Skinny Dip - Страница 12

Corbett had begged his younger sister to flee the States with him, but Joey's heart had been set on Florida. He had not been surprised when she married Benjamin Middenbock, but he was astounded when the stockbroker proved to be an upright, honest fellow with no overt interest in Joey's money. It was only later, after Benny had been flattened by the sky diver, that Corbett learned his sister had never educated her adoring husband about the family fortune. Corbett then began to suspect that Joey could take care of herself.

By that time he'd grown to love New Zealand, which was as vast and glorious as California, though without the motoring hordes. He had developed an improbable interest in sheep farming during a period when the East Friesian breed was being introduced from Sweden. East Friesians were the most prolific milking sheep in the world, and crossbreeding with New Zealand strains produced a bounty of chubby, fuzzy lambs. Corbett Wheeler had done very well for himself, though profit had never been a motive; he simply possessed an innocent fondness for the husbandry of sheep. Nothing gave him more joy than sitting on the porch of his farmhouse, toking on a joint and gazing out upon verdant slopes speckled in pewter with rams, ewes and lambs.

One night, Joey had called excitedly to report that their late mother's twin sister-the avaricious harpy who had raised them-was being sent to prison for authoring fraudulent insurance claims. Dottie Babcock had been working in Los Angeles as a professional accident victim, racking up two or three imaginary collisions per month in league with a crooked physician. For every alias used by Dottie Bab-cock, there was a corresponding crushed vertebra, shattered hip or detached retina. A newspaper had tracked her down and plastered on the front page a photograph of her Rollerblading with her Pila-tes instructor in Santa Monica. Authorities had been obliged to take action, and a judge slapped Dottie with eight to twelve years. Joey had delivered this bulletin in the hope that her brother might consider a return to the States, but Corbett had declined. From such a distance (and filtered through the leery eye of the BBC), American culture appeared increasingly manic and uninviting. Moreover, Corbett Wheeler couldn't imagine a life without lambing.

He had come back only once, for Benjamin Middenbock's funeral, and had lasted barely forty-eight hours. The blinding vulgarity of South Florida was too much; total sensory overload. Corbett had flown home to Christchurch, resolved to hunker down and tend his flock. He spoke regularly to his sister, and in that way had learned of her growing doubts as to the faithfulness and rectitude of her second husband, Dr. Charles Perrone. Still, Joey had said nothing in those conversations that even hinted she feared for her safety.

"He actually pushed you off the ship?" Corbett Wheeler's hand was shaking as he gripped the telephone. "How? And why, for God's sake?"

Joey told him the story of what had happened that night. He managed to laugh when she got to the part about the bale of grass.

"Who found you-the DEA?"

"Not even close."

"But you've been to the police, right?"

No reply.

"Joey, what's going on?"

"It would be my word against Chaz's," she said, "and he's a good actor, Corbett. Better than me."

Corbett Wheeler thought about that for a few moments. "So, is there a plan?" he asked.

"There will be. I might need your help."

"You name it," he said. "Where are you now?"

"On some island," she said.

"Oh, that's terrific. Are you alone?"

"I'm staying with the man who rescued me."

"Aw, Joey, come on."

"I trust him," she said.

"You trusted Chaz, too," Corbett Wheeler said. "I'm chartering a jet first thing in the morning."

"No, not yet. Please."

His little sister had her weak moments, Corbett knew, but deep down she was a tough cookie.

"What exactly are you up to?" he asked.

After Joey got off the phone, she went outside and found Mick Strana-han fishing from the seawall, Strom dozing at his side.

"How soon can Chaz have me declared legally dead?" she asked. "We're talking, what-weeks? Months? When there's no corpse, I mean."

"State law says five years," Stranahan said.

Joey was glad to hear it, although she didn't intend to spend that much time stalking an asshole husband. She was looking for something quick and dirty.

"Corbett is calling the sheriff's office," she said, "to tell them it wasn't a suicide or an accident."

"You want the cops leaning on Chaz so soon?"

"The more the merrier. Besides, they can't prove he did it. You said so yourself."

"Not without your testimony, they probably can't."

"So they'll just ask lots of questions and make him a nervous wreck, which is fine by me."

"Him lying awake every night, wondering what's next," Stranahan said.

"Yeah, exactly. Staring at the ceiling."

"But then how does it finally end?"

"I'm not sure," Joey said. "You got any nifty ideas? I'll bet you do."

Stranahan reeled in a snapper and tossed it in the bucket. He said, "You're entitled to some hard feelings. The guy tried to kill you, after all."

"Mostly, I need to find out why," said Joey. "Whatever else happens with Chaz, I can't walk away until I know the reason he did it. Did I mention he was younger than me?"

"No."

"By almost five years. Big mistake, marrying an arrested adolescent."

She paused, worrying about one possible implication of what she'd said. Pointedly she added, "That doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly start dating older guys."

"Oh, darn my luck." Stranahan never took his eyes off the water.

Joey frowned. "Sarcasm is not attractive. Chaz specialized in it."

"Grand larceny isn't exactly my idea of a turn-on, either."

"What!"

"You stole my boat, remember?"

"For heaven's sake," Joey said.

She was trying to lay down a few simple rules, that's all. She didn't want Stranahan to get the wrong idea about their relationship. The cornerstones of her revamped approach to men would be candor and clarity, and Stranahan was the first test case.

"Mick, I want to pay you for your help. Plus expenses, of course, including room and board."

"I still can't promise I won't try to sleep with you," he said. "That's how I often behave when I meet someone attractive. It's only fair you should know."

"I appreciate the honesty. I do."

"Don't worry, you'll see me coming about a mile away. I'm not real slick."

"No?"

"French wine, moonlight and Neil Young, strictly acoustic. Don't laugh, I know it's hokey."

"Depends on the wine," Joey said.

She was remembering the way he'd kissed her hand while the Coast Guard spotter was eyeballing them from the helicopter. She was wondering if it had been more than a show.

Stranahan said, "If you were my sister-"

"Or daughter."

"Christ, I'm not that old."

"Go on," Joey said.

"If you were my sister-honestly?-I'd tell you to get your butt off this island as fast as possible."

"Because…"

"Because for all you know," he said, "I could be president of the Ted Bundy Fan Club. I could be a serial killer-slash-rapist-slash-fill in the blank."

"Now you're just tryin' to sweet-talk me," Joey drawled.

Stranahan pulled in another snapper and declared they had plenty for supper. He got up and whistled for Strom to follow him to the fish-cleaning table.

"He loves to hassle the gulls," Stranahan said.

"You eat fish every night?"

"No. Sometimes it's lobster. Sometimes stone crabs."

"You don't get lonely out here?" Joey asked.

"Makes up for all the years of foolish companionship."

Stranahan unsheathed a narrow curved knife and went to work. It was a delicate enterprise because the snappers were small, but the blade was steady and precise in his large weathered hands. Joey found herself watching with an odd sort of reverence, as if gutting a fish were some sort of mystic rite.

"One night maybe we'll take the skiff up to Key Biscayne," he was saying. "There's a few decent restaurants-"

"Mick, do you have a gun?" she asked.

"This is Florida, darling."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. The head of the Miami Chamber of Commerce used to keep a loaded Uzi under her bed," Stranahan said. "So the answer would be yes, I own a firearm."

"Will you show me how to use it?"

"I don't think so."

"Just in case Chaz gets wise?"

"It's too dangerous."

"Okay." Joey thinking: A half-wit baboon could learn how to shoot.

"What exactly does your husband do for a living?" Stranahan asked.

"I told you. He's a biologist."

"But doing what?"

"He works on the Everglades project for the state water-management district."

"He any good?" Stranahan asked.

"I wouldn't know. Science is another universe to me," Joey said. "I was the jock in the family."

"What do they pay him?" Stranahan tossed a handful offish entrails into the water. A gull dove on the splat, ignoring Strom's fevered barking.

Joey said, "Chaz's salary is sixty-two thousand a year. The only reason I know is because he got audited by the IRS."

"Can he get to your money? This is important."

She assured Stranahan that her inheritance was safe.

"And Chaz signed a pre-nup anyway. Every so often he'd hint around like he wanted me to tear it up, but eventually he gave up."

"Doesn't that seem strange?"

"No, because he had a nest egg of his own. I didn't pry," Joey said, "because he didn't pry. Money wasn't a huge issue in our marriage, if that's what you're getting at. We split the bills down the middle. Filed separate tax returns."