marks with her fingers. “ ‘Biographer.’ ” She shook her head. “He couldn’t write his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“He seemed to think a lot of himself.”
“His name is Richard Thomas. Goes by ‘Dicky.’ Should be ‘Tricky Dick.’ ”
“What’s up with all the black?”
“It’s the color of his heart pouring out his skin.” She crossed her arms and began climbing below. She spoke over her shoulder. “Your place in the Glades, is it safe?”
I smiled. “Depends on how you define ‘safe.’ If you mean safe from snakes and alligators. The answer is no. If you mean safe from people, then yes. It’s like going to Mars. Listen…” I glanced in the direction of Chokoloskee, trying to lighten the tension. “I just bought deodorant for myself for the first time in eight years. My social graces are not really up to date. If I offend you, well, it’s not intentional. I’ve been alone a long time.”
She stood on the aft deck, looking up at me. The breeze was warm but she looked cold. “You said you value your secret more than mine.” She waited. It was a question. Not a statement. I didn’t answer. She tried again. “Did you… murder somebody? I mean, is that why you’re out here?”
I considered how to answer. I did so indirectly. “Have you ever murdered anyone?”
“Just myself.”
I smiled. “Well then, you’re in good company.”
She stopped me. “Do you always answer questions with other questions?”
I answered without looking. “Only when I know that the answerwill hurt me.” I handed her the two plastic grocery store bags. “The things you asked for. Along with some clothes. I guessed at your size.”
She half smiled. “Thank you.”
A helicopter buzzed the treetops en route to the site of the explosion. “We’d better get moving.”
CHAPTER TEN
W e closed up
Gone Fiction
, left her anchored in a dense section of mangroves, and I cranked
Jody.
Katie stepped down holding a plastic grocery bag stuffed with her clothes. She shook her head. “It’s been a long time since everything I owned could fit in one bag.” She stowed it. “I once paid over five thousand dollars for a piece of luggage to hold my shoes, but I’m not sure it was as useful as that bag.”
When I turned away from the gulf, she set her hand on my arm. The first time she’d touched me in some way other than anger. “Would you mind driving me by the—or
my
memorial?”
I would not say that I had grown comfortable with Katie Quinn. Nor her with me. Our movement around each other was more like oil and water—sharing a necessary border but not necessarily mixing. “Sure.”
In driving her back to her watery grave, the idea occurred to me that dogs often return to their vomit, but I didn’t share that with her. From a distance, we circled the growing circus. A small charterboat carrying a captain and one passenger floated near the site of the explosion. Death tours. Somebody was already making money off this. Katie stared at the singular frame in the back of the charter boat. She squinted, then shook her head once. “Silvia. My housekeeper.” The woman knelt in the back of the boat, prayed, threw something in the water, then stood and motioned the charter pilot to return her to port. Katie shook her head. Her bottom lip trembled slightly. “No one will ever work for me again.”
Despite her attempts to suppress them, Katie’s emotions bubbled near the surface and her stoic ability to control them was fading. Cracks in the dam. Words dangled on the tip of her tongue.
I studied the boats—the muted party. It struck me as strange. So off-key. All these fans—the “show” of mourning—and yet the only two broken hearts belonged to Silvia and Katie. Most everyone else seemed saddened at the loss of a silver-screen someone they did not know and had never met but who had given them what they wanted. Who had filled their need. These rum-drunk, coconut-oiled people were saddened at what
“He seemed to think a lot of himself.”
“His name is Richard Thomas. Goes by ‘Dicky.’ Should be ‘Tricky Dick.’ ”
“What’s up with all the black?”
“It’s the color of his heart pouring out his skin.” She crossed her arms and began climbing below. She spoke over her shoulder. “Your place in the Glades, is it safe?”
I smiled. “Depends on how you define ‘safe.’ If you mean safe from snakes and alligators. The answer is no. If you mean safe from people, then yes. It’s like going to Mars. Listen…” I glanced in the direction of Chokoloskee, trying to lighten the tension. “I just bought deodorant for myself for the first time in eight years. My social graces are not really up to date. If I offend you, well, it’s not intentional. I’ve been alone a long time.”
She stood on the aft deck, looking up at me. The breeze was warm but she looked cold. “You said you value your secret more than mine.” She waited. It was a question. Not a statement. I didn’t answer. She tried again. “Did you… murder somebody? I mean, is that why you’re out here?”
I considered how to answer. I did so indirectly. “Have you ever murdered anyone?”
“Just myself.”
I smiled. “Well then, you’re in good company.”
She stopped me. “Do you always answer questions with other questions?”
I answered without looking. “Only when I know that the answerwill hurt me.” I handed her the two plastic grocery store bags. “The things you asked for. Along with some clothes. I guessed at your size.”
She half smiled. “Thank you.”
A helicopter buzzed the treetops en route to the site of the explosion. “We’d better get moving.”
CHAPTER TEN
W e closed up
Gone Fiction
, left her anchored in a dense section of mangroves, and I cranked
Jody.
Katie stepped down holding a plastic grocery bag stuffed with her clothes. She shook her head. “It’s been a long time since everything I owned could fit in one bag.” She stowed it. “I once paid over five thousand dollars for a piece of luggage to hold my shoes, but I’m not sure it was as useful as that bag.”
When I turned away from the gulf, she set her hand on my arm. The first time she’d touched me in some way other than anger. “Would you mind driving me by the—or
my
memorial?”
I would not say that I had grown comfortable with Katie Quinn. Nor her with me. Our movement around each other was more like oil and water—sharing a necessary border but not necessarily mixing. “Sure.”
In driving her back to her watery grave, the idea occurred to me that dogs often return to their vomit, but I didn’t share that with her. From a distance, we circled the growing circus. A small charterboat carrying a captain and one passenger floated near the site of the explosion. Death tours. Somebody was already making money off this. Katie stared at the singular frame in the back of the charter boat. She squinted, then shook her head once. “Silvia. My housekeeper.” The woman knelt in the back of the boat, prayed, threw something in the water, then stood and motioned the charter pilot to return her to port. Katie shook her head. Her bottom lip trembled slightly. “No one will ever work for me again.”
Despite her attempts to suppress them, Katie’s emotions bubbled near the surface and her stoic ability to control them was fading. Cracks in the dam. Words dangled on the tip of her tongue.
I studied the boats—the muted party. It struck me as strange. So off-key. All these fans—the “show” of mourning—and yet the only two broken hearts belonged to Silvia and Katie. Most everyone else seemed saddened at the loss of a silver-screen someone they did not know and had never met but who had given them what they wanted. Who had filled their need. These rum-drunk, coconut-oiled people were saddened at what
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