Mornings on the beach at Sangaree were more than a wake-up call for Morgan Hannah. They were the essence of everything living: the bounty of sunshine, warm breezes, the ocean, its salt smell, the hush of sound it emitted, sandpipers chasing the receding surf and scurrying away on twig-legs as it returned. Dune grasses bending to the wind, and—if one knew where to look and recognized them for what they were—loggerhead turtle tracks, tire-tread evidence of the propagating journey out of the sea to the nest and back again.
Even in the height of the season, Sangaree was not crowded by the standards of most island resort communities. The usual plethora of high-rise condominiums, pushed tightly together and arranged to allow the maximum number of window-sized views of the ocean, was non-existent. By Morgan Hannah’s description, it was a small piece of the paradise writers tried to capture and never could, as much a deserted island as civilization, security and real estate developers would allow.
This day was anticipated from the moment Brad Coleman called and said he was coming to South Carolina and wanted to see her. The man knew how to create an aura about himself. His remembering her was a compliment, which she was able to reciprocate. That alone was enough to create interest. Morgan Hannah met many men and women whose names and appearances were gone as soon as they were. She was not a woman in need. Consequently, other people were not always assessed as an opportunity to be remembered when useful. This was not a result of financial independence. She was grounded within herself and knew it would be the same if she were dirt-poor.
There was no way to know what time she might hear from Brad Coleman, and she was not one to sit anxiously waiting. She got up early, as she did four days a week, took her morning walk to the end of the island and back, had a breakfast of fresh fruit, an English muffin and coffee, then dressed for the beach.
At eleven-thirty her allotted time for the sun was over. She was gathering her beach paraphernalia to go back inside, when she saw a lone figure walking toward her from the direction of Charles Clay’s house. She left her beach chair and beach bag and walked down to the water’s edge. It was pleasant to stand ankle-deep in the ocean. It cooled the whole body.
The figure was still too far away to recognize, but Morgan felt her heart-rate increasing. It was silly, difficult to understand. She wasn’t one to respond in such a way toward a man she didn’t know, but, for some reason, Brad Coleman, at first sight, stimulated that reaction.
“Good morning,” he said when he was within speaking distance. His tan was deeper than the first time she saw him. He was wearing shorts, a yellow golf shirt and sandals, a contrast from the slacks and blue Oxford cloth dress shirt she held in her memory.
“Good morning to you,” she said and walked out of the water toward him.
“You’re as stunning as I remembered.” His smile was infectious. Late thirties, early forties, she guessed. The sun had lightened his hair a bit, highlighting it and adding to his youthful appearance. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but damned close to it. And he had presence, even standing on the beach.
“Do you always say the right thing?” she asked.
“Only when it’s truthful.”
“Your flattery is duly noted and more than welcome. When did you get in?”
“Early this morning. Took a walk on the beach, but your house showed no signs of life, or I would have knocked on the door and tried to beg breakfast. Charles doesn’t keep a lot of food at the house. Of course, I guess when you own a restaurant…Why am I talking so fast?” He smiled. “I have no idea; I was just listening. Are you trying to beg lunch?”
“Probably. Yes. I think so.”
“Then you’re invited. Give me thirty minutes to wash the sand off, and I’ll see what I can come up with.” Coleman looked at his watch.
“Twelve-thirty okay?” he asked.
“That would be fine.”
“Can I help you carry this?” He gestured toward the chair and the beach bag.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
At twelve-thirty, Morgan watched Brad Coleman, as he approached the steps to her house. The table on the deck was set with white, linen place mats and napkins, silverware and tall, Waterford crystal iced tea glasses. A pitcher of tea sat, sweating, to one side of the small flower arrangement that graced the center of the table. As he came up the steps, she walked through the French doors to meet him.
“How many people do you have working for you?” he asked, looking at the table.
“Just little ol’ me, actually. I thought you might be available for lunch, so I had everything ready. You’re very prompt. Do your social graces and charm have no end?”
“I don’t believe being late is ever fashionable. And if my graces ever fail to come up to standard, let me know. Looking at your lunch table, I think I may already be in trouble.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Would you open the umbrella for me while I get the food?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
Lunch consisted of a crab salad on mixed greens with avocado and alternating slices of papaya and yellow tomato slices. There were fresh rolls and small side plates for the herbed olive oil that she brought out on the food tray.
“It looks wonderful,” he said. “I’ll have to beg lunch more often.”
“I won’t apologize. The only thing I did was slice the fruit. The rolls come from the bakery—what they call half-baked, so you just put them in the oven to finish them—and the crab salad came from the deli in Covington.”
“No need to apologize. May I be honest with you?”
“That depends on what about, or if listening to you being honest requires me to be honest in return.”
“No requirements. I just have to tell you that I have come across very few people in my life whom I found impressive enough to feel the need to see again.”
“I’m not sure how much of this I can take.”
“I know so little about you. Are you retired?”
“Oh, no.” She chuckled.
“What do you do?” She looked at him with an amused smile on her lips that said more than her words.
“Anything I want.” Brad Coleman lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
“I guess I can’t probe into your life,” he said.
“Not yet.”
When they finished eating amidst small talk and politeness, there was nothing left to do, yet having something to do didn’t seem important. Brad helped her clear the table and enjoyed watching her as she moved about her kitchen. The luncheon food might have come from the deli, but he could tell she was no stranger to the maintenance of a home. There was confidence in the way she did things. He realized, with wonderment, that he was perceiving her as an equal, and, with astonishment, that he had never placed any woman and very few men in that position before. It was illogical and out-of-character for him to do so with anyone, not to mention someone he hardly knew.
He watched as she put the dishes in the dishwasher and wiped the counter clean.
“Are you up for another short walk on the beach?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered and bent to take off his sandals. He looked up. “Don’t want to ruin them.”
“They’re from Mexico, aren’t they?”
“Probably. I got them in Miami. How did you know?”
“I was there recently for a short vacation. The country was lovely; the vacation wasn’t,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that; there’s much about Mexico I love.”
He led her down to the water. As they walked, the water would occasionally break over their feet. Even though the high sun had brought the day’s heat to its peak, the water was still refreshing.
“Question time,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re retired at your age, unless you have had major work done and look younger than you really are.” He laughed.
“No work done, and, no, I’m not retired.”
“So what do you do that brought you to South Carolina? Or is it just a vacation?”
He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He was perplexed, wondered if Morgan Hannah had cast some kind of supernatural, occult spell on him. He had an urge to come right out and tell her, honestly, what his business was. It could put him in jail or end the relationship before it began, which would be best, if he were pragmatic about it.
“Well? I told you what I did.”
“Anything you want; I remember. Actually I do pretty much the same thing, I guess. However, if you want to put a name to what I do, I guess you’d have to say I’m a pirate.”
He felt dizzy as the words came out of his mouth. Morgan laughed.
“I can believe that. You have an Errol Flynn quality about you. More depth, of course. Where do you practice this piracy? Do you have a ship with a Jolly Roger flying from the highest mast?”
“No ship,” he said with a smile.
“You almost had me believing you.”
“Would it bother you if it were the truth?” he asked.
“That would depend on what kind of pirate you are.”
“A good, happy, successful, less-than-heroic pirate.”
“I can accept that. We’re all guilty of some degree of larceny, I think.”
“Good,” he said. “Now that we have that settled, can we change the line of conversation for the moment?”
“Of course. Where are we going for dinner?”
“Did I ask?”
“Weren’t you going to?”
“Yes. You know the restaurants here, I don’t. Somewhere out of the way where your friends won’t be bothering you while we eat.”
“Do you mind a drive?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
“In that case, I know a wonderful little French restaurant on Palmetto Island. It’ll be about an hour and a half each way.”
He realized that at some point they had turned around and were back at her house.
“What time?” he asked.
“Six? I’ll make a reservation for eight to be safe.”
“Good. That’ll give me some time to make a few phone calls and do some business.”
“Piracy?” she asked.
“Sort of.” He paused and looked at her. “I like you, Morgan. I’m looking forward to this evening.”
“Me, too,” she said and started up the boardwalk through the dunes to her house.
“See you at six,” he said. Brad Coleman didn’t know what he had expected, certainly not what he got. Morgan Hannah was mesmerizing. He had often wondered if he would ever meet a woman who could capture him. He conjectured that he may have.
Ray Breslin was still sore. His jaw hurt, and he could hardly speak from the punch to the throat that Larkin had given him. When he did try to speak, his broken nose gave a nasal quality to the squawk he was able to produce. His gut and his kidneys hurt, as well. Initially he tried to tell himself that Larkin surprised him, caught him off guard, but he knew that wasn’t true. Sam Larkin whipped his ass, and he would never forget it. What surprised him was how tough the man was and the way he fought. He wasn’t a bar room brawler, nor did he show any signs of having been trained to fight professionally. He was practiced and skilled and knew how to take another man apart. Their next encounter would not be a parking lot brawl. It would be planned, and Sam Larkin would never see it coming.
The truck was getting hot. He was stiff and uncomfortable from sitting; unfortunately, there was no help for it. He couldn’t risk getting out and being seen. The kids had to come out sooner or later; it was ten o’clock in the morning, and they didn’t have school. It was summer vacation, for Christ’s sake. Breslin shook his head. He had been talking to himself mentally for three hours When he was a kid, he always went out to play when he didn’t have school: fishing in the river, swimming, played baseball; these fuckin’ kids just stay in the house all day. Probly watchin’ TV.
He wasn’t made for stakeouts. This was his first, and, if he had anything to say about it, his last. They didn’t look so bad on TV, but there they only lasted three or four minutes. He had been watching Bitta Smalls’ house since seven o’clock. They wouldn’t have gotten out before then. The windows in the truck were down, but the heat was already imposing. If they didn’t move by noon, he’d give up and come back another day. The problem with that was, every day they had the money gave them another day to do something with it. The longer they had it, the farther away it got. That’s how he saw it, and he was sure he was right.
If he didn’t get them today, he didn’t know when he could get back. Clay told him to keep Friday open, that there might be a meeting and he wanted everybody available if needed. Clay also said he expected him to have the question of Turner’s money solved by then. Well, if he could, he could; if he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He had already begun developing scenarios for getting rid of the kids. Even if he got the money back, how could he let them go? Drowning was the best idea. Everybody knew niggers couldn’t swim worth a damn, and if a gator got them, so much the better. Everybody would just assume they drowned. Happened every summer. The key was to make it look like drowning, not murder. He was confident he could do that. It was after eleven o’clock.
Bitta Smalls and Marvon Jefferies were watching the truck from their hiding place in the trees. Their parents thought they got up early to go fishing. They had been in position since a quarter after six, which they decided the night before was early enough. They knew where he’d park; the dumb-ass parked in the same spot every time he came to watch for them.
“How long you think he gone be here?” Bitta asked.
“How’m I ’pose to know? Dumb-ass oughtta know we ain’ come out by now, we ain’ comin’.”
“Maybe he gone be here all day. Wha’ we gone do den? We gotta go home fo’ dark.”
“Le’s wait and see. What I’m hopin’ fo’ is Monday. We gots to get to yo’ uncle. I don’ wont no mo’ truck wid dat money. I b’lieve it got a curse on it,” Marvon said, “an’ I ain’ foolin’ wid no curse; I done been scairt long enough.”
“Me, too. I ain’ got no truck wid it either. Wha’ dat mean, Marvon?”
“Wha’?” He turned and looked at the younger boy.
“Truck. Like I ain’ got no truck wid dat money.” Marvon thought for a minute.
“I don’ know fo’ sho’. My granddaddy say it when he don’ wont sompin’ aroun’. Like my Aunt Tonya. He don’ never wont her aroun’. He always say he ain’ got no truck wid her. She done always tellin’ him he drink too much and smoke up de house wid cigarettes. An’ it his house. Dat why he say he ain’ got no truck wid her cause he don’ wont her aroun’. I ain’ got no truck wid dat money, cause I don’ wont it aroun’.”
“Me neither,” Bitta said, and they resumed their concentration on the truck.
Karen Chaney was keeping watch on Charley Clay’s movements in town, while Sam Larkin lay on the beach at Sangaree Island noting any comings and goings that might occur at the attorney’s beach house. At five o’clock in the afternoon, after their watches were over, Karen called Larkin’s house, as agreed.
“Hello?” He sounded like he was asleep.
“Sam? Did I wake you?” she asked.
“I was dozing. All that fresh air and sun. I feel fried.”
“Better than being in town and playing hide and seek. Anything going on out there?”
“You first,” he said. “I’m alert enough to listen, not sure about speaking coherently.”
“Not much here. Appeared to be business as usual. He spent most of the morning in the office. I wish we had a phone tap, but that’s out of the question at the moment.”
“What about your friend? Couldn’t he help with that?”
“Not unless we can connect this with what he’s working on. Otherwise, we’re left with probable cause, which we couldn’t use without exposing Skeeter even if we had probable cause, which we don’t.”
“I’ll figure that one out in a minute,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Let’s see,” she said, checking her notes. “He met the vice-president of the bank, Bill Reichert, and they went to lunch at The Covington House. Neither of them looked very happy when they left, but that might have been indigestion.”
“They don’t serve indigestion at The Covington House.”
“Don’t know; I’ve never eaten there. Nothing else. He was still in his office when I unleashed him. Bad day for law. He didn’t have a single client that I saw.”
“Not sure he needs them,” Sam said.
“What about you? See anything or were you too distracted by the bikinis out for an early tan?”
“Didn’t see many of those. Sangaree’s pretty dull except for the holiday weekends in the summer. I’m not sure whether I saw anything or not. There is someone staying at Clay’s beach house, a guy. I’ve never seen him before, so I don’t have a name.”
“Single male?”
“I don’t know whether he’s single or not, but I can call and ask, if you’re interested.”
“Damn it, Sam. Be serious. You know what I mean. Is he by himself?”
“I don’t know that either, for sure, but I’d guess he was. I didn’t see anyone else at the house. He walked the beach early and then again later. Hooked up with a lady who lives a short distance down the beach. They walked. Seemed to know each other, ate lunch on the deck at her place, took another short walk, and then he went back to Clay’s. I stayed another half hour and left.”
“God, you sound like a cop. Do you know the lady’s name?”
“I checked the mailbox on my way out. Morgan Hannah. I’ve seen her around town on a few occasions, and I’ve heard stories.”
“But you don’t put much stock in stories.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What kind of stories?”
“That she’s widowed and wealthy, which is obviously true judging by where she lives. And, rumor has it, that she does or did have a thing with your bank president. That seemed to be pretty common knowledge for awhile.”
“My bank president?”
“Bill Reichert. You tapped his wife’s conversation in the beauty parlor, remember?”
“Interesting. Anything on the wife?”
“Nothing that I would consider significant at the moment. There have been rumors....”
“Covington seems to be a breeding ground for those.”
“Small southern town. Southerners have always considered insanity, suicide, murder, addiction, especially to alcohol, and infidelity romantic. You can attribute all the rumors to that.”
“So what were the rumors?”
“Varied. Some have said Isabel’s a lesbian, some bisexual and some miscegenist.”
“Miscegenist?” Karen looked at him puzzled.
“Crosses the color line.”
“Any idea who?” Her mind was already working.
“Cedrick Hamilton.”
“Wow! Do you think it’s true?” she asked.
“Personally, I would doubt all of them. I guess she could go both ways, but that’s only a personality judgment. It really doesn’t make any difference anyway.”
“But if she’s involved with Cedrick...”
“I doubt that. She and Cedrick are both too career-oriented and smart to play with someone at work.”
“It’s interesting though. Seems like all of these people are connected somehow.”
“It’s a small town. Everybody’s connected.”
“Tell me about this guy at Clay’s beach house,” she said.
“Six-three or four. Well-built. Tan. Good-looking from what I could tell. I didn’t get too close. Sandy hair, looks sun-bleached. I’d guess he’s in his late thirties or early forties, and I’d say he has money.”
“Why?”
“Just the look and physical attitude wealthy people have. Confident. Classy. Aggressive without being aggressive. Tell you anything?”
“Do you have his phone number?” She laughed. “No, it really doesn’t tell me anything. I’ll check with Neil on the description, but it’s pretty vague.”
“I’ll try to do better,” he said.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Sam. It just fits a lot of people. We’ll see. When?”
“When what?” he asked.
“When am I going to see you?”
“We need to talk about how to pull that off. I don’t perform well looking over my shoulder.”
“I haven’t complained.”
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll scare me off.”
“I believe that. So when am I going to see you?”
“What about tomorrow night. Depending, of course, on what happens tomorrow day.”
“You’re going to come here?” She sounded surprised.
“I will creep in after midnight on little cat’s feet.”
“I don’t like cats.”
“I’ll be stealthy.”
“Good. I like stealthy,” she said, and they ended the conversation.