Turner Lockett’s trailer, ravished by years of wind and weather, was a collage of putty-colored metal and rust. Pieces of siding hung loose off the main body. That it was standing appeared a heroic feat. Turner’s ten-year-old, pick-up truck was parked in back, it’s condition a perfect complement to the trailer.
A wire-spool, along with three cane-bottom chairs whose seats were half-rotted and stretched to the falling-through stage, sat in the yard. To the left of the front stoop was a top-loading, collectible, red Coca-Cola box that still worked, evidenced by the orange electrical cord that ran to a junction box mounted on a two by eight stanchioned at the side of the trailer. When Ray Breslin lifted the top of the drink box, it was obvious Turner used it as his refrigerator. It was filled with a variety of early local vegetables that were in season, some from the small garden patch he kept in the side yard, milk, bread, mayonnaise and mustard and lunch meat, mostly bologna, he noticed.
There was nothing outside to indicate to Breslin that anyone had been there before him. The door was locked, but having apprehended poachers, out-of-season hunters, illegal clammers, shrimpers and various other kinds of outlaws for more than fifteen years, a mobile home door, locked or unlocked, was an open invitation for entry. He popped the lock, stepped inside and was hit with several days accumulated heat and the smell of something rotten.
To say the interior was shambles would be an understatement. It wasn’t that the place had been tossed; it was just the way Turner Lockett lived. Dishes filled the small sink; one corner was piled high with stacks of outdoor magazines; fishing rods were leaned in the others. One small table held a manually-operated shotgun shell loader, and a small television set sat on the kitchen counter next to the stove. One wall was mutilated with gutter nails that served as a hanging place for all of Turner Lockett’s clothes.
There was no way to tell if anything had been disturbed because it looked as though what he saw was its normal state. He checked the kitchen table and the telephone stand to make sure Turner hadn’t left anything written down that would jeopardize The Company. Satisfied that no one could find anything of an incriminating nature, he reset the lock on the door and stepped back outside. His shirt was wet and clinging to him. Droplets of sweat coursed down his back and continued downward between his buttocks. As he walked down the path to his boat, he shook his head in disbelief and disgust at the way the man lived.
He was tired. The heat in Lockett’s trailer had sapped what little energy he had left after the morning’s patrolling and working the accident scene all afternoon. It wasn’t a long run back into Covington; there would be plenty of time to call Charley Clay. Everything was all right; he was confident of that. Moving the boat into the creek, he turned for a final look at Turner Lockett’s “home” and wondered what in hell the man spent his money on. Charley instructed all of them to live conservatively, but what he had just seen was ridiculous. Turner had made a bundle. The money question was interesting; he’d have to remember to ask Charley about that.
Karen Chaney had a premonition that it was a mistake, but her work ethic dictated that she should stop by the office and see if she could add anything to the report that Ray Breslin was filing. When she walked through the door, she knew she should have heeded her inner warnings.
There was only one other officer present, and he assured her he had been there all afternoon and Ray Breslin had not come in. Her initial reaction was to turn around and leave—let the bag fall on Ray—but she didn’t. She was angry that he so graciously offered to relieve her of the paperwork and then left it hanging. By tomorrow details would be fuzzy, and, perhaps, something of importance, forgotten or overlooked. It was with great reluctance that she sat at her desk and began the process of detailing everything they knew or suspected concerning the death of Turner Lockett. She made the right decision in doing the work, she decided. Protect Ray. It wouldn’t be wise to create enemies at this point; there was no way to know whom she might need on any given day.
She guarded herself in writing the report. It couldn’t be perfect; they weren’t used to that in the Covington office, and she didn’t want to send up any red flags. Let them regard her lightly; it was safer that way. When it was adequate, she placed it in the supervisor’s mail slot and left the building. She was weary, which was tougher than being tired.
After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up a frozen dinner, she arrived at her townhouse at eight-fifteen. It was an ungodly hour to have to cook dinner when one was alone, but she was hungry; there had been no food since breakfast. She checked for messages and saw that there were none, which she accepted with mild disappointment. She put the Salisbury steak dinner in the oven and got in the shower.
When the hot water hit her body, its relaxing effect tempted her to forgo dinner and just go to bed, but, although she was tired, her mind had not ceased working. All of the questions Sam Larkin posed to her were still active. He was proving impossible to crack, and that was keeping her off balance. She toweled off, put on a terry cloth robe and went back down to the kitchen. She took the foil container out the oven poured a glass of iced tea, then went into the living room to eat.
With Sam came Turner, imposing himself into her thoughts. It wasn’t only Sam’s questions about the improbability of a man like Lockett having such an accident, but Ray Breslin had found it implausible himself. She was confident Sam was correct: there was more to it than an extended period of fishing and drinking beer, but she hadn’t pushed him on it. The one thing she didn’t need was Sam Larkin getting in the way.
She was halfway through dinner when the telephone rang.
“Well, Belle, you are behaving.” Dougherty said. “Home this early. Of course there could be ten people in the other room.” He laughed.
“If there were, I wouldn’t have answered the phone, Blue. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“Anger,” he said firmly. She was startled.
“Anger?”
“Yes. I’m damned angry, Karen.” There was no humor in his voice; he was serious. “I’m your supervisor and your friend, I thought. That was what we decided wasn’t it?”
“Well, we did. What are you talking about?”
“Why in God’s name aren’t you honest with me?”
“Honest? Neil, I—”
“Samuel T. Larkin.” She felt her knees go weak. “He just happens to live in Covington, South Carolina. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. There was nothing else to do.
“You don’t know him of course.”
“I know him.”
“In the biblical sense or just casually?”
“Fuck off, Blue. Okay? I screwed up taking the approach I did. And it’s none of your business if I know him in the biblical sense or not. We’re not married anymore and this is the reason why. You don’t have to be my protector; I’m a big girl. I was when you met me, and you could never accept that. You treated our marriage like it was a stakeout.” There was silence. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that; it was nobody’s fault. It just didn’t work. But it’s over. I’m sorry I wasn’t up front with you about Larkin.”
“I’m sorry, too.” It wasn’t an apology; it was an admonishment.
“Obviously you pursued Sam Larkin. Why? I haven’t even classified him yet.”
“Why did you want to know about Celine Aguillard?” She didn’t have an answer. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to classify Mr. Larkin very easily; it might have to come from the horse’s mouth. The reason I pursued him was that the payment to Celine Aguillard wasn’t right. Isn’t right.”
“Will you share what you found with me?” she asked without emotion.
“That’s the reason I called. I think you should be very wary of him. I don’t know everything yet, but I will.”
“I’ll take what you have.”
“It’s getting more interesting by the minute. It seems that the same year Celine Aguillard made her sixty-eight thousand dollar deposit from alimony, compliments of the U.S. Treasury, Samuel T. Larkin came into money as well. It wasn’t easy to trace, but I managed. He used S.T. Larkin and several other variations on his accounts.”
“Accounts? How much was there?”
“There were separate payments over an eight month period, direct deposited in nine different banks.”
“How much total?” she asked.
“Best I can figure, two hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. I haven’t been able to find out where his money originated; however, I think it would be a no-brainer, given the time-frame to assume the source was the same as Aguillard’s. The problem is his transactions were much more sophisticated and insulated.”
“I guess that accounts for the house,” she said, half to herself.
“House?”
“His house is too nice for a school teacher. Built a lot of it himself.”
“You must know him pretty well,” he said.
“Not as well as you do, obviously. It would be interesting to know what he did between Louisiana and South Carolina. From my calculations, there’s six years missing; I don’t know how long he spent on the house.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” He paused. “It’s because I care, Karen.”
“Thanks, Blue, but let’s not get into the past again, okay?”
“It’s in the past,” he said and hung up.
It was too late to finish eating dinner, and she had lost her appetite. She packed the leftovers in a container and put it in the refrigerator with all of the other meals she had not finished lately. She turned out the lights and went up the stairs to bed. It felt solitary. She thought about Sam Larkin—damn him—and hoped sleep would come quickly.
Isabel Reichert thought about booking a flight to Mexico herself. Bill might have business there; she was willing to concede that, but she was certain he wouldn’t be traveling alone. Morgan Hannah was just the latest in a long line of women he had cajoled into bed since their third or fourth year of marriage, maybe before that for all she knew. All of the reasoning she had come up with for hanging in the marriage for so long—even if it was hope or pride—transformed into self-admonishment and weakness. It was time to change all that.
For that very reason, she knew she knew the fantasy of flying to Mexico might not be just a fantasy. It was something to consider.
Standing at her bedroom window, running through these thoughts, she couldn’t help marveling at the view before her: the water, tar-black at night, shimmering like smoky silk in the moonlight, the bridge over to Matthew’s Island, lit like a Christmas tree with the cars crossing it producing the effect of blinking lights. She loved it, and she loved this house, this room, everything about it. If Bill Reichert ever tried to take it away from her, there was no doubt in her mind that she would kill him or have him killed. That thought, so real and so honest and so frequent of late, made her shudder.
She closed the curtains and began to undress for her bath, always the loveliest part of her day. The tub was old-fashioned, not an antique, but a replica. At the time she and Bill rehabilitated the house, they couldn’t afford real antiques, but they did the best they could to move the decor back toward the age in which it was built. There was a lot of consternation over the bathroom fixtures, and replaced it with a white porcelain one that was raised above the hardwood floor on four cast-iron feet, she wasn’t at all sure she would be happy with it. She quickly recognized that the depth had its advantages. They installed a hand-spray to make it easier to rinse, but that and the shower were the only twentieth century concessions.
Isabel liked to feel the steaming water engulf her as she eased into the tub. It was enveloping, comforting, and gave her safety. She allowed her mind to float to a time when she still felt desirable—her youth, young adulthood—when she was the target for the young men who considered her prime.
Her hands moved up the inner sides of her thighs, teasing, then leaving them behind. Her body was a wonderment that she discovered even before puberty. When her fingers reached her breasts, she allowed her nails to circle the areola. She lifted one of her breasts high enough that she could touch the nipple with her tongue.
She cupped her left breast in the palm of her hand, while the fingers pinched the nipple to a point just short of pain. It caused her breathing to become deeper, more stressed and forced. She ran the fingers of her other hand along the folds between her legs. She let the water caress her as her hand moved downward. She felt her stomach begin its small contractions as her hips involuntarily arched. She held it off until, helpless, she gave in to the wave of relaxation that engulfed her.