A flush of shadows, p.2
A Flush of Shadows, page 2
In her room again, she began to shiver and started to adjust the air conditioner, but she had turned it off when she arrived and it had not been on since. She went to the balcony to let the late-afternoon sun warm her. She realized that she was cursing under her breath and suddenly she laughed. A tug of war over a man! She had not played games like that since her teens. Now she began to look over the people on the sand below. Finally, she found Lou Bramley and June Oliveira, exactly as before. She stood thinking and then went back inside and dialed Charlie again.
"I just want you to call her and keep her on the line a few minutes."
He didn't like it, he said many times, until she said she would hire a bellboy to do it, and if she paid him ten, that woman would more than likely pay fifteen to learn the identity of the hoaxer.
"And if you get him out of her clutches, then what?"
"I'm going to try to get him drunk enough to sleep tonight. If he doesn't, he just might go through with it, no matter what you tell him. He's desperate for sleep."
Charlie grumbled some more, but he would make the call to Oliveira in five minutes. "Honey," he said before hanging up, "just be damned careful."
Lou Bramley sat in the afternoon sun with June Oliveira and on her balcony Constance shivered. It was crazy, she told herself sternly; there were fifty people down there, and that many more on the beach, dozens of people swimming or sunbathing. It was a mob scene down there.
Almost thirteen years ago, Charlie had given her a present of one year of self-defense classes. He had insisted over her protests, saying further that as soon as Jessica was ten, he was going to enroll her also. Months later, she had come home one afternoon upset and unwilling to continue. "Charlie, what Kim is teaching us now are lethal blows. I don't like it."
He had held her shoulders and regarded her soberly. "If anyone ever lays a hand on you, hurts you, you'd better kill him. Because if you don't, I will. You'll get off with self-defense, but it will be murder for me." They both knew he meant it.
What her classes had not prepared her to do, she thought decisively, was to stay in her den and shivear when she had agreed to do a job. She waited in the dark, cool bar for the bellboy to summon June Oliveira for her urgent long distance call. The bar adjoined the terrace; it had ceiling-to-floor smoked-glass windows that let the patrons see out and kept those on the outside from seeing in.
The day the walnut tree fell was the day that Jessica had given up junk food, had, in fact, become a health-food fanatic. The girls had come running in, talking shrilly, caught up in a nervous reaction to the storm and the crash of the tree, and the realization that they could so easily have been under it. Jessica had stopped at the door and looked at her mother across the kitchen. There had been beads of sweat on her upper lip. Wordlessly, she had crossed the room and hugged Constance very hard, shaking, saying nothing. Strange, Constance thought as she watched, how memories like that one pop up, complete, every detail there, as if it were a little scene one could raise the curtain on at any time. She was glad she had been with her daughter on the day she learned how short the distance was between life and death.
Presently, June Oliveira appeared, walking fast toward the lobby. Constance left the bar through the terrace door and went straight to Lou Bramley. The woman had left her scarf on the chair; she did not intend to be delayed very long.
"Hi," Constance said. "Want to take a walk?"
Bramley jumped up and looked around swiftly. "I certainly do. Let's go."
They started for the beach, then he stopped. "It's no good. She'll just tag along."
"I've got a rental car in the lot," Constance said, taking his arm. "Let's go somewhere else to walk."
They went to a flagstone path that wound between the swimming pool area and the tennis courts, up past the terrace, to the street-front parking lot. Not until they were on the busy highway heading south did Lou Bramley relax.
"I really wanted to talk to you professionally, but I'm not quite sure of the etiquette of the situation. And I owe you an apology," he said. "I'm sorry."
Constance laughed. "I'm retired. Any advice I give these days is just that, advice, like you might get from sweet old Aunt Maud."
She glanced at him as she spoke; his mouth twisted in an attempt to smile, then settled back into a tight line. His sunglasses were mirrors that completely hid his eyes. She turned her attention once more to the road. Incredibly busy, she thought; probably many of them were on their way down to the Tamiami Trail, through the swamps over to the east coast.
A straggly line of pelicans flew across the road; she admired pelicans more than all the other birds. They were scruffy-looking on land, ungainly, comical, but in flight they were supreme. So little effort seemed to go into it. They just opened their wings and sailed.
"I came down here to think through a problem," Lou Bramley said after the silence had stretched out long enough to be almost unbreakable. "A business problem," he added quickly. He turned his head away, as if afraid that even with most of his face hidden behind the sunglasses, he might reveal too much. "Lucky, my wife, says that we constantly signal to each other, all people, and that we learn to read the signals as kids and get sharper at it as we grow up. She says that women don't make passes at me because I'm not signaling that I'd be receptive." He paused, waiting for her response.
"That's really very good," Constance said dutifully.
"Yes. And now especially, with this problem, I know I'm not hunting. So why is it that I can't turn around without having that woman at my side? Earlier, I wanted to have a talk with you and I went to her instead. I don't even like her. I actively dislike her, more than anyone I've met in a long time. And I can't stay away from her."
"I wonder what she wants," Constance said.
"That's the stumbling block for me, too. There must be some kind of con game that she's going to pull when the time's right."
"She isn't right for a con artist, too blatant, too uncaring about appearances." She spied a good place to leave the highway at a small restaurant with beach access. "Finally, we can take our walk."
They walked on the hard-packed wet sand at the edge of the water. Lime green waves rose knee-high before they lost themselves in the froth. Flocks of sandpipers probed the sand, scattered at their approach, settled again as soon as they passed. Now and then, a large white heron fluttered up out of their way, or a bunch of seagulls screeched at them. Constance did not push the conversation or try to direct it as he talked about the woman, June Oliveira. She got little from it; he was not a good observer, not an attentive listener, not at this time in his life, anyway.
They turned back as the sun was setting in a gaudy display of reds, golds, ivory, green. Offshore, a large yacht was moving south. They watched it.
"I don't swim," Lou Bramley said suddenly.
"My husband doesn't swim very well," Constance said. "He paddles a little."
"I saw you heading straight out into the Gulf this morning; it gave me a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realized I couldn't see you any longer."
"I don't think June Oliveira swims, either," Constance said. "At least I haven't seen her doing it."
"She thinks it's dangerous. She doesn't do anything dangerous. She thinks people are crazy who do."
He did not break the silence again until they were drawing near the tiny restaurant. "Would you like to have dinner here? I understand almost all the seafood restaurants are pretty good."
They got a booth by a window and she ordered a martini; they watched the end of the gaudy sunset while they waited for it.
"What happened after you published your articles?" he asked. He had not ordered a drink, and he watched her sip her martini with poorly concealed desire for one just like it.
He was punishing himself, she thought, making himself live through every minute of this week without help of any sort. The hollows under his eyes were alarming.
"I had already quit the hospital when I began to write the articles," she said. "They brought a little pressure on the university. I had tenure and they couldn't have touched me, but it was uncomfortable. I finished the semester and dropped that, too. It wasn't as if I sacrificed anything," she said easily. "I was busier than ever doing consulting."
"They made it look like a continuation of the old battle between the psychologists who aren't doctors and the psychiatrists who are," he said thoughtfully.
She shrugged. "A plague on both their houses. I'm researching a book right now that will damn the psychologists just as much as those articles damned the holy psychiatrists."
"I'd like to see that," he said almost regretfully, and his eyes went distant as his fingers began to tap on the table-top. He was back in his own hell.
"It's heady stuff," she said, "taking an opponent that much bigger than you are." His gaze remained fixed. She pulled the menu close to the candle and tried to make out the faint print.
When the waiter came to take their orders she asked to see the wine list and was disappointed by the selection. She did the best she could with it and said firmly, "two glasses." Lou Bramley started to protest, then became silent again. For the first time, he seemed to be uncomfortable with the silence.
"I'm surprised that they're still treating so many people with electroshock," he said.
"Several hundred thousand a year. For a while, they thought they had a better solution with psycho drugs, but what happened was, they ended up with addicts. Mostly women."
"And the difference in the treatments for men and women. That was shocking, too."
"Shocking," she agreed. "That's the word."
Suddenly, he smiled, the first time. "I'm not very good company. I'm sorry. Thanks for rescuing me, though. I'm glad we got out, away from that woman."
He ate little, but he drank the wine, and she kept refilling his glass; when the bottle was low, she signaled the waiter, who immediately brought a new one. The food was delicious. She was sorry he had not eaten.
They both ordered key lime pie and while they waited for it, he said, "I really wanted to talk to you about a favor. You mentioned that your husband is joining you this weekend and you'll be around next week?"
She nodded.
He leaned back as the waiter came with their pie. For a minute, Constance was afraid he would reconsider and withdraw again, but as soon as the waiter left, he went on.
"I thought I might miss you tomorrow. I have an important call I have to wait for in my room, and I thought you might have plans to go out. Anyway, that woman has made me jumpy, and I don't want to leave anything in my room. For all I know she might find a key somewhere, let herself in." He tried to laugh to show that he did not really mean it, but the effort was wasted. "It's something I want kept safe for me. I'm going deep-sea fishing, but I mentioned that already, didn't I?"
He knew he had not. The lie evidently made his mouth dry; he had to drink some of the awful water before he could continue. Constance was missing nothing: his sudden thirst, the way his fingers tightened and relaxed, tightened again, the way he avoided her gaze. He was still too dry to go on and he reached for the wine this time.
Constance took a bite of the pie and drew in a deep breath. It was sinfully good, made with real whipped cream, real lime juice.
"I don't want to leave confidential papers in the hotel safe," Lou Bramley said finally. "I know they have to turn things over to the police in case of accident or anything," he said in a rush.
He stopped again and this time Constance thought he would not go on. "This has to do with your business problem?"
"Yes. That's it. I would like to know that someone responsible has the papers, just in case."
"I'll be glad to hold anything for you."
"Thanks. And if—I mean there's always a chance that something could happen—and if it does, would you just drop the stuff in a mailbox for me? There will be two envelopes ready to mail. Inside a larger envelope."
She nodded.
"I can't tell you how that relieves my mind," he said. "I know it must sound crazy, but I've got a hunch that I should make sure that stuff is safe." He put his fork down and looked past her out the window and instantly his face was set in that distant look she had come to know.
"I believe very much in hunches," she said. "I used to wonder why everyone in my profession paid so little attention to intuitions, hunches, things that we all experience and no one wants to talk about. Some of those patients committed to years of institutional life, ordeals of drugs, shock treatments, hours of psychodrama, group therapies, the works, are there because they couldn't bring themselves to ignore their intuitions. They got out of control. Others, even sicker people on the outside, pretend there is no such thing. There has to be a middle ground; there has to be a handle to it, a way to look into it without being labeled crazy. I haven't found it yet," she admitted. "But I'm convinced that you can't treat neurotics, psychotics, psychopaths, any of them, unless you admit that part of the psyche is still uncharted, unknown, and powerful."
She had brought him back; he was regarding her with interest.
"They'll crucify you," he said softy.
"They might try. I'm hammering my nails as hard and fast as they are hammering theirs."
He smiled with her.
She made a waving motion. "Enough of that. Why is your wife nicknamed Lucky?"
It was a silly story—her father had won a daily double the day she was born—but it started Lou Bramley talking. It was all about his wife and two children now, the trips they had taken, the strange and wonderful things the children had done. Nothing current, nothing about the future, nothing more recent than a couple of years ago. When he paused, she told a story about Jessica, or about Charlie.
They were the only customers still in the restaurant when it closed. He was yawning widely. At the car, he stopped and looked back at the small dining room, the beach beyond it pale under a new moon. He nodded, then got in.
It was shortly after twelve when they walked into the hotel lobby and saw June Oliveira studying travel folders near the desk. Lou Bramley groaned.
"Jesus Christ!" he muttered. "She's just waiting. She knows and she's waiting."
On Friday, Charlie arrived at the hotel at 6:30 and went straight up to their room, where Constance was waiting for him. He kissed her fervently.
"You had me worried," he said then, holding her at arm's length, studying her. "Have you looked at your nose?"
She had; it was shiny and red as a plum tomato. It was also hot.
"You know what he's running away from?" she asked.
"I think so. He needs to confirm it; I don't have a stitch of proof."
"If he doesn't, we have to kidnap him or something. We can't let him go through with it, Charlie. I like him; he doesn't deserve that."
"And I like his wife a bunch, too. We'll see. Now, what about that mystery woman?"
"I wish I knew. Look, Bramley hasn't left his room all day. He's waiting for that phone call. He was supposed to get a package to me for safekeeping, and he hasn't done that, either. It's that woman. She's got some kind of control over him. I know, I know…."
Charlie watched her pace to the window, back. He had seen her like this before, but not for a very long time. He tried to pull her to the sofa next to him; she was too restless to sit down.
"Charlie, you'll have to get him out of here to talk to him. Tell him he's insured. Tell him you have to have something to eat, say in the coffee shop, that he has to sign papers and can do it there. She'll follow. In the lobby, I'll distract her, and that's when you have to get him out. There's a place down the road, south, Jake's Fish House. I'll meet you there. You rented a car, didn't you?"
"Yes. You told me to, remember? Constance, what is all this? You're nearly hysterical, you know?"
"I'm not hysterical, but there isn't much time. There's an eleven o'clock flight out of Miami and I want him on it. Charlie, he won't talk here! That woman is hanging out on his elbow. Believe me."
He kissed her again and went to the door. "Okay. Jake's Fish House. It'd better be good, sweetie, real good."
He would have recognized Lou Bramley from the photographs, but they had not prepared him for the muddy color of his face. He had blanched when Charlie said he represented the insurance company.
"You have the policy, Mr. Bramley," Charlie said. "There are some formalities, of course, a few things to sign."
Bramley sank into a chair, staring at him blankly; very slowly, the mud color changed to a reddish suntan. He moistened his lips. "Something to sign?"
"Yeah. Would you mind going to the coffee shop? I got a lousy headache on that flight down here. Cup of coffee and a couple aspirins, that's what I need. We can get the paperwork done there."
Bramley nodded and stood up. He went to a chest, opened a drawer, and withdrew a manila envelope. "I have to drop this off at the desk," he said, looking at the envelope.
The woman was standing at the elevators when they arrived. The Dragon Lady, Charlie thought, and nodded to her. At his side, Lou Bramley had gone stiff. He looked straight ahead, as if he had not seen the woman at all. No one spoke.
She got off before them but was walking so slowly that they passed her within a few feet of the recessed elevator bank. They went to the desk, where Bramley handed over his envelope and watched until the clerk deposited it in Constance's box. He took a deep breath.
"The coffee shop's over there," he said dully, turning from the desk.
The woman was less than fifteen feet away. Constance appeared and walked between them, and when the woman stepped aside, Constance brushed against her.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Constance yelled. "She had her hand in my purse!"
June Oliveira started to move away faster; Constance caught her by the arm and turned her around. "I know you did! I saw you and I felt the tug on my purse. It's happened to me before, just like that."
"Let's get the hell out of here," Charlie said, taking Bramley's arm. There was no need to tug; Bramley was already nearly running for the wide entrance doors.
In Jake's Fish House, they took a booth and Charlie ordered. "One scotch on the rocks," he said, pointing to Bramley. "One very dry martini for me."
