Black Widow Page 2

  “It was that bad?”

  “Bad enough. Michael and I won’t be getting married next week if he gets hold of the tape. Beryl and Liz’s wedding plans will be wrecked, and Corey’s husband—he’s such a violence freak—he’d kill someone if he finds out. Maybe he’d kill Corey. And she didn’t even do anything. Not really. Just the fact she was with us, he’d go orbital.”

  Shay paused to turn south, downshifting as she slalomed between slower vehicles, picking lanes then accelerating: a decisive female whose driving mirrored her personality—not always good in an overpowered, undersized car. I no longer lectured her on the dangers of tailgating and accelerating through intersections. Putting my hands on the dash had become my way of saying Slow the hell down.

  When traffic thinned, though, she lost her edge. She sat back and let the night sky tunnel above us, thinking things through before giving me her attention.

  “Who’m I kidding. Of course you’re right. I wouldn’t let someone con that much money if all we’d done was smoke and play kissy face with the local cabana boys—which would’ve been bad enough as far as Michael’s family is concerned. I was too embarrassed to give you the details. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. It was the smart way to deal with it. At first.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. There was no reason for me to know. But now—”

  “Okay. So that’s why I’m telling you. Truth is, the three guys in the video? We all ended up in the swimming pool. Naked—except for Corey, but even she took her top off. The cameraman must’ve been hidden on the hillside above our rental house. It looked like jungle, but that’s where he had to be.” Shay lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doc, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell a soul about Corey. Ever. Vance is nuts. Seriously.”

  I’d never met Corey’s husband. He was a bodybuilder; a sometimes actor. I’d heard the stories of his steroid rages and cocktail-party dramas. His temper had gotten him fired from his job as a firefighter.

  I said, “Don’t worry.”

  Shay nodded, concentrating on her driving again. “There were only a couple shots of Corey, but enough to make him crazy. Beryl and Liz took their suits off, too. But most of the close-ups are of me. In fact, the asshole cameraman made me the star.”

  Before I could catch myself, I said, “If your girlfriends were nude, why pick on you?”

  If the question offended her, she didn’t react. Or maybe she was confident enough to be unfazed. Shay was no longer the pinch-faced teen I’d met eight years ago. The adolescent brown hair was now a luxurious maple, the baby fat was gone, the clothes stylish. She was attractive in a solid, assertive way, but our instinctual perception of beauty has to do with symmetry and proportions. Shay’s facial proportions were off—nose a little too thick, lips too thin, and the columella, the divider that separates her nostrils, was creased.

  Her maid of honor, Beryl Woodward, though, was an auburn Grace Kelly who radiated ice when she entered a room, then slowly filled the space with heat. Her bridesmaid Liz made extra money modeling swimsuits. Corey was about to sign a film contract when she met the domineering man who became her husband. Yet the voyeur had singled out Shay?

  “Maybe it had something to do with the guy I was with,” she said. “He was the leader . . . that was my impression. He wore a pirate bandanna and was a little too good-looking. Like a fashion model, but nice—or so I thought. He was younger . . . twenty-one. We flirted. He was a good dancer, and dancing is something I never get to do since I got engaged.

  “In the pool, he and I . . . the two of us drifted off into a corner and . . . we played around for a while, then . . . and then the three guys got dressed and left. And that’s all that happened.”

  She was having second thoughts. This amended version had been assembled as she talked.

  There was a bottle of water in the cup holder. I took a long drink, then opened my briefcase and began to separate travel documents from travel trash. We were on Summerlin Road. The causeway that links the mainland with Sanibel was ahead, the new skyway bridge arching into summer darkness. To the south, Estero Island was a yellow necklace of condo lights. We were through the tollgate, halfway across the bay, before Shay broke the silence.

  “Why don’t you say something?”

  “I was waiting for you to finish.”

  “I did. That’s the whole story. Nothing sexual happened because that’s a line we didn’t cross. None of us girls did. Not technically sexual, I’m saying.”

  “Technically sexual,” I repeated.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Nope, I’m a biologist, and I wouldn’t attempt a guess. But it doesn’t matter. If the blackmailer kept a copy of the video, how much power does it give him six months from now? Or a year from now if Michael’s elected to the legislature? Or in six years if you start a company, and it’s about to go public?”

  “Jesus Christ, what a nightmare even to think about.”

  “Maybe. But it’s better to deal with it now.”

  “Why? I just told you—we didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “All right. In that case, there’s no reason to worry.”

  “You say that like you don’t believe me.”

  “I choose to believe you because you’re too smart to risk giving me bad information. I just explained what’s at stake.”

  “You don’t believe me!”

  “I’m discussing security. You’re fixating on morality. Why? That’s not my engagement ring on your finger.”

  “Don’t be nasty.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Bullshit, buddy-ruff. If you want to draw blood, you need heavier ammo. Maybe you forget I come from redneck country, the toughest and nastiest sort. I’m not bulletproof, but the small-caliber stuff bounces off.”

  I smiled. “Oh, I see. So now I’m talking to the real Shay Money. Not the faker who earned scholarships, graduated cum laude, won umpteen awards, and is fast becoming the administrative darling of a Sanibel clothing company.”

  "That Sanibel clothing company,” she replied, her tone icy and impatient, “happens to be an international company listed on NASDAQ.”

  I said, “Sorry. The founders of Chico’s used to keep me updated. We’ve lost touch.”

  “Is that another jab about how I got my job? Maybe I haven’t thanked you enough. Okay, I’ll say it again: Thanks.”

  I was still smiling. “Do you realize your piney-woods accent comes back when you’re mad? File that tidbit away so all the people you think you’re fooling don’t stumble onto the truth about the real Shay Money. Or have you gone back to using Shanay?”

  The woman growled in frustration. “Don’t call me that. You can be such an asshole.”

  “It’s the only way I can relate to anal-retentive friends.”

  Bridge lights shadowed her scowl in rhythmic panels as we descended onto the island. “Okay, okay. So I’m not proud of what’s on the video. I’ve spent the last seven years trying to become someone I’m not. Maybe the mask finally slipped when we were on Saint Arc. White trash, that’s what the camera captured. Me. Yeah, the real me, and cameras don’t lie. What do you expect from the daughter of Dexter Ray Money?”

  The late Dex Money, Shay’s father, was one of the foulest men I’d ever met.

  "Excuses,” I said. "Self-pity and excuses—that’s what I’d expect . . . if I didn’t know you so well.”

  I watched the girl straighten. After a moment, she whispered, “My God, that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it? I’m acting just like him.”

  I pretended not to hear.

  A moment later, she said, “Thanks. Thanks for the boot in the butt. Doc, you are right. I may be the daughter of . . . of—” Her voice thickened, then she slapped the steering wheel. “I may be his daughter, but I sure don’t have to behave like that sad, dead son of a bitch.”

  I nodded and sipped my water.

  “All his life, he did nothing but get trickier and cuter when he was in
trouble. He hurt the people who cared for him, and he made excuses— mostly to cops. And you’re no cop. I owe you a lot. You and your sister. The way you two helped when you had no reason in the world to help. I’ve been lying to you, and Ransom, too. If I can’t tell you two the truth, who can I trust?”

  Ransom Gatrell is my cousin, not my sister, but I no longer bother correcting people.

  Shay sniffled, her voice still shaky, but she got the words out: “Sorry, Doc. Give me a sec?”

  I said, “Relax. It’s no big deal.” Then, for some reason, I had to add, “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

  3

  ON SANIBEL, SHAY DOWNSHIFTED and turned onto Periwinkle, the island’s main drag. She drove in silence, tilting her head so wind could find her hair. The road was narrowed by tree shadow, and I gulped air that tasted of saltwater and asphalt-scented rain. When returning from an airport, after a long flight, the dulled intimacies of home become fresh again. So why did I feel restless?

  I’d missed something. Not long flights . . . but elements that were associated with travel.

  It had been a while, as I told Shay.

  Until that moment, I’d considered the trip an interruption. June’s a good month in Florida. Squalls and heat begin their metrical interplay. Tourism slows, fishing’s superb, mangoes are ripe. The old fish camp marina where I live is at its quirky best because the reduced population allows locals to focus on their own small dramas.

  My personal dramas had taken a pleasant turn. A love interest from the past had returned, and I’d been weighing the pros and cons of resuming the relationship. I had unusual projects under way in my lab. My son was healthy, my daughter was growing, and the mothers of each child were happily occupied with their own lives, so rarely caused trouble in mine. And vice versa.

  Summer is a favorite time of year, and Florida’s personal little secret. So why travel?

  But friendship isn’t a recreational vehicle. It is a covenant. I take the obligations seriously. So I dropped everything when the girl yelled help.

  Now I pretended to concentrate on my briefcase as Shay wrestled with the decision to tell me the truth, or stick with her story.

  “Okay . . . I’ll start at the beginning and tell you what really happened.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Jesus, Doc . . . this is so damn embarrassing. We were so stupid! It isn’t easy to talk about.”

  I said, “I’ll match my personal stupidities with anyone’s. You’re safe with me.”

  “Humph.” It was the sound of reflection. “True. Always have been with you. I remember the first time I laid eyes on you. You were soaking wet, all dressed in black, and I thought you’d come to rob us—”

  Patiently, I said, “We were talking about your girls’ weekend in the Caribbean.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Well . . . my bridesmaids deserved a break. Michael and I are having a huge wedding. I’ve delegated a lot of the work to those ladies. Plus, planning a wedding—and this may come as a surprise to a guy like you—but planning a wedding is one of the most stressful things you can imagine. I’ve read it ranks up there with buying a house or dealing with a friend’s death. I was about crazy, and we all needed a break.”

  I said, “You’ve always been generous,” letting her get to the truth in her own way.

  “I decided on a surprise vacation, just the four of us. I asked around for travel tips, narrowed it down to a couple of islands, then asked around until I found the perfect girls’ hideaway. Our own seaside house, secluded but with shopping, lots of books, yoga, and a private beach for topless sunbathing. A really wicked beach. That’s the way I described it in the invitations. Unfortunately, it came exactly as advertised.”

  It wasn’t their first trip. She and her friends liked exotic destinations, away from local gossips.

  “We’ve had our secret fun, sure. We trust each other not to blab. The saintly, girly-girl types are a pain in the ass—after all those years in Catholic school? But we are not sluts. And we never came close to getting as wild as we did on Saint Arc. I swear to God, I still don’t understand how it got out of control.”

  When Shay sensed me looking at her, she huffed, “I mean it. It was our last night on the island. The last time we’d ever be together free and single since finishing our master’s degrees, and we’d been bawling all day. Life changes so damn fast. We wanted to cut loose and have some laughs. But it was a Sunday night, nothing going on.

  “That’s when the men appeared. Three strangers.

  “They came strolling onto our private little beach, looking for a party some movie people were throwing. Supposedly. They were polite and funny. We invited them in. They made special margaritas. A little later, we put on music and started dancing. But we didn’t pair off right away. It was more of a group thing.”

  Shay told me the guys brought a couple of joints, local grass. She hadn’t smoked since college.

  “Because I was high, the whole scene seemed hilarious. But innocent. Us with these good-looking dudes with French or Caribbean accents, passing around a joint. Maybe because they were younger, we felt in control. They didn’t even realize we were laughing at them, so cool-acting. But then it got to be more like a dare between us girls when the guys said they wanted to get in the pool. Who’d be the first to say ‘stop’? Beryl or Liz, Corey or me?”

  No one said stop. The night kept going.

  Shay leaned toward the steering wheel, no longer guarded. “It was my party, and I let it go too far. I don’t know why, and it’s driving me nuts.”

  I said, “You didn’t force your friends. They’re older than you. Beryl’s, what, three or four years older?”

  “Four. And she’s the queen of Ice Queens—usually—and she was the first one with her suit off. But it doesn’t matter. I was in charge. I didn’t stop it when I had the chance. Everything felt slow and dreamy. They told us the grass was really strong shit, but man, I don’t know.”

  “You think they slipped you something else?”

  “I’ve wondered about it. If they did, I hope I never get the chance to buy the stuff because I don’t think I could pass up the chance. The feeling was incredible. Like someone hit the happy switch, and all my stress was gone. It was also like . . . like I got a dose of aphrodisiac down where it counts.”

  I turned to her as she turned to me. “You wanted honesty? I’m being honest. Maybe it was the dope. Maybe it was the guys—all muscles and curls. The other girls, they’d have to speak for themselves. But I lost control. What I did was wrong. I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself. The way my body reacted . . . it was like riding a slow wave. The sensation was unreal. How clinical do you want me to be?”

  I was shaking my head as I replied, “You can still be blackmailed, that’s all I need to know—” But she interrupted, saying, “No, I want to tell the rest. I’m not embarrassed now. I don’t want you to be. Maybe a man can make sense of what happened, because I’m driving myself nuts with guilt, trying to figure it out. I love Michael. I’m monogamous by nature. I didn’t even fantasize about other men after we started dating. But now . . . after the way it was that night on the island. My God.”

  I interrupted. “Ransom’s from the Bahamas. Why not wait and talk to us both?”

  “What? Now you don’t want the truth?”

  We’d turned right on Tarpon Bay Road, and were pulling into a mangrove lane, bay side, feeling air humid and dense descend on the convertible. The gate to Dinkin’s Bay Marina was locked. Nearby, the path to my laboratory was marked by a glimmer through the trees, and also a friend’s bicycle: a fat-tire cruiser, peace signs painted on the fenders, and a basket on the handlebars that read, FAUSTOS—KEY WEST.

  “Tomlinson’s here. Must be something important if he’s ashore this late.” I spoke as if surprised, but I expected him to be waiting. Tomlinson is a boat bum, a Zen teacher, a womanizer, a hipster academic, and my neighbor. He and Shay were close, but not confidants. It was a wel
come intrusion. I was interested in assembling data about the woman’s blackmailer, but I didn’t want to hear her confession. It would include admissions, I felt sure, that would later distance us.

  I asked, “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. The wedding’s only nine days away. I don’t have time to breathe. But . . . okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll make time. What I don’t understand is, what does Ransom and the Bahamas have to do with—”

  I said, “Saint Arc and the Bahamas have some similarities—cultural, I mean. She might pick up on things I’ll miss.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know. But those guys didn’t come to your beach house accidentally. A cameraman wasn’t positioned with a view of the pool accidentally. What you felt, how you felt—maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was you. We’re human. Ransom will have a better read on that, too. Either way, you were targeted. That’s why I’d like to wait awhile before we destroy the tape.”

  “In case the cops get involved? Look, I don’t care what happens, no one can ever see that damn video—”

  “No. I want a closer look at the cassette. The brand; how it’s wrapped. Maybe I can learn something. I’ll keep it locked. You can trust me.”

  “I do trust you. But . . . you absolutely have to swear you won’t get curious and—”

  “I didn’t watch it when I had a reason. I’m not going to watch now.”

  “Okay . . . okay. When you’re ready, we’ll burn the damn thing and drink cheap champagne to celebrate. Doc . . . ?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry I got you into this . . . made you fly to that damn island when you’d rather be here, messing with fish and your test tubes and books. I know how much you love that old house and lab. I tell everyone about the place.”

  “When you asked me to be your unofficial godfather, I said yes, remember? It comes with the job. You also happen to be worth it.”

  “That’s not how I feel. I feel like a tramp.”

  “Don’t. When I told you to accept responsibility, I didn’t know the story. You were set up by someone who is very, very good. So stop punishing yourself. It’s what victims do—even when the guilt belongs to some asshole who gets his kicks preying on weaker people.”