Esquire’s demographic is younger, but your readers have parents and grandparents. Believe me, the investigative piece you want out of Naples isn’t about boomers. It’s about their parents.
Here’s a taste: a woman with onset dementia wanders off at night looking for someone, but only on Saturday nights. Her horseback-riding daughter searches for her and flags me down to help her. Her mother walks into a pond full of water moccasins. Meanwhile, Dad’s in his den, in his big house, all of it sealed off by hurricane shutters. He lowers them every night at sundown, then watches Fox News with a Smith & Wesson in his lap. In the hall behind him, a strange red-haired woman says “Excuse me.”
Let me know if you want it. If you don’t, I know who will.
Your biggest, hugest, most grateful fan and admirer,
Brenda
It was a good tease but pure bullshit. She didn’t know anyone else who would “want it.” Brenda sent the message.
Then she typed All Hands on Deck, and at the home page she clicked Those Who Rely on Us.
She scanned down the list to Hilda Frieslander. Unlike other customers, the woman had refused to smile. Rivera had posed her in front of a bookcase with horses resting on top, bronze sculptures. Frieslander looked resigned, just doing a favor for likeable James Rivera who needed a picture for his website. “Staff members at All Hands on Deck are affable and efficient. Highly recommended.” Affable. Rivera had written it down in his notebook, along with pick your brains.
She scrolled up and again studied Chester Ivy. He had died on Friday. The next morning, Rivera had given a heads-up about Ivy’s death to a friend in real estate. And about Hilda Frieslander who had died the day before. Now, the idea of alerting Noelle Harmon so quickly about the deaths came off as too orderly. Too efficient.
Brenda went to the address box and typed in Whitepages.com. Then “Hilda Frieslander, Marco Island, FL.” The listing gave an address but no telephone number.
She picked up her cell phone, tapped Tina Bostwick’s number, and waited. Tina’s MS meant it would take her several rings before she could free her phone from the book bag slung on the arm of her wheelchair.
“Hello, Brenda.” Tina sounded reserved. Not Hi, Dear One, her usual greeting, but Hello, Brenda.
“Hi. Listen, please give me Charlie’s cell number. I deleted it.”
“Is that part of the clean break?” Tina asked.
“I never remember numbers, please just give it to me.”
“What brought you to this all-too-obvious revelation?”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not.” Tina gave the number, and Brenda wrote it on her notepad. “I don’t think you can reach him,” Tina said. “He left a message on his machine. He went up to his place in Minnesota.”
Holding the phone hard against her ear, Brenda set down her ballpoint. Minnesota. She looked out at the fairway. “Why? What happened?”
Tina cleared her throat. “We had dinner on Friday,” she said.
“What did he say?”
“Sorry, Dear One, attorney-client privilege. I told him I knew the truth about Kettle Falls. It caught him by surprise. I told him I thought you two had never dealt with what happened. He brought up your DNA idea, I told him you’d already used it on me. Along with the clean-break speech. Which, by the way,” Tina added, “I think is nonsense. You don’t feel guilty over what you did. You gave up on Charlie for different reasons.”
“Please,” Brenda said. “It’s important. Never mind attorney-client privilege. Tell me what he said.”
“Yes, it’s important,” Tina said. “That’s exactly why I won’t tell you. I care about both of you too much. You and Charlie have to sort this out without third parties.”
“A good friend would tell me,” Brenda said.
“That’s called blackmail. What happens or doesn’t happen should not be influenced by me.”
“Thanks a hell of a lot.”
“It won’t work, Brenda. Get off the treadmill.”
“What treadmill?” She felt something like panic. “I have to talk to him. Why the hell did he go up there?”
“He didn’t say anything at dinner. I called yesterday afternoon, all I got was the message. My guess is, he wants off his own treadmill. That’s my word for avoidance. That’s my lay analysis.”
She had to act, but first Brenda felt a great need to reach Charlie Schmidt. To hear his voice. “Something’s going on down here,” she said. “I need to talk to him.”
“Well, dear, I’m afraid you can’t. In the recording, he says to just leave a message. His phone up there is turned off for the winter.”
It was crazy to her, it was irresponsible, cutting himself off like that. Charlie had described what it was like there in winter. Snowmobiles, deer, fishing shanties out on the ice. Even wolf packs hunting moose. She needed him. He was her sounding board, her source of common sense.
“What the hell did he go up there for?” she demanded.
“You can ask him when he gets back.”
Tina’s dog barked, always at her side. “Quiet, Sonny.” Again Tina cleared her throat. “One last thing, Brenda. Clichés are no way to run your life. Being a ‘grownup in the real world’ and ‘clean break’ are clichés. If you really want to live in the real world, stop making excuses and running.”
◆◆◆◆◆
She called his Milwaukee number. “Hi, I’m driving up to Minnesota for a few days. I won’t have phone service, so please leave a message. If you’re a tenant with a problem, please call the number you have for Milwaukee Residential.”
She called again to hear his voice. He had every right to do whatever he wanted, every reason. She ended the call and saw him in his pickup, driving up Route 2. That far north, the roads would be dangerous, piled high with plowed snow. He had said that in winter, sometimes chains gave way on log-haulers, and the loads rolled off like giant Lincoln Logs. He had gone back up to Kettle Falls to rub it out. To
