Tourist Season by Carl Hiaasen Page B

Brian?”
    “Yes.” He started to gag. He hoped it was just a fish bone going down the wrong way. Jenna came around the table and patted him on the back.
    “Deep breaths,” she said soothingly. “Don’t eat so fast.”
    “Why,” Keyes rasped, “did you ask me that question?”
    “Skip says you were madly in love with me.”
    “I told you that myself,” Keyes said, “about thirty thousand times.”
    “I remember, Brian.”
    God, there’s the smile.
    “How about now?” Jenna asked. “Still feel the same way?”
    Oh no, you don’t. Keyes shifted into a tough-guy mode. “This is business, Jenna. Let’s talk about Skip. Where do you think he could be?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Oh really.”
    “Brian! This isn’t funny. I think he’s in trouble. I think somebody’s got him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s a good target,” Jenna said. She started clearing the table. “You sit still, I’ll do this. Let’s see, you take your coffee black … “
    “Cream and sugar,” Keyes said painfully. “But I think I’ll wait.”
    “Okay. As I was saying, Skip’s a very well-known person, a genuine celebrity. That makes him a perfect target for kidnappers. Look at Patty Hearst.”
    “Or Frank Sinatra, Jr.,” Keyes said.
    “Exactly.”
    “You ever read The Ransom of Red Chief?”
    “Sure,” Jenna said. “What are you getting at?”
    “Nothing.”
    Every so often Keyes’s attention was drawn to the coffin, which dominated Jenna’s otherwise-cozy living room. The coffin was plain and vanilla-colored, made of smooth Dade County pine. A pauper’s coffin. Jenna had done a valiant job of trying to disguise it as normal furniture. She had placed cocktail coasters neatly on each corner of the lid, and in the center she had stationed a blue Ming vase with fresh-cut sunflowers. For more camouflage she had added a thick stack of magazines, with Town and Country on top. Despite all this, there was no mistaking the coffin for anything else. Keyes wondered morbidly if he ought to peek inside, just to make sure Wiley wasn’t there.
    “There’s been no ransom demand, has there?” he asked Jenna.
    “Not yet. Let’s sit on the couch.” Jenna put a James Taylor album on the stereo and went into the bedroom. When she came out, her hair was down and she was barefoot.
    “If Skip wasn’t kidnapped,” she said, “then maybe Cab’s right. Maybe he just went crazy and wandered off.” She curled up on the couch. “I wish I had a fireplace.”
    “It’s seventy-four degrees outside,” Keyes said.
    “What happened to my young romantic?”
    Keyes smiled bashfully; God, she never let up. He fought to keep a proper tone to his voice. “Is there a possibility … have you two been getting along?”
    “Better than ever,” Jenna said. “We made love the afternoon he left. Twice!”
    “Oh.”
    “Right there, where you’re sitting.”
    “Sorry I asked.”
    Keyes kept waiting for Jenna to say: I know how hard it was for you to take this case. But she never did, and gave no sign of comprehending his distress.
    “You’ve got to find him, Brian. I don’t want to get the police involved, and I don’t want a lot of publicity. It could ruin his career.”
    Or cinch it, Keyes mused. He asked, “Do you think he’s gone insane?”
    “I’m not sure I’d know the difference.” Jenna took off her earrings and laid them on the coffin. Elegantly she poured herself another glass of wine. Keyes sipped cautiously. The Chablis gave a dangerous urgency to his loneliness.
    Jenna said, “Lately Skip’s been wilder than usual. He wakes up ranting and goes to bed ranting. You know, the usual stuff: toxic waste, oil spills, the California condor, the Biscayne Aquifer. Armageddon in general. About a week ago a man came to the door selling time-shares in Key Largo, and Skip attacked him with a marlin gaff.”
    Keyes asked, “Does he get incoherent?”
    Jenna laughed softly. “Never. He’s a very cogent person, even when