“Snow, drift.”
Teddy laughed and slapped the wheel. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “There you go exactly.”
Settling back, he reached for the phone and worked the buttons. “Hi, it’s me. Just now… Sweetie, are you going to let me get a word in here? Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
“Just a minute—” Rayette was now holding the phone away as she talked to someone. It was a man, but not Charlie.
With both hands on the wheel, Brenda had her own phone tucked between head and shoulder. She had slid onto the shoulder, just beyond the point where the horse woman had stopped her. She had over-corrected and almost spun out. The car’s headlamps could not shove more than a few feet into the foggy night.
Rayette said, “Yes, I will,” and a door closed. “OK, honey, here I am. I’m glad you called.”
“Charlie didn’t come back?”
“He sure did,” Rayette said. “Big time.”
“Is he there?”
“Not yet, but the officer says he should be done pretty soon.”
“What officer?” Even with the defroster working, the windshield had fogged over. Brenda clicked on the wipers.
“Naples Police,” Rayette said. “Where are you?”
“Just outside Immokalee.”
“Yeah, they said police were at James Rivera’s out there.”
“Tell me about Charlie,” Brenda said. “Where is he? What did he say?”
“Well, he came back. He was looking for you. He seems like a very nice man.”
“What do you mean, he came back big time?”
“Big time for me is coming back and finding a dead body,” Rayette said.
“Patrick Sweeney.”
“No, George Ivy. I knew the name, but never met him. I don’t move in that crowd. He owns—well, owned one of the big houses on Donegal Drive. Charlie came here looking for you. I told him I thought you went to Sweeney’s. Since I didn’t know the story on that—about last night—I didn’t go into detail.”
“You say George Ivy died at Sweeney’s?”
“In the pool,” Rayette said. “No, that’s wrong. He didn’t drown. Someone killed him first. ‘Blunt-force trauma,’ they said. Then whoever did it put him in the pool and covered him up.”
Rayette cleared her throat. “I feel sorry for your friend,” she said. “He just gets here from Wisconsin. He goes over to some man’s house looking for his lady friend and finds a dead guy in a swimming pool. If that’s not coming back big time, I don’t know what is. Charlie found a neighbor at home and called 911.”
Brenda passed the stone quarry she remembered from her trip with Ray Colon. Ahead glowed the blurred lights of Immokalee. Charlie had come back.
“He’s still talking to the police,” Rayette said. “At Patrick’s house. He told them about getting here this afternoon, then going to look for you. The policeman came here, he wanted to check that all that was true. Patrick’s neighbor remembered seeing you earlier, when she was walking her dog.”
Brenda had reached the town’s central intersection. She stopped for the light and thought of Charlie in his summer shirt. “But there’s still nothing on Patrick?”
“You sure are a cool customer,” Rayette said. “Maybe it’s because you’re a journalist. You hear about a murder, and don’t miss a beat. You move right on.”
“George Ivy I don’t know,” Brenda said. “Patrick Sweeney I do.”
“That’s a point. But these people? Here at Donegal? Cool is what they aren’t. They’re going to freak when they learn about this. Right here in gated la-la land, someone gets killed and weighed down with golf clubs. In a swimming pool.”
The light changed. “Rayette, thank you.” Brenda turned left on Main. “I’m grateful to you for sticking around.”
“Yeah, that’s OK. I think, though, I’ll go back next door. I’ll leave your cell number for your friend. But he must have it already, right?”
“Right, thanks.” She put the phone on the passenger seat. In some way, she had broken faith with Rayette Peticore. You show up, and eligible widowers disappear, Brenda thought. Then someone is murdered. Next time, Rayette would think twice before rolling out the welcome wagon.
On her left and right, signs glowed for pawn shops, convenience stores, check-cashing. She looked for landmarks from her one trip—Burger Bob’s, Rib City. She turned right on Lake Trafford Road. The First Baptist Church rose on her right, then the school Ray Colon said his kids attended. Lights were on in his house, but she saw no truck. She remembered him sitting next to her, talking about his cousin. He’s different, Ray said. Ambicioso. All the time go go go. He knows how to deal with the gente rica, the rich. But he helps poor people for free. Regalo de Dios, they call him. A gift from God. He calls it pro bono work, a word he got from lawyers.
She turned onto Lee, Rivera’s street. They had driven past his place on Saturday. Ahead, lights were flashing in the soupy air, and as Brenda neared, she saw squad car spotlights trained on the house.
She parked opposite and crossed the street. Quinto was 5 in Spanish. That had been his name before coming here. Brenda walked up the drive, into the open garage. It’s like him, she thought, looking around the lighted, empty space. It had been freshly whitewashed, everything in place. Tools, hoses and lawn chairs hung neatly from brackets. The floor had been painted.
As she came out the back door, a uniformed officer stepped off the patio. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Ray Colon,” she said.
“What’s your business?”
“I’m actually looking for his cousin.” She stopped and waited for him to reach her. Cops were territorial, and she always let them be boss. He was young, with a crew cut. “My name’s Brenda Contay,” she said. “I’m staying in Naples.”
“What’s your business here?”
“Someone’s missing at the Donegal Golf and Country Club. I thought James Rivera might have information.”
Why did she think so? She explained about seeing George Ivy, the man found dead in Patrick Sweeney’s pool. “My friend is the one who found Ivy,” she said. “Charles Schmidt.”
From there, it grew more confused. Why was she here? Why had her
