09-Twelve Mile Limit (6 page)

Then it was Tomlinson’s turn, just as we planned. He stood and tugged at his ratty, gold paisley surfer’s shorts, his sun-bleached hair hanging long, and stood scratching at his goatee until he had everyone’s attention. Then he held up his hands for quiet and said, “The party’s gonna be a little different tonight. The rules are the same—you put ten bucks in the bucket, then eat and drink all you want. But one thing everyone needs to know. This party’s going to be in Janet’s honor. We are going to celebrate the life of our sister, that good, good woman, and it is going to be one hell of a party!”

A couple of people hooted and there was gradual applause, then louder applause.

Tomlinson raised his voice a little. “I already talked to Claudia about it. It’s time to stop feeling bad about Janet being gone and start talking about what a great life she had. About what she contributed to the lives of us all. Man, I miss her! Damn right I do! Janet Mueller was a spiritual horse. There was no load so heavy that it took the light out of her eyes. She had energy, my children, a great karma, and here’s what I can tell you: Energy can’t be destroyed. That’s a fact of physics. Janet may have taken a different form, but her energy’s still here.”

I’d heard Tomlinson make this point before. In fact, after trailering my skiff when we’d returned to Marco Island, I’d stopped at the island’s tiny cemetery where, a while back, he’d once spoken very similar words at the funeral of a young girl. The child’s second funeral. Exhausted from my days at sea, I’d sat for nearly an hour alone, next to the girl’s headstone, before starting the long trip back to Sanibel.

Now Tomlinson said, “Janet’s still with us and loving us and looking over us. Which is why we are gonna party our asses off tonight. Just to get things warmed up, I here and now challenge Doc’s sister, Ransom Gatrells, to a limbo contest. And, ladies? I’ll be wearing a brand new sarong, a hand-painted Cartier from New Orleans, so get your seats early. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins are back in fighting shape and ready to rumble.”

My friend continued, “I want to send out a special invitation to all the waitresses at Mucky Duck, Green Flash, Chadwick’s, and Sanibel Grill. As always, there will be a topless division. For the last seven years, that very popular division has been won by the Davis sisters from Mason City, Iowa, Andrea and Kristin, and God bless their family genetics. But one of the sisters has gotten married, so Andrea is at half strength. Ladies, the time to strike is now.”

I noticed Jeth drop his head, shaking it, maybe laughing, maybe fighting back tears, I couldn’t tell. Saw Amelia Gardner smile as everyone hooted and applauded. I also saw Gardner turn suddenly, scanning the little crowd until her eyes found me. Then she stopped, as if she recognized me, before returning her attention to Tomlinson, who was using his hands to call for silence.

“One last thing,” he said. “Day after tomorrow, Sunday morning, here at the marina, we’re going to hold a service for Janet. I talked to Claudia about this, too. It’s time to say good-bye, my children. It’s time for some closure. We can shed all the tears we want on Sunday. We can bawl like babies, but tonight, damn it, tonight we are going to kick a little cosmic ass. Tonight we’re gonna live the hell out of every single, drunken moment, and love each other like the family we are!”

When he said that, I found my eyes turning involuntarily to my left where JoAnn and lanky Rhonda sat side by side on a picnic table. I saw, to our mutual amusement, that their eyes had swung automatically toward me. I nodded at Rhonda’s smile but pretended not to see JoAnn’s bawdy wink.

I did notice that Gardner was moving in my direction, but gradually, as if she didn’t want to divert attention from Tomlinson.

As Tomlinson said, “There’s a very powerful woman I need to introduce right now,” Gardner stopped walking, giving me a brief, pointed look that maybe meant something, maybe didn’t. Then she waited as he continued, “We didn’t expect her, but the timing couldn’t be better. We all know the story. Four people were set adrift, and only one of them made it to the light tower. If you think we’ve been through hell, imagine what she went through. That woman’s here right now. She came here because she wants to talk to the people who care about Janet and answer our questions.

“Out in the parking lot, she told Ransom and me that she’s made it a point to go to all of the families, one by one, and try to clear up any misunderstandings. We’re Janet’s family, and I think we all know what the lady means. That’s why I described her as a powerful woman. I watched her get out of her car in the parking lot a few minutes ago, and she had an aura so bright it damn near hurt my eyes. She’s got a strong and caring heart, so let’s welcome Amelia Gardner to Dinkin’s Bay.”

He nodded to Gardner, who was smiling, but not giving it much, keeping herself within herself, as people applauded politely. “Amelia, you mind if we adjourn to the main docks? We’ll do it any way you want it, but I suggest you grab a beer, get some food, relax, and make yourself at home. Then you can talk to us as a group, if that suits you. Afterward, you’re welcome to stick around and drink heavily with the rest of us. But I warn you—you may never be the same woman after you see the limbo contest.”

Gardner’s laughter had a jazz singer’s rasp, and her voice was a foggy alto that did not mesh, at first, with her Boston accent. She was articulate and polite, and seemed slightly nervous speaking to a group of strangers, which was understandable. “The only favor I ask,” she said, “is that you don’t hold anything back. I want to answer all your questions. I want to set the record straight as best I can. I don’t care what rumor you’ve heard, no matter how outrageous, I want to address it.

“There’s a thing called ‘survivor’s guilt,’ and I know I’ve got a bad case of it. This is my way of trying to help all of us. So, you bet, I’d love a beer. I’ll meet you over on the docks.”

A couple minutes later, as I walked alone across the shell parking lot, toward the mangrove path that leads to my house, I was surprised when Gardner came up behind me and said, “You’re not leaving, are you?” Then, when I stopped and turned to face her, she added, “You’re Ford, right? Dr. Marion Ford?” Her tone was businesslike, formal, and confident.

I said, “That’s right. How’d you know?”

“Dalton Dorsey described you. From Coast Guard St. Petersburg? I’d like to speak with you privately, Dr. Ford, after I’ve talked to the group. Commander Dalton said you’d be the perfect person.”

“The perfect person for what?”

“I want someone to help me find out why that boat sank. Every single little detail, so I can make it public.” She dropped the formality then, the tone of her voice communicating pain, as she added, “The rumors are killing me, Dr. Ford. I don’t know what makes people so mean that they’re saying these kind of things, but none of it’s true. I didn’t know the other three people very well, but those poor souls aren’t even here to defend themselves, which is absolutely infuriating.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “Some of the stuff floating around is pretty silly.”

“I’m an attorney. I know that the best way to fight a lie is with the truth. I’ve met my share of private investigators, but I’ve never met one who was qualified or equipped to do the kind of research it’s going to take to find the real facts and make them public. Commander Dorsey told me that you might be just the guy.”

I said, “That’s a compliment. Dalton’s a good man.”

“I like him, too. Very professional, plus, my guess is, he’s got a little circus going on inside him, which I tend to like in people. When he told me about you, first thing I did was look you up on the Internet. No web page—which I found surprising—but you’ve published a lot in journals, and enough of your fellow scientists have quoted your work, so there was plenty to find.”

“I had no idea,” I told her. “A while back, I had an interest in the Internet. I still use it, but just for research. So I haven’t bothered to check out what’s on there about me.”

She was nodding, pleased to be sharing information. “The thing I like is, you’re not attached to any agency. No government funding. You do your own work in your own way, and you obviously know your way around boats and the water. So I’m inviting you to help me figure out what the hell went wrong out there. Your opinion would carry a lot of weight with people who live along this coast, and the media, too. I want my reputation back, Dr. Ford, it’s as simple as that.”

I looked into her face. The late winter sun burnished her skin with a klieg-light gold. In that harsh, parchment light, I could see how she would age; how she would look in ten, twenty, even thirty years. Amelia Gardner was not pretty. She had never been pretty. But she possessed a handsome, prairie-woman’s plainness that is uniquely American, and that I, personally, find far more attractive than the predictable, painted masks of film stars and beauty queens.

Hers was a good face with a strong jaw, eyebrows darker than her red hair, full pale lips, no makeup at all, and a corn-silk down that grew below her temples. There were a few pores visible, and a faint acne scar or two that implied a difficult adolescence. She was an outdoors person with horizontal sun wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes; the tennis-player, mountain-bike type who was also a professional. She had a sloping nose shaped like a ski jump and, yes, cat-green eyes. In that brilliant light, her eyes glowed as if illuminated from within, showing little specks of blue and bronze.

I said to her, “I’d like to help, but I’ve got a job, Ms. Gardner. The one person who I could trust to take care of my lab, Janet Mueller, is gone now. I’m sorry.”

I was surprised when she reached and put her hand on my shoulder, a fraternal gesture not often used by women, particularly women strangers. “I want you to think it over. Listen to what I have to say about what happened three weeks ago, then talk to me later. I’ll stay as late as you want. The thing is—”

I said, “What?”

She had her arms folded now, looking at me, and, from her expression, I knew she was trying to decipher the most productive approach for the brand of person she was dealing with—me. How was I best handled? What would be the fastest, most effective angle? It is an increasingly common phenomenon, a calculated brand of assessment and manipulation that may well be taught in business and law schools, yet I find it offensive.

Finally she said, “I have to follow my instincts. So here it is: There’s something I want to tell you, but you have to promise me not to tell the others. You’ll understand why later. If you promise, I’ll take you at your word. I don’t meet many stand-up guys these days, but maybe you’re one of the few.”

“Stand-up guy, huh?” I didn’t say it, but I assumed that what she had to say had something to do with her behavior after the sinking, some guilty secret, a burden she now needed to share.

She seemed surprised by my tone. “Is there something wrong with me thinking you’re trustworthy?”

“We just met.”

“Like I said, I’m going on instinct.”

I was shaking my head. “Sorry, Ms. Gardner. I’ve known the people at this marina much, much longer than I’ve known you. I respect what you did that night, but talking to me privately is the same as speaking to the entire group. If there’s some secret you want to share or maybe even confess, I suggest you contact a priest. But please don’t tell me.”

I could see that it irked her that I’d correctly deduced her religion, and she was clearly annoyed that I was questioning her intent. A friend once told me that newborn redheads ought to by law come with a warning tag on their toe.

Amelia Gardner had a temper. I saw her face flush, her eyes glitter, as she lowered her voice to say, “First of all, pal, I don’t need some oversized, sun-bleached nerd with Coke-bottle glasses to tell me when to see my priest. And second, I’ve got nothing to confess. I’m going to tell you anyway, and if you want to risk hurting Janet’s friends, go right ahead. But I will not play some little role you’ve dreamed up.”

She took half a step toward me, an aggressive move, hands set on broad hips, her nose not much lower than mine, as she added, “This is it: I can’t prove it, but I think there was another boat out there that night. Early that morning. A boat without lights. I saw it. I’m sure I saw it. And I think it may have stopped.

“Commander Dorsey says I was probably imagining things, but I know what happened, I was there. I think it’s possible that they got picked up, Janet and the others. Why else didn’t we find them? What I’m telling you, Mister Doctor Marion Ford, is that I think there’s a chance, a very slim chance, they might be alive.” Then she spun and stalked away, pissed off, demonstrating it by refusing even a chance of additional eye contact.

I stood there, watching her, and gave a private little whistle.

Tomlinson was right. A powerful woman.

I went to my house to change shirts before rejoining the party, reviewing Amelia Gardner’s words as I walked, her nuances of speech, wondering if she really might have seen a boat. Was it possible?

The woman was still much on my mind when I peeked into my lab and flicked on the lights. My pattern of thought shifted instantly. Aloud, I said, “What in the hell is going on in here?”

Two more stone crabs were missing. I’m so familiar with my stock that I knew right away. The heavy glass lid was on the tank, but the little metal vise I’d used to seal it fast lay on the lab’s wooden floor, in a streak of water. I stooped and touched my finger to the tiniest fleck of crab shell in the water.

Someone was sneaking in and stealing my specimens. Someone too sloppy or hurried to replace the vise. Who and why, I couldn’t fathom.

But my eight remaining octopi were still in their covered tanks. That, at least, was a relief. As I checked them, I sensed the solitary, golden eye of the largest Atlantic octopus tracking me from beneath its rock ledge. Its extended tentacle was still throbbing gray, pink, and brown as I switched off the light and locked the door.

Before we met, as a group, and listened to Amelia Gardner’s story, we made the sunset rounds in a marina caravan that increased the number of partygoers with each stop.