Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide (8 page)

As she searched Merriam’s medicine cabinet for aspirin, Isabel told herself her irrational response to Harry had to be a displacement of her feelings about Zan and the end of their affair. The explanation was calming. She fell asleep again, this time dreamlessly.

The next morning was overcast. Isabel dragged out her drawings for
The Children from the Sea.
She couldn’t imagine what had ever appealed to her about the project. Her own voice rang in her ears:
It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and now I have the time.
Right.

She picked up her sketchbook and a pencil and went to sit on the front step of the trailer. As the sky lowered, she drew, with intense concentration, a leggy and ugly sandspur plant growing nearby. The sandspur was laden with the spiny, cruel burrs that had been the bane of Isabel’s childhood, and she rendered each tiny needle.

Isabel liked to draw from life. Although she often used photographs, she felt the sketches she did while looking at the actual object were usually better, more vital.

She tried a palmetto. She was in the groove now. This was what she had always loved, creating a world resembling the real world but at the same time all hers. She continued drawing, happily absorbed, until it was time to drive into town and see Merriam.

It had started to rain lightly, a misty curtain sweeping over the car. At Bernice Chatham’s, she found Merriam sitting in a metal lawn chair on the front porch. Azalea bushes crowded against the screen, raindrops sliding off their dark green leaves. After saying hello to Bernice, Isabel pulled up another chair and sat beside Merriam.

Merriam’s spiky white hair had been brushed. She wore a clean dress and bedroom slippers. She made occasional fishlike movements with her mouth. After some minutes of silence, Isabel began to chat about whatever came into her head— Kimmie Dee, the trailer, the weather. Merriam studied her lap, then began smoothing her skirt. She made no response.

After a while, Isabel ran out of steam. She stopped talking and turned her attention to the dripping azaleas. There was something almost hypnotic in the sight of the drops sliding off the wet leaves. She had almost lost touch with her surroundings when Merriam spoke.

Merriam said, “You ought to cut off some of that hair, girl. You look like a haystack.”

Isabel gritted her teeth. Despite herself, her hand strayed to her hair. She said, “So you do know me, Merriam.”

Merriam’s eyes were bright. She said, “We got to cut those fronds back. They’ll be falling and making a mess. We got to do it this afternoon.”

She half-stood, but Isabel caught her arm. “Wait. It isn’t time yet,” she improvised.

“They’ll be all over the place. We got to—”

She was getting agitated. Isabel said, “Merriam, listen. I want to talk to you. Do you understand me?”

“We got to go now!”

“I’m Isabel. Isabel.”

Merriam gave her a look of withering scorn. “I know who you are. Do you think I’m cracked?”

The thought had crossed my mind.
“Merriam, sit down a second. I want to ask you. Do you remember being on the beach, walking on the beach? And you saw Kimmie Dee?”

“Kimmie Dee.” Merriam’s face grew sober.

“Yes. You hurt your head somehow. I wanted to know if you remember—”

Merriam had deflated. Her shoulders sagged and her head hung forward. In her lap, her fingers twined and untwined aimlessly. “No,” she whispered.

“I want to know how you hurt your head.”

Merriam began making the fish motions with her mouth. Isabel waited, but she didn’t speak again.

On the way back to the Cape, Isabel stopped to buy groceries. She pushed into the trailer laden with bags. She had put everything away and poured herself a glass of club soda before she noticed the envelope on the floor.

It was a sealed envelope, plain white, with nothing written on it. Judging from its position near the door, someone— Kimmie Dee?— had slid it underneath while she was gone. She tore it open and took out the folded paper inside. The message was printed in block letters with a red felt-tip pen:

GO AWAY YOU WHORE. WE DON’T NEED YOU HERE.

No signature, naturally.

Oh please.
Please.
Surely Isabel had enough problems without this kind of garbage. She tossed the note on the counter and beseeched the powers that were to give her a break.

Whore.
A generic insult or a calculated reference to her youthful peccadilloes? The image of Harry Mercer presented itself.
Go away, you whore.

Isabel folded the note and replaced it in the envelope. She didn’t want to look at it. She would be watchful, in case the person came back. She would— this inspiration gave her pleasure— put weather stripping along the bottom of the door so nothing could be slid underneath.

If it continued, she would have to go to the police. Undoubtedly, they would ask whether she had any idea who had done it. She thought of Harry again. She imagined the police asking Harry Mercer whether he had written a note calling Isabel a whore.

She put the envelope in a zipper compartment in her handbag, where it would be out of her sight.

The rain had stopped. She once again installed herself on the concrete block front step with her sketchbook, but she couldn’t recapture her mood of the morning. Either the note, her frustrating visit with Merriam, or something else had stalled her. She was doodling meaningless shapes when the sound of sandals slapping down the drive announced Kimmie Dee’s daily visit.

Kimmie Dee came into view and got right down to business. “Did you mail my letter?”

“I certainly did.”

“Good.” She gave a nod of approval. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“No, you’re not. You’re drawing.”

Isabel didn’t argue. She turned back to her sketchbook. Kimmie Dee found a dried magnolia leaf, freighted it with pine straw, and began to sail it on a mud puddle by the steps.

After a few minutes, Isabel said, “Let me ask you something, Kimmie Dee. Did you slip an envelope under my door while I was gone this afternoon?”

“Nope.”

The reply was offhand, without hesitation. The girl seemed to be telling the truth. “Did you see anybody else come down here?”

“Nope. Toby and I were watching TV.” Kimmie Dee pushed the leaf, which wobbled and capsized. “Oh, shoot.” She retrieved it and said, “When do you think my daddy will send those boots? I need them pretty soon.”

“He couldn’t have gotten the letter yet.”

“Fourth of July. The talent contest. My old ones don’t fit.” She stood, kicked off a sandal, and stuck out a mud-streaked foot for Isabel to inspect. “My toes are too long.”

The light dawned. “It’s majorette boots you want?”

“Well, sure.”

Kimmie Dee knelt to play with her leaf boat. She made a charming picture, squatting there by the puddle with her bony knees in the air. Isabel turned to a fresh page. “Has your father been… gone for a long time?”

“Pretty long. He’ll be coming back, though.”

“When?”

“When they let him out.” She picked up sand and added it to the leaf’s freight. “He did something stupid and wrong, so he had to go to jail for a while. That’s what he told me. Stupid and wrong.”

Isabel was sketching, her pencil flying. “Sounds like he’s sorry for what he did.”

“Oh, he is. Real sorry.” The girl crossed her arms on her knees. “They took his boat away and everything. They aren’t even going to give it back.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah. He brought some marijuana over from Westpoint in it and they caught him.” Kimmie Dee gave her a suspicious look. “Are you drawing my picture?”

“Yes. Do you want to see?” It was rough, just a few lines, but Isabel was pleased.

Kimmie Dee looked. The sketch showed her crouched by the puddle, her hair falling forward. “You can’t even see my face,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“You want your face in it? I’ll do another one. Go back over there.”

Kimmie Dee returned to the puddle and posed, her face stretched into an unnatural “Say cheese” grin. To dissipate it, Isabel said, “You can go ahead and talk to me. I’ll tell you when to be still.”

“Talk about what?”

Isabel had meant to ask Kimmie Dee about Ted Stiles.
I don’t like Mr. S.
“Oh, about your mother, Toby, Mr. Stiles…”

All semblance of a smile had vanished. “It’s
our
house, not his,” Kimmie Dee declared. “He bothers us all the time.”

“Bothers you how? What does he do?”

“He comes over and eats, and drinks beer and smokes cigarettes. He piled a bunch of diving stuff in our utility closet and broke Toby’s train.”

“Does he go diving?”

“I don’t know. And he asks me questions.”

Isabel studied her sketch. “Questions about what?”

“What I’ve seen on the beach. Who’s coming and going. I don’t like to talk to him, but Mama gets mad if I won’t.”

Kimmie Dee moved, and Isabel gave up. She didn’t like the second sketch as much as the first. Doing it had given her an idea, though. Kimmie Dee, with her sharp little face, would be an ideal model for Marotte. Marotte was a villain, the evil foster sister, in
The Children from the Sea.
If Kimmie Dee would pose, it could give the book some needed vigor. Isabel said, “Let me ask you a favor. Would you let me draw your picture for a book I’m working on?”

Kimmie Dee wrinkled her nose. “What kind of a book?”

“It’s a kids’ book. A fairy tale.” No need, at this point, to tell her she’d be the model for the villain. “I was thinking— if you’ll pose for me a few times, I’ll buy you the majorette boots.”

The girl shook her head. “I already asked Daddy. He’ll send them.”

Her faith was touching, but privately Isabel wondered. “I’m worried he won’t get the letter in time. This way, you’ll have them for sure.”

Kimmie Dee hesitated, but Isabel could see it was no contest. “Okay.”

“Good. You have to get your mother’s permission, and then we’ll start.”

Kimmie Dee’s face fell. “Get her permission? Why?”

“Because she has to know what’s going on.”

“She won’t care.”

“You have to ask her. If you don’t, I will.”

“I’ll ask her! Promise.” Although Kimmie Dee crossed her heart, Isabel wasn’t sure she’d really ask. Isabel was meddling in a sticky situation, but this way Kimmie Dee would get her boots. And the girl would be a perfect Marotte.

After Kimmie Dee left, Isabel went inside. For a while, she had forgotten Harry Mercer. She had forgotten the anonymous letter. She would have plenty of time to think about them during her long evening alone.

Harry Mercer wiped his hands on a rag and leaned over the engine again. A drop of sweat from his forehead fell into the works. Maybe that would do some good. Nothing else he tried was helping.

Harry and Scooter had headed out in the
Miss Kathy
at daylight, but the engine trouble developed before they even reached the wreck site. Maybe they could have carried on, but as Harry had pointed out, all they needed was to have the boat die on them out there. If they had to radio for help, they might as well put up a billboard to advertise what they were doing.

So they had lost the morning. Back at the Beachcomber, Harry was still tinkering, barefooted and shirtless, in the noon blaze. He had to get the sucker fixed. He couldn’t afford to hire somebody to do it. He had spent a lot of extra money on the salvage operation, figuring he’d get it all back tenfold. Which he would, but at this point things were tight.

“Try it again,” he said to Scooter.

Scooter cranked. Harry didn’t like the sound. He knew his boat, and he knew the problem was still there somewhere, underneath.

“Sounds all right. I think you fixed it,” Scooter said.

“Not yet.”

“Harry—”

“I said not yet, Scooter. Give me another minute or two, okay?”

Leaning over the engine, screwdriver in hand, Harry felt his resolve crumbling. They didn’t have time to waste. They ought to be out working the wreck, not lolling around here. Every day that went by, every hour, increased the risk that somebody would get suspicious.

Harry stared at the engine. To figure out what the underlying problem was, he’d have to dismantle the damned thing. He’d have to take off a couple of days, and he couldn’t.

To show he wasn’t giving in to Scooter, he spent another ten minutes tinkering, tightening screws and so on, before he said, “All right. Let’s get the cover back on.” He wiped his hands on the rag again, dropped the screwdriver in his toolbox, and looked up to see Isabel Anders standing on the dock.

Isabel was shading her eyes, looking at him. She was wearing white slacks and a loose white shirt. She looked cool and clean. She also looked nervous. She said, “Harry? I asked in the office and they said I’d find you here.”

Harry was outraged. He was aware of Scooter standing nearby, aware of his own greasy hands and sweaty torso, and, more than anything else, aware that Isabel had felt free to waltz over here and seek him out as if she was entitled to.

He crossed his arms. “They were right. Here I am.”

“I wondered— do you have a minute?”

“For what?”

He saw her eyes cut toward Scooter. “I wanted to talk with you.”

This was a moment out of Harry’s dreams, a moment he could never realistically have hoped for. He made the most of it. He gave her a long poker-faced stare. “Talk with me?”

He could see she didn’t care for his attitude. She took a step backward. “That’s what I said. But it looks like you’re busy.”

She had a hell of a nerve, getting snippy with him. Harry said, “I’m kind of busy, yeah. But you know what else? I haven’t got anything to say to you, Isabel, and I’m not interested in anything you have to say to me.”

God, it felt good. Like lancing a boil. Harry went on: “I can’t stop you from being here, but I’m telling you to stay out of my way. I don’t know what you think you’re—” But Isabel had turned and was walking down the dock away from him, her back straight and stiff.

Harry’s chest was heaving. He leaned next to the engine and tried to catch his breath. He wanted to run after Isabel and say more, shout more.