told her the story Madonna had conveyed to me. “That poor woman,” Laura said. “She should drink less and think more. I wouldn’t touch that man—I mean, his name is Cooter, for god sakes. No offense to all members of the class Reptilia, but he reminds me of his turtle namesake, a little bit wet, and fungus growing . . . never mind. Anyway, I’ll see what I can find out. By the way, I called Jackson. He’s eager to talk to you. He says what you told me is strange. Amongst the cop, the morgue, and the funeral director, something, someone should have caught this. This is a cover-up.”

  I didn’t want to feel alarmed right now. I took in a deep breath. “I can’t see him today,” I said.

  “I know. We’ll meet you for a late breakfast tomorrow. Say eleven?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, guardedly, though Laura didn’t always pick up on stuff like dread, shyness, new crushes, or even fear of jail time.

  “See you at the funeral,” she said and hung up.

  I passed back by Randy’s house. He stood on the deck with coffee, shirt flapping in the wind. My stomach made butterflies as I remembered the tender way he had kissed long ago. Full lipped, without expectation or aggression. He had healthy disheveled good looks, and a shy smile that warmed me in that all-over way so new back then. I waved. He waved back. No smile, no change of expression. I wondered if I should thank him for helping Tay out over the past few years. He had taken Tay out on his boat fishing almost every other weekend over the summer. Randy, alone and educated in this place, identified with a smart kid in a honky-tonk town. Or maybe Trina had badgered him to help with Tay.

  At any rate, fishing is largely an excuse for men to get together and hang out. Tay and Randy had explored the island marshes of Sprangle Island, still full of alligators, bobcats, bald eagles, and big snapping turtles you’d rarely see on the mainland. And snakes and mosquitoes, of course. Randy showed Tay the old graveyard where Victorian villagers had been buried. Tilted and up-heaved gravestones stood as the only remains of the old town before the tidal wave of 1917 washed everything off the border island.

  Now, Randy turned around, his stiff back to me, and walked inside. Okay, then, I thought. So much for a chat. You missed your chance of a lifetime, buddy, I thought. His wife had died, too. Maybe he was stinging. He’d been moody as a teen, but now he had the trait in spades. Tay and Randy both thought logically. They also shared computer websites and played outer space games together.

  Taylor had told me Randy was astute about the natural world. I did appreciate what Randy could offer my son. Next, I did the one thing I could for Taylor—called the school to give him permission to go to the funeral.

  Seven snowy plovers with their fat breasts stood together on a sandy stretch of beach, their feathers puffed in the wind. Good. Something stable, our winter birds, and not covered in oil.

  IN THE SHOP DOWNSTAIRS FROM THE APARTMENT, I readied everything for the wedding party that would rev up after the funeral. Long day. I’d have to get back to work on that an hour after the funeral ended. Mac had invited folks from around the islands to attend the reception. This seemed strangely optimistic to me, to have well-to-do city folks mixing it up with fishermen and rednecks, especially when booze was involved. Maybe that was why it might work. Alcohol at parties could sometimes be a great leveler. Mac probably wanted a few dance partners. Islanders knew how to shake it.

  Brushes and combs, scissors, blow dryer and curling iron, all into the black bag. Then loads of bobby pins, hair spray and mousse, the trick to taming hair into something a bride wanted. This bride would have the bridesmaids and flower girls all wearing pearl bands with orange ribbons trailing. A goldfish color, she called it. Fat fall pumpkins, I’d thought.

  Madonna knocked on the shop’s window. She wore a tight black dress that said without words I don’t give a damn. And nobody would, except about her voluptuousness. “You’ll steal the show from Trina in that,” I said. She waved me away like she would a no-see-um gnat.

  “Can you give me an updo?” She plopped in the black barber chair and took off her earrings. I loved the shop, with black and white tiles from the twenties when gambling and ice cream were big business. The room spread long and wide, so I displayed work by local artists on the walls. A hidden stereo for entertainment while I turned people’s hair into living sculpture.

  “Updo. Seems to be going around,” I muttered. “Sure. I’ll even put this red velvet ribbon around it.” I pulled a thick ribbon from another event out of the drawer and held it up. She nodded, and I began brushing her full dark hair.

  “You know the cab driver?” Madonna said.

  “Cab driver? Yeah, Isabelle?” I said. Isabelle had a lucrative business, waiting for calls from tourists who’d flown onto the airstrip. She looked like the wicked witch of the west, only uglier, her flesh more grooved and dehydrated than smoked oysters. She was agelessly old. She always had a good story she’d tell while she smoked cigarettes in her taxi. She never let rich folks from the airstrip get away without paying her a juicy tip. “Yeah, crafty Isabelle,” I said. “I’m going to put some mousse in your hair to make it stay, so don’t freak out, okay?” I said. Madonna nodded and continued.

  “So Isabelle came in to the Hook Wreck Wednesday late afternoon. Had a beer. Nobody else in the bar, so I guess she felt s
afe talking. She told me nobody was home on Monday. You know, at the Lutzes’.”

  “What do you mean, nobody was home?” She looked at me like I was stupid. The body had been found at home about that time, supposedly. “Okay, then, how would Isabelle know who was home if she was taxiing folks with airplanes around the islands?” I said. I swooped Madonna’s thick shiny curls up and banded them. Then I began a French braid. “I mean, what would she be doing out at Live Oak Island? That woman can tell the biggest tales—”

  “Rue, she was serious,” said Madonna. “She was driving some rock star dude—you know how they borrow these rich people’s houses for long weekends and stuff?”

  “Yeah, go on,” I said, second band in my teeth as I wrapped the braid.

  “Well, Isabelle took the rock star to the house, that tacky pink house with dark pink shutters next to the Lutzes’?” She glanced in the mirror. I nodded. “The key to the pink house wasn’t where it was supposed to be, so Isabelle went to the Lutzes’ to see if Trina had a key to his house. Trina’s Jeep was sitting in the garage under the house, and how can you mistake a red Jeep? No one was home, so, you know, around here?” she shrugged, “everybody knows everybody, and nobody locks up?”

  “Ha,” I shrugged. “Till now.”

  “Anyway, she went up to the house and knocked. When nobody came to the door, she walked in and found a key in the kitchen on the key holder by the door. She’d ‘Hello’d,’ you know? When nobody answered, she walked into the next room, Trina’s study. She went to get a pencil and paper to leave a note, and nobody was there.”

  “Do you want to leave the braid hanging, or should I twirl it around? What time of day was that?” I said. Madonna’s hair felt silky, malleable.

  “Up, up,” she said, using her fingers to create a swirl. “It was like, you know, after six and before seven in the evening.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The sun had nearly set, the moon was rising. Isabelle swore to it.”

  “Where does she think . . . everybody was?” I pinned her hair into place and pulled the ribbon from the drawer.

  “I know where Fletch was,” Madonna said. Fletch Lutz, Trina’s husband. She used her finger to point northwest. “Right there in the Hook Wreck. I was working, so don’t ask me a bunch of suspicious questions, detective. He had gotten a meal at the Pelican and brought it in to eat at the lounge. I remember ’cause I was hungry about that time and he offered me some. He was already plastered. So I ate most of his fried grouper and soft shell crab.”

  “You’re knock-out pretty.” I stepped back. “But where was Trina, then?”

  “Ain’t that the question?” Madonna stood up and peered in the mirror. Shrugged. “Like I said, her Jeep was there.” She stood up, whirled around, her eyebrows raised and said, “That’s the question.” She left me a ten-dollar tip.

  THE GRAVEYARD was settled on a mound of large water oaks. The mound overlooked one of the coves. Graves dated back to the eighteenth century, some wrapped with wrought iron fences. Others were tiny, former slaves’ graves. Sadly, St. Annes had sent most of the black people off the island and into bigger towns to find work.

  In the 1940s when the broom factory went out of business, it was the last straw for black folks still living on the island. I wondered if descendants knew where their ancestors lay. I’d want to spend eternity on this hill overlooking the cove. This mound where ospreys screeched and oyster boats purred in the distance, and moss strands swayed like resigned angels in the wind.

  This morning, people parked and walked slowly in the chill. We north Floridians do not thrive in what we call winter. When the temperature hits the forties, we slow down, curl up like lizards and snakes. Everyone was peering into a graying sky, hoping for a warm front to ride in. Usually, the opposite happened. Like at this moment. A gust of wind flew through. Women held their skirts down while men put their hands to their Sunday best fedoras.

  Fletch Lutz looked like he’d gotten hit by a semi. He stood with arms folded in front of him. He stared into space, shocked. His face held a gray tint. He’d slicked his thick salt and pepper hair back and wore a bolo with his dark suit. I suddenly appreciated Taylor’s ban-country-music shirt. I searched the crowd for Tay.

  Trina’s casket was closed, heaps of yellow daisies and white roses atop it.

  Laura drove up, so I wandered over. She wore brilliant blue earrings to match the jacket. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said.

  “I’m kind of looking for Taylor,” I said. “Want to walk?” She nodded. We wandered around the oak-covered graveyard, leaves fallen and crisp. “Lots of people have been dropping lately,” I said. “From cancer. Before you got here, I counted five graves of known cancer deaths over the past year. All kinds—lung, skin, ovarian, prostate, you name it.”

  “Cheerful as usual, Rue,” she said. “Actually, I think it’s in the water.” Laura paused. “I’m trying to get a news story on the topic.”

  “Everybody knows the water’s awful,” I said. “It’s brackish. That’s not news. Anybody who doesn’t have a filter system is brain-dead.”

  “Sensitive, are we?” she said chuckling. She pulled her coat close to her and shivered.

  “Forget it,” I said. “So what’d you find out?”

  She looked around. “Nothing,” she said. “As in, nothing out of the ordinary. Everything looks clean as a Dutchman’s kitchen. Only they didn’t do an autopsy.”

  “I thought you had to do an autopsy when it’s a suicide,” I said. She shook her head no.

  “Only if a family member or someone requests it,” she said. “You know, you’re the only person I know of who’s seen the body besides Cooter—if he indeed did. Cooter and the funeral director. And the walls of the morgue, if the morgue has eyes.” She pointed towards the crowd forming a circle now. “So be careful Rue. For now, keep this between you, me, and Jackson.”

  “And Madonna,” I reminded her. Then I briefed her on what Madonna had told me about the key and car in Trina’s driveway.

  “Right, of course,” she nodded, thinking. “So this may mean the time of death was different, or Isabelle was off. This is getting weirder.”

  A cool dry rush of wind came up by the cove on the other side of the graveyard, and we both shivered in the chill. Laura pointed towards the water.

  Taylor sat on a gravestone closer to the cove, his back to the crowd. He had balled up fists and was staring at the ground. I sat down and put my arm around him. Big tears splashed down onto his pants. He leaned into me and sobbed quietly for a minute. I didn’t dare say anything. I patted him on the back and held him with both my arms. Suddenly, he sat up and wiped his eyes. I took his arm, which he shook off.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. Let’s get over there. I don’t want to miss it.” He stood, snuffled, and walked towards the crowd.

  Tiffany appeared sick to her stomach and wan, standing next to Mac, who looked sharp with his white linen jacket and tanned skin. He smiled halfway when I waved.

  Randy stood alone, a crease between his eyebrows. Cargos, as always, a button-down flannel shirt. A light khaki jacket. At least he had not worn a bolo. Taylor walked back to stand with Randy, who put a hand on my son’s thin shoulder. They were nearly the same height, which shocked me. Apparently, someone had let Mary out of rehab or jail or wherever. She blinked, like she was trying to focus, and leaned on Cooter. As always, he stood in uniform, his legs straddled. He nodded at me solemnly while I stole a look around for Laura. She was craning her neck from the back of the crowd. I went and stood by her.

  Madonna showed up late and made a scene getting out of the car in her tight black dress and short stole. She swaggered to the front of the crowd. Men’s eyes followed her. She winked at Laura and me.

  It was a suicide funeral, and the minister mused about Trina the way funeral functionaries talk about death and suicide. God’s hands now, peace finally hers, in another place. The funeral parlor guy with the thick glasses had driven up.
The casket was lowered into the ground, and Fletch still stood there, looking grim. Mary staggered over and put her arm around him and let him hold her up.

  “She was a good woman,” Mary slurred. “I don’t understand why she did it.” Fletch picked up her arm and took it off his.

  Then the crowd started to disperse. No one spoke. In a small community, where you feel responsible for the whole, many of us wondered secretly if somehow we might have prevented this. I walked with Taylor to the car. He’d hiked over from school, so I was giving him a ride uptown to meet his girlfriend. I turned back around to see the funeral home guy embrace Fletch stiffly. The funeral home guy caught my eye and stepped out of the hug to stare me down. I ducked into my car and shuddered in the chill.

  OKAY, OKAY, I said to Grandma Happy’s voice in my head. Home in my downtown apartment alone, I picked up the tea, tonic as she had called it, and tucked it into the beauty supply bag. “I was probably supposed to take this to the funeral,” I said aloud. I grabbed the big straw bag of hair supplies and headed down to the Island Hotel, now a historic bed and breakfast. The wind was picking up, and the air was growing colder. The midafternoon sun didn’t peer out over the clouds. Back in the day, the locals hung out in the Island Hotel bar and the bikers banged on the piano in the lobby, some real musicians.

  Then a true outsider woman came to town, bought the place, turned it into a linen-tablecloth and fine-china kind of hotel and restaurant. For a while, she was unpopular. Finally, everyone got used to it as the hotel began to attract a tony crowd. This meant money would be pumped into small businesses in town.