Haunted Page 2

  She was upset, so I discounted her words. “It was a wasp, most likely,” I said, and, for the first time, shined the light at the ceiling above the air mattress. Immediately, I pointed the light at the floor, but too late.

  “Oh my god,” Birdy whispered, “what was that?”

  She yanked the light from me. Plaster overhead had broken, showing rafters of hundred-year-old wood so dense with sap that they glowed where it had beaded. But there were also glowing silver eyes. Dozens of eyes attached to black armored bodies with claws and curled tails. They were scorpions, some four inches long. Stunned by the light, one fell with an air-mattress thump, righted itself, and scrabbled toward us over clean cotton sheets that were tasteful but not as practical as a sleeping bag.

  Birdy screamed so didn’t hear me say, “It’s okay, this kind isn’t dangerous,” then nearly knocked me down running for the door.

  My lineage includes many aunts and uncles, some noteworthy, most not, but I have yet to refer to a family member with the word Birdy used to blame her aunt for the presence of scorpions in Florida.

  The word struck me as unreasonable. On the other hand, it also comforted me regarding my tolerance for a mother and at least one aunt—the third Hannah Smith in our family—whose behaviors have ranged from man-hungry to just plain crazy.

  My mother, Loretta, and my late Aunt Hannah, being a mix of both.

  It is true, however, that Mrs. Bunny Tupplemeyer, a Palm Beach widow, was the reason we were here.

  Birdy, whose actual name is Liberty Grace, had invited me for a weekend at her aunt’s beach house, then a cocktail party at a penthouse apartment that was downtown, close to shopping, at the corner of Ocean Boulevard and Worth. It was a tenth-floor saffron high-rise not far from the Kennedy compound, I was told. The Opry mansion, with its gate and carved marble fountain, was farther down the beach.

  This was two weeks ago.

  I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida but had never been in downtown Palm Beach. Condos and shops possessed a gilded indifference, the streets edged with royal palms from Prohibition days. Residential areas were screened by towering hedges and a muffled Rolls-Royce hush that warned of money and double standards.

  “Relax,” Birdy kept telling me in the car. “Just be yourself. If the Great Dame starts interrogating you—and she will—just smile and compliment her jewelry. Or bring up astrology. She loves guessing people’s signs. While she’s boring you with that, signal the staff for another martini. Dame Bunny likes them icy cold.”

  Dame Bunny, that’s how my friend referred to her wealthy, socialite aunt.

  There was no need for me to relax because I wasn’t nervous. I’m a light tackle fishing guide who deals with wealthy clients day after day in a small skiff around Sanibel and Captiva Islands, although I live across the bay on the island of Gumbo Limbo. I’ve learned that the rich are no different than the rest of us when it comes to tangling lines, or whoops of delight when a big fish jumps, or when their bladder demands a bucket and a moment of privacy.

  Birdy was the nervous one, not me.

  Odd, I thought. She had summered in Palm Beach as a girl and during college. Her mother, Candice, had been a Palm Beach debutante prior to graduating from Wellesley, then joined a commune near Aspen, which, I was told, had only solidified the family’s Palm Beach–Boston ties.

  “To people with money, politics are more of a fashion statement,” Birdy had explained.

  But when I’d spent some time with her Aunt Bunny, I understood why my friend was nervous. It was at the cocktail party. I had escaped to the balcony. An Italian banker, after backing me in a corner, had been a little too touchy-feely for comfort. My hostess noticed and followed me outside, a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  “Tired of Victor, the sex-starved poodle?” she asked, sliding the door closed. Then looked me up and down, noting the simple gray shift I wore belted at the waist, my leather flats and a lavender scarf I had bought at Pulitzer’s just down the street. “With your legs,” she added, “I’m not surprised he’s sniffing around. But you could stand to lose a few pounds, darling.”

  I ignored the insult out of respect for my drunken elders. “He said his name is Vittorio,” I replied. “I asked him to spell it because of his accent.”

  “Made him spell it,” the woman repeated, fascinated I would bother.

  “It’s a good way to remember names. He was polite enough, but I wanted to see what the ocean looks like from out here. Very nice place you have, Mrs. Tupplemeyer.” On the Gulf Stream, miles away, tankers the size of buildings drifted, the sky blacker, it seemed, than a dark night on Sanibel.

  The woman stood beside me at the marble rail and flicked ashes. “Smart girl.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “His wife was watching. She’s one drink away from making a scene. You’ve got enough size, I don’t think even Rita would try the slapping, hair-pulling thing. But who knows? She drinks absinthe, the real stuff, and sniffs cocaine to stay thin.” A pause. She blew smoke into the night and pivoted. “My niece says your family has quite a history in Florida. That you know people I wouldn’t know—locals.”

  Hicks and rednecks is what she meant.

  She continued, “She also told me you shot a man a year or so ago. Damn near killed him. Is that true?”

  I pretended not to hear and asked about a bracelet on her wrist that glittered with scarlet stones.

  “Don’t change the subject. Any woman who can pull the trigger, I find that damn impressive. But I’m unclear about exactly what it is you do. Are you a fishing guide or do you run an investigation agency?”

  I said, “Both, ma’am, but mostly fishing. The shooting incident, I’d prefer not to discuss.” Then looked at the stars and commented, “I didn’t read my horoscope today. What about you?”

  The woman fell for it, but only momentarily. “There’s an astrologician I use, she’s excellent. The summaries in newspapers are silly garbage. I have her card, if you want.”

  Astrologician? The word had a scientific ring but sounded phony.

  She continued, “Back to what I was saying . . . Liberty told me you were on a case when it happened. The shooting—a sexual predator or some such scum—that you shot him in the pelvis. Self-defense, so you weren’t prosecuted. In fact, you got some kind of award from the local police department. I admire a woman with that kind of spunk. I can think of a dozen men I’d love to shoot and that includes my late husband. Abe was his name. In my world, marrying a man for money doesn’t justify verbal abuse.”

  She expected a reaction. I looked at the ocean instead.

  “You used a pistol, according to Liberty. She said you had no choice. The man would’ve killed you. What I’m hoping is, you shot him in the pelvis because you were aiming at his balls. Am I right or am I right?”

  I stepped back and said, “Good lord!”

  The aging socialite, her chiffon gown of gold hanging from her shoulders, lowered her voice. “Honey, you can tell me anything. I’ve done things that would curl your hair. Why? Same as you. We’re both survivors.”

  My ears were warming. I tried to hold it in but couldn’t quite manage. “I want to get up early to see the Flagler Museum, Mrs. Tupplemeyer. I think I should leave before you confess to any more crimes.”

  “That offends you?” She put her hand on my back in a comforting way but also to guarantee I would listen a while longer. “It’s not like I asked if you were sleeping with my niece. I wish you were. But I happen to know she’s totally heterosexual.” The woman paused to smoke. “What about you?”

  I created some space between us. “Are you about done asking nosy questions?”

  “No. Can it hurt so much to open up to an old woman? I’m interested. I don’t care if you’re gay or not. Trust me, I’ve had worse things than a firm young breast in my mouth. It’s a matter of personal ta
ste, the way I see it.” She smiled, surprised by the double entendre. “By god, I ought to write that one down.”

  “Why don’t you do that?”

  “Don’t be snide. There’s a chance we can do business together and I have a particular job in mind. So I’m interested in who you are.”

  She reminded me of Loretta, my manipulative mother. I settled down in a sullen way, doomed to participate. I said, “I was dating a marine biologist. We even talked about marriage, but he travels too much. Now I’m dating an airline pilot and an attorney—a special prosecutor—but just for something to do. I enjoy my women friends, but sharing a bathroom or a bed isn’t part of my makeup.”

  “Good for you—I’d ride a bus before I’d share my bathroom. You say this biologist, he claims he travels too much?” The socialite’s raspy laugh chided What a bullshit excuse. “Good riddance to him, then. You’d be living in a condo that hosts happy hour and allows children. Liberty has god-awful taste in men, too. And, let’s be honest, neither one of you are beauty queens. Can you believe my airheaded sister named her that?”

  I said, “Beg your pardon?”

  “Her name, dear—Liberty Grace. It sounds like a slogan for herbal tea.” The woman turned to look through the glass, where, among chatty guests, two men in blazers had cornered Birdy, who was holding a drink and wearing a blue cocktail dress that brightened her ginger hair.

  I said, “I think she’s cute. And she certainly has good taste in clothes.” Then took the offensive. “As names go, Bunny is a heck of a lot stranger than Liberty, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask. Or are you just being snotty?”

  I replied, “I’m interested,” mimicking her.

  The woman glared for an instant. Then a slow smile. “Yes . . . I can see you doing it—shooting a man right in the balls. Okay, then. Bunny is an old nickname. In Palm Beach, it’s a sign of acceptance, especially for a New Yorker named Eve Katz—that’s me. I got the name Bunny at boarding school”—her smile became sly—“because I enjoyed boys. You know, had fun hopping from one bed to another. Small tits and a hellacious sex drive, those are the only things Liberty inherited from me—so far. There!” Smoky laughter. “That’s something I didn’t even tell Abe—him with his donkey pecker and rooster strut. Can we retract the claws now?”

  Her reference to farm animals threw me for an instant, so it took a beat to remember that Abe was the husband she’d wanted to shoot. I said, “You should thank your schoolmates. Your nickname could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “Oh, it was, dearie, it was. Bunny was for social functions, but it stuck. That’s why I worry about Liberty. She’s been man-crazy her entire life. Which is fine for recreation. But she’s going to inherit my money, which makes her a target.”

  Because Mrs. Tupplemeyer had mentioned business, I said, “I’m a poor choice if you’re looking for a bodyguard. And you’re forgetting that Birdy is a trained law officer. I’d be willing to bet she has a gun in her purse right now.”

  “Really?” Surprised but hopeful, the woman turned to peer through the sliding doors. “Do you think she’d do it?”

  “Shoot a man? She goes to the target range once a week. I doubt if she could miss something that big.”

  “No,” the woman said, “I mean pull the trigger. Trust me, every bachelor in that room sees a bull’s-eye on her ass when they look at her. Or what passes for an ass. I own a derringer, but was never able to get drunk enough.”

  “Drunk enough to fire,” I said to confirm.

  “Of course. On several occasions. And the one time I did drink enough, I spilled the goddamn bullets in the sink and the maid refused to call a plumber.”

  I cleared my throat. “My advice to you, ma’am, is give that gun to your niece. She’s too smart to mix alcohol and bullets. What I think is”—I hesitated, wondering if I should say it—“well, I think you’ve got anger issues, Mrs. Tupplemeyer. And you drink too much to own a firearm.”

  “Anger issues?” The woman threw her head back and laughed, then noticed her martini glass was empty. “I like you, Hannah Smith. How about stopping by in the morning? By morning, in Palm Beach, we mean noon. There could be a nice retainer if you help me with a certain problem.” A studious pause. “You’re a Gemini, aren’t you? Early in June, with Leo rising. I bet half of you still feels guilty about that pervert you shot—but your better half wishes his nuts were in your trophy case. Am I right or am I right?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. When I finally did respond, it was with caution. “I’m not going to shoot a man for you, Mrs. Tupplemeyer, if that’s what’s on your mind.”

  The woman, opening her cigarette case, said, “Call me Bunny. Oh . . . and would you mind getting me another martini? Cold—tell one of the servers. I’ve got other guests to attend to.”

  • • •

  MRS. TUPPLEMEYER—I couldn’t bring myself to call her Bunny—had her slim, handsome attorney explain the details to me. Not at her apartment. His Palm Beach office was at the corner of Hibiscus near the arts center, marble statues and a fountain outside.

  Birdy came along. Her Aunt Bunny didn’t arrive until we were almost done.

  The attorney, his sleeves rolled up, pulled two chairs close to his computer and opened a county tax map that showed land parcels west of Lake Okeechobee, closer to Labelle than Arcadia, in central Florida. He zoomed in.

  “Mrs. B—your Aunt Bunny—she’s part of an investment consortium that purchased this section of land, a little over six hundred acres. It’s north of the Caloosahatchee River between Arcadia and this little town, Labelle.” He touched the screen. “Are you familiar with the area?”

  “She is,” Birdy said, deferring to me.

  My friend was correct, but that didn’t make me unusual. On a map of Florida, the Caloosahatchee River is difficult to miss. It crosses the state west to east, Fort Myers to St. Lucie or Palm Beach, depending on how a boat chooses to exit Lake Okeechobee on its way to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Why do you ask?” I asked the man.

  He talked a while about the complexity of investors combining properties into a single parcel for development. “What it comes down to is,” he said, “Mrs. B is on the hook for approximately one hundred acres of mostly cattle and timber that runs along this creek.” He touched the screen again. “The creek—actually, it says ‘Telegraph River’ here—it runs into the Caloosahatchee, which is starting to boom. On the other side of the creek, there are a few small-time ranchers, a fundamentalist church or two, and a mom-and-pop RV park. But development is coming to the area. So far, so good.”

  He looked to confirm we were following along. “Bunny, she’s a damn smart woman. I know she did her homework. Unfortunately, she also let her friends—certain associates as well—talk her into committing to this project before she came to me. A project like this, you need to do a thorough analysis before you write a check.”

  A country club community with a strict covenant to build million-dollar homes on five-acre lots is what the investors envisioned.

  Birdy jumped ahead. “How badly is my aunt getting burned?”

  “A quarter million, so far,” the man said, “plus a second payment of a million dollars is due next month. Unless we can find a way to turn this around. No, actually, Mrs. B needs to bail out because, if this project does happen, it’ll be years down the road. And here’s why.”

  The screen changed. Now we were looking at an abandoned two-story house, a roof of rusted tin, windows boarded over, and a strange-looking cupola built higher than the chimney. The chimney was brick, the cupola sided with clapboard. Once upon a time, it might have been the main residence of an elegant estate.

  “Is that a water cistern?” I asked, meaning the cupola. I’d never seen anything like it. Or so I thought, until he explained that the place had served as a school after a foreclosure in the 1940s. The belfr
y had been added to house a bell.

  “Mrs. B and the other investors knew from the start this house is protected by Florida Historical Properties laws. That wasn’t a problem. They could’ve thrown a fence around the place or restored it as sort of a community capstone. A communal park—picnics on Fourth of July, like that. The house was built in 1890 by a man from Virginia who raised cattle. Charles Langford Cadence. Which is a very marketable name—Cadence Estates or Cadence Greens—lots of possibilities. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it? The previous owner was a Brazilian who planted exotic trees for timber. Now the property has some of the most beautiful mimosas and other hardwoods you’ve ever seen. The combination made the house well worth saving.”

  The attorney swiveled to me. “Have you heard of the place?”

  I said, “I think so, but I can’t remember the context. The Langfords were early Florida cattlemen. But Cadence isn’t a common name here . . . Or I could be confusing the two.”

  “I meant the house,” he said. “About four years ago, a hack reality show called Vortex Hunters did a segment on the place. And the idiotic lien holders played along. Lots of eerie night footage and contrived research about murders and suicides, and negative energy—that sort of thing. It’s true that Charles Cadence was murdered or committed suicide way, way back—the TV show hinted that his wife killed him or hired a Florida gangster. A later owner also died there. But—”

  “Was this during Prohibition?” I asked. I was interested because I’d read that mobsters from New York and Chicago had operated out of the area. I mentioned Al Capone, but drew a blank on other names.

  The interruption derailed the attorney, but he handled it with patience. “No, I think the TV writers invented their own gangster. He was a Bonnie-and-Clyde type. A guy who’d been raised in the swamps, knew how to live off the land—that was their angle—which is why the cops couldn’t catch him. But, as I was saying—”