Bone Valley (18 page)

“Yeah, before it gave up the ghost, Boogie Bog had all that gyp shit to get rid of. It looked at selling the gyp to road companies and building-supply companies to be mixed into pavement and concrete blocks and stuff, but the nuclear-waste folks had pretty much cornered that market. So the company decided, you know, what the fuck. Just leave it.”

“Just leave it?”

Clink, clink, and another swallow. “There’s a thousand different bugs and kinds of mold and fungus that kill citrus trees. I sweat like a pig all year round. One day you got a nice field, next day you got a damn swamp. I hate this state.”

Smiling like he’d said something terribly clever, I wondered how much more info I could get out of him. My jaws were clinching from the fake smiling, but I gave him one more round. “Now tell me, how did the Boogie Bog company plan on getting away with just leaving the gyp stuff?”

“Just like it did. Like you said, M. David made Boogie Bog buy back his stock, and then he ditched the company. Made it go belly-up. The shareholders didn’t have money for themselves, you think they’re gonna borrow millions to clean up their messes? Left the gyp for the state to deal with. The rest of the company men, like Theibuet, were screwed. Their company stock became worthless.”

“How’d Theibuet feel about that?” I asked.

“How did he feel about losing big money? How you think he felt?”

“And you, were you invested in Boogie Bog?”

“Look, I’m the man’s…that is, I was the man’s partner in these orange groves. You think he screws me on Boogie Bog, I go back in business with him? I sound stupid to you, or what?”

“Not at all. No, you sound like”—what, a bitter, gossipy drunk?—“a savvy businessman.”

While I waited to see if that flirt had any benefit, I remembered that Josey had pointed out Theibuet as one of the four shareholders behind Antheus. So where’d he get the money to buy into Antheus? And why would he?

Rayford was looking at my legs again, and I was so glad I’d thought to wear a suit with the perfect little skirt, just a bare two inches above my knees. Pressing what I hoped was an advantage, I asked him, “But you’re telling me Theibuet was in Boogie Bog, and now he’s in Antheus. Doesn’t that suggest a weak learning curve on his part? That’s weird.”

“That’s the phosphate business.”

“But, why would you go back in business with a man who had—”

“I’m tired of you, little lady, you aren’t even close to my type, and I hate lawyers and I hate orange groves and when my check on the sale of this place clears, I’m out of here, you hear?”

“Yes, but just one more—”

“You don’t listen good. I’m all out of answers.”

After a few more smiles and queries, I decided Rayford was right—he was all out of answers. So I left.

Frustrated at all I hadn’t learned, like why Rayford and Sherilyn had dropped the orange-defamation suits, I comforted myself with what I had learned: Where Odell hid the door key.

And that Rayford had a goodly number of filing cabinets I wouldn’t mind carefully pursuing in the quiet of predawn.

I could read pretty good by the glow of a flashlight.

But one thing at a time, I reminded myself, then I got in my car and drove back to the law firm, stopping briefly to find out from one of the surveyors that a national housing-development corporation had a contract on the place, and the closing was next week.

Naturally, a grove this big would be a plum for a builder, I thought as I pushed the speed limit on my way back to my law firm. Though I was sorry to think that the last orange grove in Sarasota would soon be plowed asunder, I wanted to get back to my office and see if there really was a notice of dismissal in the stupid orange-defamation case in my as-yet-unread morning mail, and if not, get Bonita to call the circuit court and see if one had been filed. And then my plan was to churn and spin through the scant remaining day, and hurry home.

After all, I had a bird to feed, a delinquent handyman to grill, and two murders to figure out.

The amazing thing
was that when I finally got home that evening, nobody else was there. Oh, except Rasputin.

Naturally, I went for one of the bottles of organic wine that I had hidden from Jimmie behind the laundry soap in the utility room, and headed straight back to my kitchen. While I was holding the bottle of wine in one hand and the corkscrew in the other, I heard the front door open and slam. Jimmie, as if guided by some homing device toward the good wine, came almost dancingly into the kitchen from the outside world, holding two videotapes in his hands.

“I done got her done,” he said and beamed.

“What?” I asked, eyeing the tapes and twisting the corkscrew.

“This first one,” Jimmie said, holding up a tape, “is of that spinal-injury-faker guy. I done got him carrying out garbage, lifting up what looks like at least a forty-pound sack of cow manure from his car trunk, and spreading the manure in his yard, then cutting the grass.”

Pretty good, I thought, for a man who claims he needs daily chiropractic care for the rest of his life, plus a quarter of a million dollars.

“Reckon that’ll ’bout do it on that,” Jimmie said.

Nodding, I agreed that, effectively, the lawsuit against Jimmie was over. Technically, I still had to ambush Jason with the tape, then get him to dismiss the case, but how hard could that be?

“Good, then,” he said, “I got me another project.”

So saying, Jimmie took the other videotape, plus the video camera, and headed toward my guest room. He didn’t ask for wine.

My something’s-up antennae went on red alert. Curious, I followed.

“What are you up to? And where were you all night? And did you feed Rasputin today at all? Did you get the grass cut like you said you would?”

Oh great, didn’t I sound like somebody’s mother?

“I was busy,” Jimmie said.

Well, after all, as the police and Dolly had both pointed out to me, he was a grown man, not a teenager. And he had made it home that morning, apparently safe, in time for breakfast, and that was a lot better than Delvon and I had managed on many occasions when we
were
teenagers.

“But I’m gonna need this video camera another few days,” Jimmie said. “And I reckon maybe, Dolly might…”

Dolly? And the video camera? I tried to hide my amusement as I told Jimmie to keep the video camera for another few days. I almost giggled at my next thought, Jimmie videotaping him and Dolly fooling around in bed. Which was, despite Dolly’s denials, exactly where I figured he’d been last night.

As I turned to leave my guest bedroom, which, of course, had now been wholly taken over and was Jimmie’s room, I thought about what Jason the baby lawyer had said, that Jimmie owned a bucketload of Exxon stock. I turned back and asked Jimmie, “By the way, do you own about a quarter million dollars’ worth of Exxon stock?”

I expected a denial, or even laughter. Instead, I saw Jimmie’s cheeks turn pink.

“Yeah, I…not sure of their current value but, yeah, maybe. See, when I’s a young man, I done bought me some shares back when I’s working for Exxon. Course, this was all before I discovered the joys of wine and poetry and became a beatnik, and I’s afraid I ain’t never goin’ to have a real job again, or earn me enough money to buy no more stock, see, so I ain’t touchin’ it for a while. I needs it for my old age.”

“Jimmie,” I said, “you’re homeless. And you’re…what? Closing in on eighty? Maybe you might want to consider breaking into your financial stash. I respect your saving your Exxon stock for your old age, but I think you’re there now.”

“I ain’t homeless, I lives here with you,” Jimmie said, and his voice sounded both indignant and hurt.

It occurred to me that now would be a very good time for me to gently point out to Jimmie that I didn’t envision this as a permanent arrangement. But before I said anything, Jimmie said, “If you needs it, I can pay rent. I mean on top of all the work, you know, cutting your grass and fixin’ your soffits and eaves and paintin’ and feeding that bird, and, and…well, Lady, I thought…”

Uh-oh. Jimmie’s feelings were hurt.

For some reason, I realized I didn’t want to hurt Jimmie.

For some reason, I realized I liked having Jimmie around. Probably a grandfather thing.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I hurt you. Let’s go have a glass of wine. We can talk finances and housing later.”

“In a little bit. I got me some things I needs to do. I’ll catch you later,” he said, and I heard the sound of dismissal.

Thinking I must really have wounded his pride, and should let him sulk a bit, I nodded, and retreated to my kitchen, where I poured a glass of organic wine. Wine in hand, I went to my den and watched Jimmie’s surveillance video, agreed it was of a professional quality that left no doubt that faker plaintiff was as strong and agile as any healthy young man, and I poured my second glass of wine and went in search of food in my own refrigerator.

After I’d picked at a salad, Jimmie staggered out into the kitchen and said, “I done plum forgot. Delvon wants us to come over tonight and join a prayer circle for Lenora. Maybe we can get some ice cream afterward.”

“Of course. Let me clean up, and we can go. Call ’em for me, and tell Lenora we’re on our way.”

Naturally, I cleaned not only the kitchen, but myself. I fluffed, buffed, flossed, changed clothes, and flounced back into the living room, where Jimmie and Dolly were sitting. I hadn’t realized Dolly was part of the evening’s outing.

“We’s waiting on you,” Jimmie said, just in case I’d missed the impatience written big across his face.

“We are waiting on you,” Dolly corrected.

“Dog-bite-it, woman. Why you gots to repeat ever thing I say’s beyond me,” Jimmie said.

Dolly puffed up a bit, but before she could retort, Jimmie turned to me. “All set?” Jimmie was wearing one of Philip’s white-on-white, hand-pressed, tailor-made shirts. I guess Jimmie took an expansive view of using my guest room. Philip’s shirt, of course, was several sizes too big on Jimmie, and the long sleeves dangled down Jimmie’s skinny arms, the cuffs completely hiding his hands. He did not cut a dashing figure, but he was probably too set in his ways for tips from Lilly’s Grooming School, so I applied my grandmom’s can’t-teach-a-pig-to-sing philosophy.

Dolly apparently didn’t suffer from that same outlook, and said, “At least roll the sleeves up, especially if you plan to actually use your hands.”

“No’m, you see how he done had these shirts pressed and starched and all? I ain’t gonna mess that up by rolling up these sleeves.”

Oh, please, I thought, like Philip’s going to wear that shirt again without having it washed and pressed and starched all over. He kept clean, spare shirts at his office and changed after lunch. There’s a whole village in Guatemala that could live off what Philip spends on his shirts alone, and don’t even get me started on his
suits.
Tailor-made. Every single damn one of them—I’d gone through his closet once, when he was in the shower, and checked. I opened my mouth to give voice to this pet peeve I had against Philip—I mean, yes, I like to dress nice, but Philip was just way out there, but before I could get even the first peep of my rant out, the doorbell rang.

Since I was already standing up, I walked to the door and opened it, and there—speaking of the devil—was Philip. He was holding a package in his hand, elegantly wrapped in gold paper and a white satin ribbon.

“Hello, Lilly. This is for you,” he said, and handed the present to me.

“It’s not my birthday,” I said.

“It’s Edna St. Vincent Millay,” Philip said. “A first edition. I didn’t realize you were so enamored of poetry.”

“Oh, she jes’ loves the stuff, especially the gal ones.”

I don’t “jes’ love” poetry. I mean, I don’t have anything against it, except that I had to memorize a bunch of it in high school for some reason that has yet to become apparent. But it seemed the quickest way to get this outing over with, which was my new goal, was to get it started, and that called for getting us all out the door. “Thank you,” I said, and put the book on the coffee table. “We’re just on our way out to visit my brother Delvon and his friend Lenora.” I left it up to Philip to decide if that was an invitation or a dismissal.

“I’d be glad to drive,” Philip said.

“That’s real nice of you,” Jimmie said. “We all’ll fit in Philip’s nice, big car, and, ’sides, this time a night, they won’t be no traffic much on the Trail.”

“There won’t be
any
traffic,” Dolly said, and I felt the muscles at the back of my neck bunch into a tight, painful knot.

By the time we arrived at Lenora’s, I was more than about halfway to full-blown batty, trapped as I was between Miss Grammar 1944 and Jimmie Don’t Got None. Philip was mostly silent, though I’d noticed him noticing Jimmie in his own good shirt.

Lenora’s house was small, a somewhat run-down Florida bungalow that backed up to Bowlees Creek, which is roughly the natural barrier between Manatee and Sarasota Counties.

While I was doing an instant property appraisal on Lenora’s house, Delvon answered the door. He wore a hand-painted T-shirt that said “No More Bushit” over a pair of cutoffs. He was barefoot, and grinning fit to choke the Cheshire cat.

“Y’all come on in, come on in.”

We paraded in, and the distinct, pungent odor of marijuana hit me in the face. Not like Delvon was passing a bong, but like the stuff was baking. I sniffed, and turned and looked at Delvon.

“Just some skunk sativa I’m drying out in Lenora’s convection oven. Won’t be long. It got damp, what with the defrosting on my trip down and then sitting in your carport a couple of days like it did.”

Dolly and Philip turned and stared at me as if I were dealing drugs out of my carport.

But when I shrugged, Philip turned back to my brother. “I don’t believe we have formally met,” Philip said. “I’m Philip Cohen, Lilly’s fiancé.” He offered his hand to Delvon.

Before Delvon processed the slight negative shake of my head, he pounced on Philip. “My brother-in-law, praise Jesus.” And he proceeded to hug the stuffing out of Philip.

When Delvon stopped squeezing him, Philip breathlessly introduced Delvon to Dolly. She refused Delvon’s hand, narrowed her eyes, and stepped back.

“Oh, they done met,” Jimmie said.

I guessed one could call it that, remembering how I’d found them shadowboxing with each other after Dolly had called the police on Delvon. “Where’s Lenora?” I asked.

“She’s in the kitchen, go on in. Y’all got here just in time. We got two Episcopal nuns coming over to lay on hands and pray for her,” Delvon said.

“Perhaps we are intruding and should leave,” Philip said. I thought I caught a hopeful tone in his voice.

“Oh, no, the more prayer, the better,” Delvon said.

Doubtlessly true, but I drifted away from the crowd anyway and ambled into the kitchen, where Lenora was sitting, listlessly holding a glass of ginger ale. Her face was a yellow-gray, with purple slashes under her eyes.

“How are you doing?” I asked, rather pointlessly given her appearance.

“Fine. I’ll be fine.” She put down her soda, rose from her chair, and gave me a weak hug. “Thank you for sharing your brother with me. He has so much…energy. Maybe this weekend, you can come out to the preserve and see what all he’s managed to do.” Her strength seemed to give way, and she sat back down.

Lenora rested for a moment, while I took in the kitchen. Classic Florida-in-the-Forties look to it, very charming, with a turquoise stove and pink tile.

“There’ll be a memorial service for Angus John on Monday. Will you come?” Lenora asked me.

“Yes. Of course. Where?” I made myself stop staring at the pink tile and looked at Lenora.

“At the Manatee Garden Center, next to Lewis Park, down near the Manatee River. I’ll get you the address later. Angus thought it was a pretty place.”

“If you need any help, setting it up, or anything, let me know. I’ll help.”

“Thank you.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “Will Miguel be there, at the memorial? Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

“I think not, and no,” she said. “Angus and I, we got married there, at the Manatee Garden Center. A long time ago.”

“Really?” I said. I
had
wondered about them, and Olivia hadn’t been any help on that score, and what with the press of other issues with Miguel, I’d never asked him about Angus and Lenora.

“Angus was my first love,” Lenora said. Her voice was soft and wistful and I knew Lenora was not really here with me, but somewhere in the past with Angus.

“We grew up together, over near Mulberry and Bartow. But we screwed it up, got married too early. Right out of high school. My granddaddy gave me away there at that garden club. But Angus and me…we were just too young, and it didn’t work. After we got divorced, I stayed here in Manatee County, and lived right here with my granddad. When he died, he left me this house, and that place by the river. He’d gotten ’em both dirt cheap back in the forties. So I had a house, free and clear, but I’ve had to mortgage it to pay my medical bills.”

Like an involuntary muscle spasm, I went into lawyer mode. “You know, the house is judgment proof if you’ve homesteaded it, which I’m sure you have. Creditors like medical-care providers can’t take your homesteaded house to pay bills. But the mortgage company can. If you were worried about paying the hospital bill, you should…er, could have…just owed them and not mortgaged your house.”

Lenora took a deep breath. “I didn’t have a choice. A pharmacy won’t sell you chemo drugs without money. And the stuff costs thousands,
thousands.
”

Damn. I’d momentarily forgotten we lived in the one so-called civilized country in the world that routinely lets the uninsured or the un-moneyed die for lack of standard medical treatment.

“And the preserve,” Lenora said. “The animal preserve by the river is not homesteaded, so the hospital can get that if I don’t pay off the rest of my surgery bill. I had to sell some of the land when I first got sick and couldn’t do any fund-raising or work my little jobs. I didn’t know, but I ended up selling it to Antheus and M. David Moody.” She gave a bitter half laugh, half snort. “Usually I’m not stupid,” she said.