Carl Hiaasen by Nature Girl Page B

him about the experiment, declaring: “See, there’s no damn statistical difference! Eleven bites on the shaved one and eleven bites on the unshaved one—I’m keeping a chart.”
    Her son nodded uncomfortably.
    “But maybe I should wait,” Honey said, running two fingers along her right shin. “It’s just a stubble now. Maybe it’s gotta grow in thick and curly before it works.”
    Fry handed her his paper about the warrior Osceola. Then he went back inside and came out with a towel that he’d soaked with warm water from the kitchen tap. While Honey read through the essay, he wiped the dead mosquitoes from her legs.
    He said, “Mom, let’s go in. We need to talk.”
    “This is pretty good,” Honey said, tapping a fingernail on the pages he’d written, “except you got Jesup’s name wrong. There’s only one
s.
”
    “I’ll fix it later. How about some dinner?”
    “You didn’t put in the part about them stealing Osceola’s head after he died. About that army doctor keeping it at home in a jar, and taking it out to frighten his kids.”
    “Are you making this up? Because it’s incredibly twisted,” Fry said.
    “I did
not
make it up!” Honey Santana slapped the essay pages into his hand. He could see she was telling the truth.
    “Mom, you’re getting all torqued up again. Maybe you should go back to the doctor.”
    She smiled and stretched like a cat. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “You up for pizza? I’ve got a coupon somewhere.”

    Dealey was tired of the Shreave case. He’d done his job, nailing the knucklehead in the act, and now he was ready for fresh meat.
    “Trust me. Your husband won’t give you any trouble over the divorce,” he assured Lily Shreave. “After seeing what you’ve got on him, he’ll sign anything.”
    She said, “I want more, Mr. Dealey.”
    “But why? I got you dinner tabs and floral receipts and eight-by-tens and video.” Dealey could not suppress his exasperation. “You said the photos of the blow job weren’t enough. You wanted ‘documentation of intercourse,’ so I got that, too—on tape, for Christ’s sake! What else do you need, Mrs. Shreave?”
    “Penetration,” she replied.
    Dealey waited for her to chuckle and tell him she was only kidding. When it became apparent that she was serious, he shut the door to his office so as not to offend his assistant, who had recently found religion.
    “That video you took was good,” Lily Shreave said, “but I want something a hundred percent irrefutable.”
    “Excuse me? I got you a naked woman grinding your husband on the sofa of her living room, and you say that’s not proof of adultery?” Dealey had his share of wacko clients, but Lily Shreave was breaking new ground.
    He said, “I’d kill to be in court when Bouncing Boyd tries to explain that little scene. ‘Honest, Your Honor, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a pelvic chiropractor.’”
    “Yes, but in the video all you really see of him is the back of his head,” Lily remarked.
    “The lady nearly knocks him unconscious with her tits, Mrs. Shreave! In my business, it doesn’t get any better than that. Seventeen years, I’ve never seen a tape of that quality,” he asserted with no small measure of pride.
    Lily Shreave had replayed the video over and over during her last visit to Dealey’s office. He remembered her sitting unusually close to the screen—not angry or tearful, but hunched forward and studious. At the time, Dealey had thought it was a little creepy.
    He said, “This is a slam dunk, Mrs. Shreave. Ask any divorce lawyer in Texas.”
    Lily was unswayed. “I’d prefer to see penetration,” she said flatly. “That would be the smoking gun.”
    “No, that would be a fucking miracle,” said Dealey, “literally.”
    “I suppose I could find another private investigator.”
    “And I’d understand completely.” He passed his invoice across the desk. “That includes gas and expenses.”
    As Boyd Shreave’s wife