You don’t have to give women ice cream to get them to talk, but it helps.
—Elizabeth Bard, Lunch in Paris
In the end, I didn’t take the Dramamine because we had none in the house, and I didn’t have time to get to the drugstore. I’d have to keep my fingers crossed that sailing would be smooth. I packed clean underwear and socks and a toothbrush and my brand-new copy of Best Food Writing in my backpack along with a hunk of the raspberry cake and an apple and a peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich on whole-grain bread. If I wasn’t sick to my stomach, that should last me the voyage. At the last minute, I packed a piece of cake for Lorenzo’s mother, too.
While I waited to board the ferry, I scrolled through the articles my mother had e-mailed. The first was an obituary for Lorenzo’s father, dated two years earlier:
Marvin H. Smith, formerly of Woodbridge, Connecticut, and recently of Fort Myers, Florida, died late Tuesday. He was born in January 1929 in Danbury, Connecticut, and lived his entire life in that state until recently retiring with his wife to Fort Myers. He was an electrical engineer at the Sikorsky Aircraft Corporation and worked there until his retirement. He was a member of the Woodbridge Country Club, an active member of the Woodbridge exchange committee, and on the local board of the Boy Scouts of America. He served both as a deacon and an elder at the Orange Presbyterian Church. He is survived by Marion, his wife of forty years, and his son, Marvin H. Smith Jr., of Key West, Florida. A memorial service is planned for a later date. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be sent to the Woodbridge hospice.
All in all, a short and bloodless recording of a man’s life. The paragraph did not tell me much about him, though I could read the subtext: Having a son who was a tarot card reader residing in Key West would be foreign to his experience. How had his relationship with Lorenzo changed over the years? His mother would know.
After hearing the first boarding announcement, I walked onto the boat and made the call I’d been dreading. Torrence answered right away.
“Wondering whether you’ve arrested anyone in Frontgate’s murder.”
“Not yet,” Torrence said. “Getting closer, though. Did you have something to add?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little unlikely that Lorenzo would have wrapped up the murder weapon and stuffed it into his own cart? Right where the cops would find it? He’s a smart man. And that would be a dumb move.”
“Who said anything about his cart?” Torrence said. After a short silence, he added, “The weapon was wrapped in his tablecloth and thrown in the Dumpster. Right down the road from the cemetery and not that far from where the dead man was recovered, as a matter of fact.” It sounded like he was tapping his pen on the phone.
“How did Frontgate’s body get into the water, anyway?” I asked. “Lorenzo certainly doesn’t own a boat.”
“It’s nice you want to stick up for your friend,” Torrence said, “but as usual, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
“You’re beginning to sound a lot like Bransford,” I said, “and that’s not a compliment.” I hung up in a huff.
The ferry pulled away from the dock. In spite of the reruns of Three’s Company blasting on the TV in the lounge, I hunkered down inside to keep my mind off the chop of the water and the hours at sea ahead of me. I worked on the review of For Goodness’ Sake, trying to keep my description balanced but accurate. I crafted a paragraph about the ongoing zoning dispute—Palamina could cut it if she didn’t like it, but I refused to be cornered and deflated by her low expectations. Then I jotted down a series of questions that I hoped to ask Lorenzo’s mother, Mrs. Smith. First, assuming she’d let me in. And second, assuming she’d talk at all. My mother was extremely persuasive—if she hadn’t gotten anywhere, I might not, either.
With great relief, I noticed that the shoreline began to twinkle with the lights of Naples and a slew of golf and beach communities that had sprung up to the north and south of the city. There was a line of taxicabs waiting as we disembarked from the ferry at Fort Myers Beach. I managed to snag the fourth one. Once settled in the backseat, I read off the address of Mrs. Smith’s condominium in Seven Lakes.
“According to my map app, it’s right across the road from the Bell Tower mall, and also the Outback restaurant.”
“I know the area,” he said, turning up his sports-talk radio as we wheeled off. It wasn’t even baseball season, but he was listening to a station playing classic-game reruns. If listening to baseball was agony, listening to a baseball game for which you already knew the outcome had to be worse.
The streets of Fort Myers Beach had only a smattering of tourists on them. Nine p.m. The witching hour in South Florida. Different from Key West, where the action would just be getting rolling on Duval Street. After twenty minutes on the road, we pulled off the busy four-lane highway into a driveway that led to a property containing older-looking boxy condos. A small gatehouse with a retractable arm guarded the entrance. The taxi driver pulled up so I could speak with the guard, a uniformed man with a fireplug shape.
“I’m visiting Mrs. Marvin Smith,” I said. “I am her niece.” He nodded and grinned, exposing several missing teeth, and went back into the guardhouse.
“I have a feeling she forgot to let you know that I was coming,” I called after him, flashing my most brilliant smile.
“Not to worry—I’ll phone her,” he said.
“Please don’t call; it’s a big surprise. I’ve been telling her for two years that I’d visit her—ever since I moved down to Key West from Jersey. But this week is her birthday. Seventy-five, can you believe it?” I fished my driver’s license with the Key West address out of my purse and waved it in front of him—as if that proved anything. “I really wanted to surprise her.”
He looked at my license, then peered into the backseat of the cab, studying me, my backpack, my absence of luggage and birthday gifts. The whole time I grinned like a monkey. After a long hesitation, he returned to the booth, raised the bar, and waved us through. “Tell her happy birthday for me!”
The closer we got to the building where Lorenzo’s mother lived, the more anxious I felt. I had yet to see anyone who looked under seventy, which by itself was not a problem. But the scathing and suspicious looks that were thrown at the cab by a few dog walkers worried me.
“Here you go, ma’am,” said the cabbie, turning his baseball game play-by-play down so he could arrange payment.
I hopped out of the cab, paid the driver, adding a little tip, and slammed the door. Nothing to do but forge ahead. Rather than take the elevator, I climbed the set of concrete stairs that wound around the building’s exterior, gathering my thoughts, trying to visualize how to approach the crucial door-answering moment without having it slammed in my face, and hoping in my heart of hearts that Lorenzo would actually answer.
On the third floor, I went down the long outer hallway, which was open to the outdoors. Everything about the place looked as though it would need some serious work in the next few years—the paint on the walls almost ready to peel, the metal fence rusting and wobbly, the screen doors on each apartment hanging just a little bit loose. When I reached number 310, I took a deep breath and tapped on the door.
A small woman with dark curls painted with streaks of gray cracked the inside door open, leaving the screen latched between us. She had deep violet eyes and high cheekbones. She looked a little frightened, but when she saw me, the fear shifted to a determined expression I’d often seen on Lorenzo’s face. I would have recognized that expression anywhere.
“How can I help you?” she asked, her voice not welcoming. “My husband is just inside watching TV.”
That fib, I was sure, was meant to scare off any frightening accomplices.
I tried a big smile. “I’m sorry that I didn’t warn you ahead of time, but I’m a friend of Lorenzo’s. Is he here?” I tried to peer around her, down the darkened hallway, where the television screen flickered.
Her eyes got wide. “A friend from where?”
“Key West,” I said. “He’s my favorite tarot card reader in all the world. Except for when I get the Tower. I keep drawing that darn card and your unflappable son keeps telling me I have to learn to work with chaos.” I flashed another smile but she did not respond. “I take it he’s not here. I’d really love to talk with you for a minute. We could go out if you’re more comfortable with that.” I dropped my voice lower, so curious neighbors would not overhear. “But I’m very worried about him running from the police. Of course he didn’t kill that man, but it makes him look guilty. You know?”
Lorenzo’s mother’s face was stony, except for the uncertainty that flickered in her eyes, as though she was on the verge of calling security and having me thrown out. Had she even heard about the murder accusation? I had to talk faster, convince her I was on the right side. Lorenzo’s side.
“Honest to god, I’m his friend. And I really care about him and I’m worried about him. He called me to pick up his kitty. Lola. She’s staying on our houseboat with our two cats. It was not love at first sight between them, but now she’s folded right into the pack. I’m afraid she may have some bad feline habits when he picks her up again.”
Her mouth relaxed a little. “He told me about Lola.”
I smiled. “She’s the sweetest little thing. But listen, I’m worried sick about him, but I said that already. He must have told you that the police think he might have killed the man who was murdered earlier this week in Key West. Apparently there’s some evidence pointing that way. And you can understand that him disappearing—well, it makes him look bad.”
The woman’s lips began to tremble and her eyes looked moist. She backed away from the screen door and motioned to me to enter. “I’m sick about all of this, too,” she said and led me into a dark living room with white carpet that had seen a lot of foot traffic. Two La-Z-Boy chairs upholstered in tropical prints faced the television—an old model, not a new flat-screen. A PBS mystery flickered on the screen. On the table between the chairs sat an old-fashioned keyboard, unattached to any computer or iPad or any other modern device. She saw me looking at the keyboard and gave a faint smile.
“WebTV. We’re probably the last subscribers in the world. But I never got used to the computer and Marvin Senior said he spent too much time staring at a screen at work to want to take it up at home, too. He was a stubborn man. And Marvin Junior took that from him. Can I get you a cup of tea? The water’s hot—I was about to pour when you knocked. Chamomile okay?”
“Lovely. Thanks,” I said as she waved me to one of the lounge chairs. She returned shortly with two cups of tea in bone china with silver around the rims, and flicked off the television. I stirred a cube of white sugar into my cup and took a sip of tea, which tasted a bit like sweetened dishwater. I settled the cup into the saucer.
“Is this wedding china?”
She nodded and flashed a sad smile.
“Did Lorenzo ever mention the name Bart Frontgate?” I asked. “That’s the man who was killed.”
She shook her head, her lips tense again. “Nothing like that.”
She was scared to death, and I was pushing too hard. “What can you tell me about why he left Key West in such a hurry?” I asked in a gentle voice. “Was he concerned about something? Why was he here?”
“I don’t know anything about that man, Frontgate, or whatever,” she said. “He was worried about a girl. Someone who relied on him.”
“That’s why he ran?” I asked.
“He ran because he didn’t believe the police would look for the real killer. He thought they’d be satisfied with any suspect—even himself, and he had nothing to do with it. Clean up the mess, dump the trash into the bin. Tell the public the mystery was solved. And be done. Let the people think the murder was the result of a drunken brawl and that it probably didn’t matter too much who the real killer was. As long as someone was caught and punished.”
I noticed a photograph across the room on the table next to the TV, and I got up to investigate. Two men stood together, stiffly, a teenage Lorenzo, or Marvin Junior, as she called him, and a tall blue-eyed man with wide shoulders—most likely his dad.
“That was my husband, Marvin Senior,” the woman said. “It may be the only photograph I have of the two of them together.”
“They didn’t get along?” I asked.
“I’m sad to say they did not,” she said. “Marvin Junior hated sports. He didn’t mind losing, but he hated the idea of beating someone else. And even more, he couldn’t bear hunting and fishing. He wanted no part of hurting other creatures. He was not a boy’s boy—you know what I mean?”
I nodded, thinking that issue seemed to cause more trouble between fathers and sons than any other I’d heard of. Men sometimes had an image of what their relationship with a son should be like, and it was hard to give that up and adjust to what was really there.
“My husband resented that Marvin Junior spent so much time with my mother. He never did forgive my mother for getting him started with tarot cards. But she was certain that he was gifted, that he had the sight. And he was so soft and sweet and he preferred the company of his grandmother to the rough-and-tumble boys in the neighborhood.”
“She was his respite,” I said.
Her eyes glistened with tears. “Marvin Junior adored my mother and he soaked up her attention, and he finally began to understand and accept that he did have an unusual vision.” She took a tissue from the box beside her chair and patted her face. “My husband was so relieved when he went off to college. But instead of studying, Marvin stayed up late nights and read cards for people in the common room.” She gave a soft laugh. “That didn’t do much for his GPA and he finally dropped out.”
I replaced the photo and went back to my chair. “Tell me about the girl he worried about. Not a girlfriend?”
She shook her head. “He believed she was in danger. Maybe doing something illegal, too.” Her forehead wrinkled with concern. “Nothing feels more important to him than helping people find their way.”
“Was it possible he believed this woman killed Frontgate?”
Lorenzo’s mother shrugged and covered her face with her hands. “He takes on the problems that people bring to him. He takes them too much to heart. It’s like he doesn’t have the filter that most people have, a shield to protect himself from other people’s heartbreak.”
Lorenzo’s mother stood up. “I was about to put a frozen dinner in the microwave. Would you like to stay for supper? I know it’s late . . . I got caught up in my programs. Or we could go across the street and get a blooming onion at the Outback. Marvin Senior and I used to do that every week and I miss it. But I certainly couldn’t order a whole one by myself.” She patted her stomach. “I can’t handle fried food the way I used to.”
Neither sounded at all appealing, even though I was hungry in spite of the snacks I’d packed. And the two pieces of cake I’d eaten—not saving one for her as I’d intended. “Thank you so much for the kind offer. I was hoping to catch the late ferry back to Key West. I’ll call a taxi.”
“I’ll take you,” she said. “Give me a minute to freshen up and I’ll be right with you.” She went into the back bedroom to get ready. I breathed a sigh of relief, pleased to have dodged the bullet of a frozen dinner or an oversized fried onion with mayonnaise-y dipping sauce. Neither of those options would be good company on the long, dark boat ride back to Key West.
Mrs. Smith led me to the elevator and we clunked and lurched to the bottom level and trotted across the parking lot to her car. She gestured to a big old Buick stored under a carport next to a golf cart. The inside of the car seemed to be held together with duct tape. “Don’t mind the patch job,” she said, grinning as she slipped into the driver’s seat. “No way my husband was going to trade this car in. ‘Nothing new could be better than what I already have,’ he always said. Which I suppose was a good motto for a long marriage.” She smiled. “Are you married?”
“Not yet.” Which sounded dishonest. “Not even close. Maybe someday. My mom’s engaged, though.” I mentally clunked my skull for sounding silly. But the subject of marriage seemed to turn my head to mush.
She fired up the car, backed out of the carport, and headed out of the complex, waving to the guard as the arm protecting the driveway swung up. “Wait, how did you get in here?”
“Don’t be mad at him,” I said. “I was very persuasive. Said you were turning seventy-five and I was here to help celebrate.”
“Seventy-five, huh? You added five years to my total.” She laughed away my apology, then turned right toward Fort Myers Beach, where the ferry docked. We wound through a series of smaller streets, never setting tire on busy, crazy Route Forty-one.
“You could be a taxi driver yourself,” I said with admiration. “You seem to know all the back roads.”
“I don’t like to make left turns into oncoming traffic,” she admitted as she pulled up to the curb.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” I asked as I was getting out of the car.
She glanced over, her face quiet, and said nothing. She knew exactly what I was asking. She simply wasn’t going to answer. So I traveled four hours each way on a rolling sea for zippedy-do-da-nothing.