When she ran out of lyrics, she continued to play for a while before saying, “I finished only the first verse and the refrain. What do you think?”
I said, “Play it again, would you mind? Please.” I was aware that I’d spoken so softly it was almost a whisper.
As she began to play and sing once more, I stood, left my drink on the table, and walked to the piano. It was not a conscious movement. Tomlinson was correct. Her music was hypnotic.
I waited several long breaths after she’d finished before I spoke. I had no idea why I was standing so close to her. “The lyrics. Is there a person…a man? Was there a man you’re writing about—?”
She turned. Her shoulder brushed my thigh as she looked up into my eyes. Her right hand knew the keys and continued playing only the melody as she half sang, half spoke the words. “Do you have a secret place/Too dangerous to touch?/Still my beating heart/Loves you so much.” The music stopped. Her shoulder was a weighted warmth. “Yes. There is a man. It’s you, Doc. Of course it’s you. You must know that. Are you offended?”
“No. But the meaning of the lyrics—”
“It’s what I see in you. It’s what I feel. There’s something in you that’s dangerous. Not mean, not vicious. But dangerous. Am I wrong?”
I didn’t reply.
Her hand moved from the keyboard to my lower back. Her cheek made brief contact with my trousers just above the thigh, close enough to feel her breath as she spoke. “You’re not the only one who looks for the truth inside people. You’ve been so busy trying to figure out what’s real, what isn’t, you didn’t realize I was taking a look inside you, too. When a person’s heart is bigger and stronger than most, it’s usually because their secrets require so much space.”
My hand had found the back of her head; my fingers already seeking, then massaging, her neck. Her fingers moved to the muscles in my lower back, each fingertip alive, intuitive.
Silence can imply a question; it can also refuse an answer.
I removed my hand from her neck abruptly, and said, “Chestra, I’ve got to get going. I…I have to see Tomlinson. See Tomlinson about a business matter. I want to hear the rest of your song next visit. Okay? But I’ve got to go now.”
“I’ve upset you. I hoped you’d be flattered. I’m sorry; forgive me.”
I was moving away, motioning for her to stay seated. I knew my way to the stairs. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive. Really.”
There was an undertone of loss, but also resignation, when she replied, “Of course. We’re friends, it’s not necessary.” She tried but failed to be the glib hostess as she added, “I’d forgotten. There are only two sins that women are never forgiven: infidelity, and aging. Anything else, there’s no need to ask.”
She laughed.
I hurried to the door.
38
I stepped outside into wind and shadows, immersed in salt-dense air as I walked the bicycle toward the road—then stopped. There was a truck parked at the driveway entrance, no lights.
I stood for a moment, watching beneath a moon that was cloud-shaded. Moonlight flickered as if through a ceiling fan. The pickup truck had oversized tires, and chrome vertical exhaust pipes. Paint, dark. Windshield, tinted. When a car passed behind it, though, I could see a large person sitting at the wheel. Big, block-shaped head. A man.
I took out the palm-sized tactical light I carry when running or biking at night. It’s a Surefire, military design, special-ops issue. Shine it in someone’s eyes, it’s as blinding as a flashbulb. I was about to point it at the car when the porch light came on behind me. Chestra—being thoughtful.
Maybe the driver finished his phone call, or maybe he was watching the woman’s house and the light spooked him. Whatever the reason, the truck started and spun away, its engine making a distinctive NASCAR rumble. It was one of the expensive pickup trucks, all the options, I guessed.
A BMW doing slow drive-bys, then an expensive pickup truck tonight.
If Chestra’s house was under observation, it wasn’t by petty thieves. It was someone with money.
It caused me to think about the old promissory notes. She’d kept them in what she called “Marlissa’s trunk,” at her Manhattan apartment. A neighbor had shipped them. They’d arrived today in a box. Chestra had yet to hear from Frederick Roth’s family representative, and mentioned that she had left a message for the attorney letting him know she’d done what he had asked.
Potentially, the notes were valuable.
She felt as if she was being watched? Now a vehicle in her drive, sitting in darkness.
I didn’t like it.
I considered going back and telling her about the truck. Decided it would only scare the lady. And, frankly, I didn’t trust myself. The axiom that it’s painful for men to go without sex is an adolescent gambit. I hadn’t dated for several months, but that wasn’t the reason. I didn’t trust myself because the pheromone wave I’d just experienced was unsettling. The woman’s voice was mesmerizing, true, but how could someone her age have that effect on me?
No, I wasn’t going to risk it.
Instead, I pulled the bicycle into the shadows and waited. Maybe the truck would return. Or do a drive-by. The big moon was behind clouds, so it took me a moment to realize that I was in the family cemetery. I had leaned the bike against a crypt. The leading edge of the Yucatan storm was miles behind me, the faint flare of lightning too dim for reading.
I waited for nearly ten minutes for the vehicle to return before using my little flashlight.
The crypt on which I’d rested the bicycle was inscribed:
NELLIE KAY DORN
CAME INTO THIS WORLD JUNE 9, 1868
WENT TO HER LORD JUNE 7, 1935
A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND RIGHTEOUS
I lingered as I studied the vault next to it. Placed my hand on the cold marble and leaned with the flashlight:
MARLISSA ARKHAM DORN
BORN FEBRUARY 7, 1923, VARGUS, AUSTRIA
DIED OCTOBER 19, 1944, SANIBEL ISLAND,
FLORIDA
WHOM THE SEA GIVES UP, GOD EMBRACES
I’d seen photos of these women when they were young, stunning, full of life. Strange to be standing so near yet eternally removed. I remembered Chestra saying, “No woman can live up to the expectations of Marlissa’s kind of beauty.”
It was a touching observation; also, a telling insight. Beauty is a genetic device: trickery that instigates competition. All illusions are temporal, and death is as indifferent as life. What Chestra said was indisputable.
Someone had placed fresh flowers at the feet of both vaults. The man in the truck?
More likely, it was Chessie.
I was restless, my head was pounding, streets were empty because so many islanders had evacuated, and even the University Grille was closed.
Ten o’clock on an autumn Monday, full moon glowing, and Sanibel was like a ghost ship—moored, but felt as
