 
### Baiting & Fishing

by

Meredith Rae Morgan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Meredith Morgan

All Rights Reserved

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Chapter 1

Ray Bailey sat at a small round table outside an ice cream parlor in the tony shopping district of St. Armand's Key, across the intracoastal waterway from Sarasota, Florida. He sipped a chocolate shake, hoping he appeared to be merely reading the newspaper and casually people-watching. He recognized a number of other reporters from various Sarasota publications hanging around, as well. All of them were attempting to look as though they were doing something besides watching the entrance to the beauty parlor across the street. Ray noted with interest that the throng included an FBI agent who seemed to be trying to look like a reporter.

Ray smiled behind his paper. The agent's act was probably fooling most people in the crowd, but Ray knew the guy. Ray was somehow aware that the agent had seen and recognized him as well. He didn't let his eyes linger or acknowledge the agent in any way but they definitely connected. He hated how sometimes cops could read peoples' minds from long distances and, somehow, let you know they were doing it. Ray was puzzled. He knew why he was there, and he suspected that the other reporters were there for more or less the same reason. He didn't understand why the feds were there. He thought they were finished with this case.

Before he could get too caught up in his speculations about that, the door of the salon opened, and a woman walked out, crossed the sidewalk and stepped into a waiting Mercedes. Ray's focus zeroed in on her for the 30 seconds or so he could see her. She was probably in her fifties, but she was very well preserved. She had dark blond hair that looked pretty good to Ray. He figured it ought to look damned fabulous, given the fact that she had just plunked down about $300 for a haircut. She was statuesque but not model-tall. She was in very good shape for her age, and the word on her was that she maintained her figure with a rigorous regime of exercise and diet. The society columnist at the paper told him that Marcella Wilson was reputed to be about the only woman in her circle who had never had any kind of plastic surgery. That made her kind of a freak among society women. Ray was somehow pleased to hear that because the idea of cosmetic surgery repulsed him. He noticed that her clothes were obviously expensive, but not flashy or revealing.

She had the aura of a woman from "old money" who was comfortable with her wealth. She did not flaunt herself or her money like so many of the nouveau riche women who filled the restaurants and malls of Sarasota in the wintertime. Marcella Wilson was different. She struck Ray as being "classy". That was a commodity he appreciated and which seemed increasingly rare in his world.

The limo pulled out into traffic and headed in the direction of Longboat Key where Ray knew Mrs. Wilson had recently purchased a condo. Ray thought she had the damnedest way of being broke he had ever seen. He polished off the last of his milkshake and noticed that the reporters were all gone. The FBI agent was still there, sitting on the bench pretending to read the newspaper.

Ray tossed his cup in a trashcan and walked across the street toward the agent. He knew if the guy were on official business he'd get the brushoff, but then at least he would know that there was some kind of official investigation. He cleared his throat and said, "Afternoon, Steve. I don't know if you remember me. I'm Ray Bailey from the _Times_. We met a couple of years ago."

The agent looked up as though he had been waiting for Ray. He put out his hand and said, "Sure, I remember you. How's it going?"

"Fine."

An awkward moment followed. Then the agent stood up and said, "I was just about to get a bite of lunch. Care to join me?"

Ray had just inhaled a milkshake and didn't want anything to eat but it isn't every day that a FBI agent invites a reporter to lunch. It fell into the category of "an offer he couldn't refuse." He chuckled to himself and said, "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

The agent thought for a minute and then smiled. "Let's go someplace in town. These joints out here in St. Armand's are out of my price range."

Ray chuckled, out loud this time, and nodded, "Mine, too."

They decided to meet in an hour at an old fish market/restaurant on Tamiami Trail. Before making his way to the restaurant, Ray checked his voice messages and email on his phone and notified his editor he was working on a potential story and would not be back in the office. The editor asked for details. Ray sent her a brief email to the effect that there were no details to provide yet; he said he didn't even know if there was a story. He was just following a hunch.

The editor responded with her standard instructions not to waste time or money where there is no story.

_How the hell do you know whether or not there is a story unless you look?_ Ray was a sort of "old school" reporter. In his opinion there was a continental divide in the world of journalism. Those reporters who had been in the business or who at least had gone to journalism school before Watergate operated according to "old rules" where the idea was to tell stories and write well. Reporters who came up in the immediate post-Watergate world wanted to be the next Woodward or Bernstein; their focus was on investigation and digging up dirt. Ray couldn't tell what the hell the really young reporters were doing; their focus seemed to be on gossip that required neither good writing nor any kind of research beyond the occasional Google search.

Ray had worked as an investigative reporter early in his career, but he moved away from that for the most part by the late 1970's. Since then, he concentrated on feature articles, occasional sports writing (mostly so he could score free tickets to significant games), and "hard" news. Ray was a story teller, not a detective. He was a decent investigator and researcher, but he did those things for the purpose of writing a good story not for the purpose of digging up dirt.

He thought most of the stuff in the newspapers today was abominably written crap. He took longer to research and write his features than any other reporter on the paper, and it was a bone of contention between him and his editor, a woman less than half his age who couldn't write a grammatical sentence if her life depended on it. She was not a journalist. She was a businesswoman, dispatched by a media conglomerate to tighten up the newsroom operations in order to maximize profits for the new owners of the paper.

Ray had been with The Sarasota _Times_ for 35 years and was its highest paid reporter, which wasn't saying much given the fact that until recently it had been an independently owned paper in a relatively small market in Florida. He was keenly aware the new management would love to get rid of him. Frankly, he had contemplated retirement just to get away from the hassle, except he had no earthly idea how he would function if he didn't have a deadline.

If only out of pure stubbornness, he hung onto his job and, made a sport of annoying his editor, which wasn't hard to do because it sometimes seemed that she was always annoyed about something. In return, she seemed to take inordinate delight in pissing Ray off on a regular basis. They both knew that the only thing that saved his job were all the journalism awards he had won, most significantly the two Pulitzer prizes. In the past, he had kept the Pulitzer certificates hidden away in his credenza but he recently had them framed and hung them prominently behind his desk, just to drive her crazy.

The corporations buying up the few small, independent papers around the country were considered, by every reporter Ray knew and most serious readers, to be destroying the quality of America's newspapers. While the corporations that owned the papers vigorously denied it in public, they were systematically initiating policies that made it virtually impossible for reporters to do their jobs well. The few remaining journalists who wrote carefully-researched, thoughtful and well-written stories were being driven out. The only old-timers who were "safe" (relatively speaking) were the ones with prestigious awards because the corporations used those awards in their advertising. His awards gave Ray a tiny measure of breathing room, but he knew that there was definitely a line which his editor would love him to cross so she could get rid of him. The problem was: she knew where the line was, but he didn't.

Forty-five minutes after he left St. Armand's Circle, Ray pulled into the parking lot of Walt's Seafood Market and Restaurant. Steve Johnston was already there. They each ordered a crab cake sandwich and hush puppies with sweet tea. Ray raised his eyebrows and nodded at Steve's food, saying, "I never took you for a Cracker."

Steve laughed, "Not a Cracker. I'm originally from coastal Georgia, near Savannah. I was stationed for a long time in Pennsylvania, so I lost a lot of my accent; I can even pass for a Yankee if I have to, although I wouldn't admit that to the Bureau. I don't ever want to be stationed up north again if I can help it.

"I enjoy this posting. I love being near the ocean, where I can go deep-sea fishing whenever I want. I especially love good seafood, and Southern-style sweet tea."

Ray laughed, "Used to be tea automatically came sweet. Now there are so many damned-Yankees around here, they ask you if you want it sweet or unsweet. I hate that. Why the hell would anyone in his right mind drink unsweetened tea, for God's sake?"

Steve chuckled, and asked, "Are you a native of Sarasota?"

Ray shook his head. "Worse than that. I was born and grew up in Key West, back when Key West was: (a) a Naval Station; (b) a fishing village; and, (c) a haven for various misfits who were pretty much unwelcome anyplace else. When I was a kid, there were no cruise ships or fancy restaurants or designer stores in Key West. I don't think I even owed a pair of shoes other than flip flops until I went to school – and it wasn't because we were poor. My dad owned a bar: in Key West that put us close to the top of the economic food chain at the time.

"My wife used to tell people that Jimmy Buffet fashioned his persona after me. That's not true. The fact of the matter is that Jimmy's persona belongs to him. It just happens that there were a bunch of us living the Margaritaville lifestyle when he came to Key West. He sort of joined in the party and then made the lifestyle known to the public."

"You know Buffet?"

"I met him a few times when I was a kid. He and his buddies used to come into Dad's place occasionally. I think his band may have played there a few times very early in his career, when they still worked mainly for beers and the chance to get up in front of people. At the time there were a lot of guys like Jimmy in Key West. It was sort of South Florida's Party Central. It sure as hell was a fun place to be young."

Steve looked impressed, "I'll bet it was a lot more fun than my home town, where the Southern Baptists were in firm control of every aspect of everybody's life, whether you were Baptist or not. My dad was a Baptist preacher, which meant that my life was particularly dull. I don't think I had any fun at all until I went away to college."

They both laughed and turned their attention to the delicious sandwiches, which they ate quickly, but savoring every mouthful. Ray smiled, "God, this place has great food! Every time I eat here I'm afraid it'll be the last time."

"Me too. I think all these old joints are soon-to-be history. I'm afraid I'll starve when this place closes. I have lunch here at least three times a week and sometimes dinner, too."

"You're not married?"

Johnston made a face, "Divorced, for the last four years."

Ray nodded, "Me, too. Fifteen. It sucks."

The conversation petered out. They looked at each other, each considering what to say, or not to say. Ray knew the next move was his, so he decided to simply be honest. Steve was not one of those arrogant would-be-Elliot Ness feds. He was a "good ol' boy" -- which merited a different approach. Ray said, "So, how's come you were hanging around St. Armand's Circle today? I thought Techtron was a closed case."

"I guess I was doing the same thing as all you reporters were doing. I was sniffing around to see what's up with her. I've always felt there was something we missed. What do you think of Mrs. Wilson?"

Ray smiled slowly and stretched. He drawled, "Well, I think that if you hadn't been in the crowd, I'd have gone back to work and told my editor I was moving on to another subject. I have no interest in doing celebrity journalism. If Marcella Wilson is just a celebrity widow who spends obscene amounts of money on her hair, the tabloids can have her."

He paused for effect and added, "But, as soon as I noticed a federal agent in the crowd, I decided to stick around."

Johnston put his elbows on the table, "Do you think there's a story?"

"I don't know. Could be just sharks circling around someone who's already bleeding. Frankly, I'm a bit embarrassed to tell you I know very little about Marcella Wilson or her infamous late husband and his failed company. I guess I was in the crowd because I wanted to get a look at her, and because I've heard rumors that made me curious."

"You didn't follow the Techtron story?!"

Ray shrugged. "When that story first broke, I was working on my Everglades piece. That story was my life for almost three years. I actually spent most of the time when the Techtron story was on the front pages practically living with a Miccosukkee family in the 'Glades. During that time, I barely followed the news from the outside world at all. I'm a reporter, but I'm not exactly a news junkie.

"I don't know how the hell the former owners of the paper let me go on that long researching one story, but it turned out to be a great series, won me a Pulitzer prize and is, in my opinion, the best thing I ever wrote in my life. I was so totally consumed in my research and I spent so much time in the 'Glades, I had only the dimmest awareness of the Techtron disaster."

Johnston smiled. "That may be a good thing."

"How so?"

"You're coming into this with virgin eyes. You have no preconceived notions. If you are so inclined, I think you should go back and look at the story. Now that it's over, go back and review the whole thing. I worked on the investigation. The investigation is officially over and the bad guys are in jail. A little of the money has been recovered. The Bureau closed the book on it and there'd be hell to pay if my chief were to find out where I spent the day today. Believe me, I was not in St. Armand's Square today on official business. I was there because my gut has always told me there is more to the Techtron story than we know, even now."

"Those rumors are true?"

"You mean the rumors that she was somehow involved?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know if they're true or not. I do know we never turned up any evidence. But, then, at the time, we were not looking at her. She was just the wife of the Bad Guy. The rumors about her didn't start circulating until after the whole thing was over, and she seemed not to be as destroyed by Techtron's collapse as you would have expected."

"Hmmmm. That's very interesting. So we have a giant corporation that implodes in a huge scandal. The top corporate officers are convicted of a laundry list of crimes. The Biggest Baddest Guy of all goes to Miami and offs himself in an expensive hotel suite a few days before he's supposed to report to Club Fed. Most of the money is still missing. Wilson's widow supposedly was left with nothing.

"So, what's she doing moving into an expensive condo on Longboat Key? Where's she get the money for a $300 haircut? And, maybe most of all, where does she get that aura of old money and class? I only saw her for a few seconds, but she reminded me a whole lot more of those old-money, blue-blooded barracudas who run the Symphony Society and the Yacht Club Auxiliary than the nouveau-rich corporate tycoons' wives in whose company she supposedly belongs."

Johnston smiled, sipped his tea, and commented, "Must be the good-old-boy radar or somethin'. You're new to the story. I've worked this case since day one. It's interesting that we both have that gut feeling that there is something about Marcella Wilson that just doesn't add up."

They were quiet for a while. Johnston looked out the window. Ray closed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the table. After a few minutes he nodded and opened his eyes, "I guess I'll be spending some time online reading some of the news I missed. Any tips on where I should start?"

Johnston shook his head. "Not really. I don't want to steer you too much. I will say you should probably not start with the Big Story itself. I think that's where we went wrong. We were focusing on the internal workings of Techtron and all the financial shenanigans that led up to its failure. I'm convinced we figured that out. We know who did it, what they did and how they did it. I am pretty sure we got that stuff right. The people who are in jail are guilty of what they were convicted of.

"What I am not sure we got right is the 'why'. I am also not 100% sure that all of the guilty people are in jail. If I have any suggestion for you at all, I would say: don't focus on the accounting side of the Techtron melt-down. We took care of that. Don't worry too much about the employees who are in jail. Instead, look at the people who aren't in jail. Look at the group of people who created Techtron, most of whom left the company before things went bad.

"While you're at it, look at Marcella Wilson, too.

"Frankly, I hope I'm wrong to suspect her of anything. I interviewed her several times. She was clearly devastated by what happened to her husband, both the collapse of his company and his subsequent conviction and suicide. She struck me as a nice lady, maybe too nice for the circles she moved in. I guess maybe the fact that we never found the money still bothers me. I don't believe anybody, even Roland Wilson with his extravagant lifestyle, could have spent so much money over such a short period of time and had so little to show for it."

Ray grinned and laid his hands flat on the table. "Okay. You have my attention."

Johnston stood up and headed for the door. Ray followed. Before Ray got into his car, Johnston handed Ray his card, saying, "Call me if you turn up anything you think I should know about."

Ray put the card in his pocket. He doubted he would need it. He reckoned that anything he could find out, the cops could discover as well. There had been a couple of times when he'd stumbled across information the authorities could not have known; in those cases he had shared the information with the police, but generally he preferred to let cops do their own investigating. Ray worked alone.

After driving home, he ran for a while on the beach at Siesta Key, taking Midnight Pass Road all around the island. He couldn't run very fast, but he still could run pretty far for a 62 year old geezer who previously smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. Besides the house, the running habit was the only good thing that had come out of his short and stormy marriage to a local news anchor who has swept him off his feet and then flown off on her broom when a larger TV market came calling.

When he first moved to Sarasota in 1974, he bought a ramshackle house on Siesta Key, where condos and hotels were beginning to sprout around the edges but the interior of which was still almost completely Old Florida. After he got married, his wife convinced him to tear down the wooden house and build a more modern concrete block and stucco structure. They fought about that a lot, like they had fought about every other damned thing in the world, but in the long run he was glad she had made him do it. He bought his original house for $20,000 in 1974; his wife spent $55,000 on the renovation. He thought that was an exorbitant amount of money at the time, and had raised plenty of hell about the extravagance of the project. Ray's house was the smallest and plainest house in the neighborhood, but it was valued at well over a million dollars. He took delight in thinking of all the property taxes he was not paying to the State of Florida since, according to its screwed up tax structure, his property tax rate was based on the original purchase price of his home, not its present assessed value. He was grateful for that screwed up tax structure because he knew if he had to pay taxes on the current value of the house, he'd have to sell it and, on his salary, he would not be able to touch another property anywhere near the coast.

When he got home from his run, he flipped through the mail and then showered. After that, he took a pitcher of mint tea and his laptop out to the screened-in porch which was his "home office" and logged onto the Internet to begin his review of the Techtron story.

Chapter 2

Ray spent several hours reading and taking notes in a spiral school notebook, using several colors of ink and highlighters, according to a method he had developed over years of researching stories. It was almost midnight when he realized he had finished off the pitcher of tea and had to pee urgently. He turned off the computer, closed the notebook which was about half filled with scrawled notes he might or might not be able to read tomorrow, and got ready for bed.

After checking the doors and windows, he lay down on his back with his hands behind his head. He was amazed to learn he had somehow completely missed the biggest corporate scandal of the decade. He was fascinated by the story. Knowing how it ended didn't make it any less intriguing, perhaps especially because his gut told him Steve Johnston was right. He had a very strong feeling that the ending everyone "knew" wasn't the "real" ending at all.

At first glance, it seemed to be a garden variety corporate corruption story. Roland Wilson had presented himself to the world as an incredibly smart entrepreneur. Maybe that was true – at first, anyway. Wilson had understood the significance of the computer boom very early. While Gates and Balmer were building a software empire and Jobs was building a hardware empire, Wilson focused on components. He invested in companies that made all sorts of parts for electronic equipment: chips, circuit boards, wiring, cables. His companies made components used by both Mac's and PC's, as well as printers, fax machines, and later cell phones, digital cameras, video games and God knows what else. He hopped on the wireless bandwagon early.

Wilson didn't make or manage anything at first: he just invested. He started his career as a CPA, and always had an accountant's mentality about business. The only thing that was important to him was the bottom line; he didn't care if the profit came from increasing sales or cutting expenses. At first, he invested his own money. Soon his friends and associates learned he was doing well, so they started investing in the same companies.

Eventually he developed partnerships and hired fund managers to manage both his money and that of his other investors while he studied and picked the stocks to buy. After a few years of that, he started buying larger and larger blocks of stock until soon he owned all or most of the stock of many of the companies he invested in. He was very careful not to run afoul of anti-trust laws, so he created holding companies and worked through other entities when it appeared he was close to gobbling up too much of a particular segment of the computer hardware industry. Within a decade, there was probably not a computer or electronic gadget in the world that didn't include at least some parts made by companies Wilson owned or controlled.

He could have continued what he was doing and competed with Warren Buffet for the title of worlds' greatest stock picker, but he could not resist the allure of creating his own empire. He decided to build his own brand of computers. He said he wanted to build small, basic computers that would be very inexpensive. He styled himself as the Sam Walton of the computer world. His plan was to make computers anyone could afford, and sell them to everyone. He concocted a grandiose plan to sell cheap computers to schools in the Third World. He advertised his company as essentially a humanitarian endeavor, offering the Internet and computer technology very cheaply to the masses, in particular the poor.

He named his company Techtron.

At the beginning Techtron appeared to be on the fast track to success. The computers were basic, and MacIntosh users in particular looked down on them, referring to them as the "AOL of hardware" but the American public loved the concept. Techtron did not expect to sell many computers in America, where better computers were available and people had the money to pay for them. Wilson's market was the rest of the world, in particular the developing world.

Wilson took the taunts of the tech-snobs in stride and planned to laugh all the way to the bank. Since Techtron would buy most of its parts from other companies that Wilson owned or invested in, he stood to amass an enormous personal fortune whether Techtron itself made any money or not. Wilson always admitted to flirting with the monopoly line, but the Feds watched him closely and he was never caught actually crossing it. There were rumors of questionable business ethics and "creative accounting" early in Techtron's glory days, but in the post-Reagan era when corporate America was the new Wild West, and the business tycoons were the Cowboys, the analysts did not voice concern about behind-the-scene accounting technicalities, at least not as long as the stock was rising.

Wilson hired the best technical computer designers in the world to build his computers. He built state-of-the-art factories in a dozen third world countries and made a big deal out of the fact that more than 85% of Techtron's employees had been previously unemployed and living in poverty. His computers were not fancy and they did not come with a lot of bells and whistles, but they were serviceable and inexpensive, and they were made by people many of whom were earning wages for the first time in their lives.

When chips got small enough, Techtron switched to manufacturing exclusively laptops, designed with school children in mind. Wilson expected school systems everywhere in the world to line up to buy his computers. Initially, that was what happened. At one point, there was an 18 month waiting list; the factories, which had all kinds of start-up problems due to their remote locations and inexperienced work force, could not keep up with the orders. Soon the computers became unavailable for purchase by individuals, supposedly because there were so many schools and governments ordering them in lots of hundreds, or even thousands.

Wilson and Techtron appeared to be headed in the direction of being one of the greatest corporate success stories in American history, with a cool humanitarian twist. Wilson styled himself as a sort of People's Capitalist. The press ate up his marketing promotions, and publicized him to the max. The American people ate it up, too. Roland Wilson became an instant cultural icon. Techtron's stock was one of the hottest stocks of the 1990's.

Ray had a niggling suspicion that Wilson's humanitarianism was just an "act". In its coverage of the story the American media, collectively, had decided that Wilson was basically a "good guy who went bad." They interpreted his suicide as a sort of repentance in the end. The media read the entire Techtron story through that lens, and found some evidence to support the theory. Ray had to admit that could even have been the truth. Wilson certainly wouldn't be the first (or last) person in history who started out with a great idea to benefit humanity, and then got greedy.

Ray, however, knew enough about how those "widely held" media assumptions originated to know it was rarely wise to trust them. He concentrated on teasing out the facts behind all the assumptions, and a slightly different picture started to emerge for him. It was not a clear picture. It was rather like like those "magic eye" pictures where what you can see depends on how you look at it. Ray had the growing sense that Wilson's humanitarianism was sort of a gimmick from the beginning but there seemed to be no real facts to support that. Ray's gut had been wrong from time to time. In this case he knew he was predisposed to try to look at things differently, so he wasn't too quick to trust his hunches.

He decided to quit thinking about it and try to get some sleep.

Just before he drifted off it occurred to him that he needed to come up with a story to write to justify his salary for the month. He would have to put the Wilson story on the back burner for a few days until he could earn his paycheck.

Chapter 3

A few days later, Ray turned in two stories. One was about the arrest of what appeared to be a serial rapist. Ray liked police stories that gave him the opportunity to have a continuing story on which to report regularly. It gave him the chance to get his byline in the paper on a daily basis, keeping his name in front of the reading public. That was important – or had once been important – in the newspaper business. Ray preferred not to think about the diminution in importance of newspaper bylines.

He also liked crime stories because they were easy to write. Over the years he'd written many such stories and he had most of the the ones from the last twenty years saved in his word processor. Since crime stories were frequently very similar, he often recycled his articles, having convinced himself that copying his own articles didn't constitute legal plagiarism. He could occasionally crank out a 2500 word article in under an hour, depending on how much old material he was able to use. His editor had never caught on to his recycled articles.

The second article he turned in was a long feature article for Sunday's local pages about the closing of what was nearly the last old tourist motel on Siesta Key. Years ago, Ray had appointed himself the unofficial eulogist for old Sarasota landmarks being torn down as a result of "progress". He hated watching the demise of the pre-Disney Florida he loved. He had a scrapbook filled with articles and a shoe box full of photos. He planned to turn those articles into a book ... someday. His working title was _Paradise Lost, Redux._ He was in no hurry to start writing it because he was depressed enough.

Having submitted those two articles, Ray had lived up to his obligations to the paper for the month, other than the follow up reports on the rapist. He was a friend of the detective heading up the investigation. He would check in with his buddy every day or so. That story would be easy.

He decided to resume his research on the Wilson saga. His contract with the paper gave him latitude to pick his own stories and the freedom to spend the time necessary to digging up information on stories that might or might not pan out. That was perhaps the one compensation of his longevity with the paper. Occasionally a senior editor would ask him to look into something in particular. He always did some investigation in response to those requests. He did not always write anything about what he learned. The previous management of the paper was very good about that. They were newspaper people who knew he had great instincts. The editorial staff had known him well enough to know his instincts were usually right. The new management was a corporation that was more interested in having employees who did what they were told than in telling good stories. Ray, and nearly everybody else at the _Times_ , assumed that his days were numbered.

Ray was not one for worrying about the future. He lived very much in the moment. His current moment found him in the morgue at the _Times_. The paper had most of the last five or six years' worth of articles stored digitally in searchable databases accessible from every workstation in the building. To access older articles, reporters still had to go to the morgue and dig out roll after roll of microfilm. Few reporters actually did much in-depth research any more. Those that did bitched about what a chore it was. All but Ray. He loved spending hours alone in the morgue.

He was vain enough that, in addition to whatever subject he was researching, he allowed himself to be sidetracked, looking up articles he had written. Over the years, he found that he had at least one article in most of the old issues he reviewed. He liked to read his old stuff. He remembered most of his "big" articles, but a lot of his smaller news pieces caught him by surprise. He generally liked what he saw, except for his really early work. Reading the articles he wrote in the first ten years or so of his career was painful, but he forced himself to do it if for no other reason than to remind himself how far he had come.

Even though Steve Johnston had told him not to worry about the fall of Techtron in his research, he knew he needed to have a general sense of the time line and who was involved, if for no other reason than to learn which bad guys had gone to jail so he would know who he could ignore when he started digging deeper. He spent several hours poring over the stories, jotting notes and making hrmphing noises in his throat. Every now an then he would nod vigorously and write something down in red ink. After what seemed to Ray to be only a few minutes, the archivist came over to him and said, "Ray, we'll be closing in fifteen."

He looked up, somewhat bleary, but with eyes wide in surprise, "You're kidding!?"

She laughed and patted his shoulder, "No, I'm not. You need to get up and stretch, Ray."

He stood up and discovered that all his joints were stiff and sore. He wouldn't have time for a run at the beach before dark, so he headed for the gym. He hated going to the gym, but he kept a membership because of days like today, when he worked until after dark, or those days when it was too stormy to run outside. With his sedentary job, he tried to get in at least a couple of hours of running a day, usually outside. He only resorted to the gym when it was unavoidable.

Almost from the second he walked into the gym, he considered leaving. The place was overrun by high school cheerleaders. It was August. Football season was fast approaching. He guessed the cheerleaders were training for the upcoming season.

Cheer leading was different now than it had been when he was a kid. Unlike the little tarts he remembered, who simply jumped around on the sidelines shaking their pom-poms to distract the adults and jiggling other parts of their anatomy for the benefit of the adolescent boys, these girls were actual athletes who did some pretty amazing gymnastics. Their moves could be impressive on the sidelines of a football game, but he wasn't happy with the giggling and talking in the gym. He hated talking in the gym. Just as he started to fume, silence fell.

Five boys – obviously football players – walked out of the weight room and hopped on exercise bikes directly in front of the cheerleaders on their elliptical machines. Ray smiled to himself thinking that perhaps things hadn't changed so much after all. The good thing was that the girls were finally quiet. The bad thing was the boys were talking and showing off for the benefit of the girls. Ray was both amused and annoyed to find that, in addition to the usual smell of sweat and disinfectant, the place reeked of teen-agers in heat. He reminded himself once again he'd been meaning to turn his spare bedroom into an exercise room for years. Maybe the time had come to do it.

When he got home, he stood at the sink and ate half of a Cuban sandwich left over from lunch the day before, washing it down with fat-free buttermilk from the carton. Unlike the stereotypical bachelor pad, Ray's home was immaculately clean, thanks to the worlds greatest cleaning lady, who came in once a week to scrub it from top to bottom. Ray helped his own cause by being borderline obsessive about neatness. The cleaning lady charged him less than she charged most of her other clients because she did not have to pick up after him.

Ray loved the sense of order he found in his home. All too often the world outside seemed to be chaotic and downright terrifying. Inside his house, where everything was clean, neat and well-organized, he felt safe.

He did not mind straightening up or occasionally cleaning up messes in between Elena's visits. He hated, however, to wash dishes, so he used as few as was possible, hence his tendency to eat out of the container while standing at the sink, or, more often, to eat out altogether.

When he had finished his "dinner", he took a pitcher of tea, his cell phone and his spiral notebook to the screened porch. As he had gone through the Techtron stories, he had made a list of the reporters he knew who had filed stories on the subject. Even though he worked for a small paper in a backwater market, he had been in the business forever and he knew a lot of people. He started making calls.

Each call ran along the same pattern. They started with reporter chit-chat and personal "catching up", then Ray turned to the reason for the call. Next he had to spend several minutes convincing the other reporter that he did not have any new information he was about to spring on the world, scooping everybody. He explained that he was doing a feature article on Marcella Wilson because she had recently and publicly taken up residence in a posh section of Sarasota. After putting up with some taunts about how far he had sunk to be doing celebrity bios, which made him grit his teeth, each of the reporters agreed to tell him what they knew about the case that didn't make it into the papers. Ray took notes, asked questions and thanked his friends. Each and every conversation ended with a brief discussion of the prospects for the local college team in the upcoming football season.

By the time he finished with the California reporters on his list, it was 1:00 a. m. He glanced over his notes, jotted a few things in red in the margins and went to bed.

He had a hard time falling asleep. He had not turned up one bit of evidence to support his theory that Wilson was anything other than what he appeared to be. Ray could not shake the feeling that didn't mean there wasn't something there. He just needed to keep digging.

Chapter 4

Ray woke every morning at 6:00 a. m. without an alarm, but he had stayed up too late the night before to hop out of bed with his typical energy. He dragged himself to the shower and, after a few minutes, turned off the hot water to jolt himself awake with a cold-water rinse. That worked.

He dressed quickly and then called his police department source regarding the rape case, mentally composing his story on the way to work.

Once in his office, he made quick work of writing and filing his news update. Then he turned to his email and phone messages. He hated email. He preferred to speak to people in person. He realized that made him something of a dinosaur in the world of reporting where email, and even text-messaging, now often replaced sitting down for face-to-face interviews. Ray loved doing research on the Internet but he didn't like the idea of using it as a communications device.

He scrolled through his emails half of which consisted of "news tips" mostly from local crackpots whose names or email addresses he recognized, including the guy who sent him an email every single day (always at 4:30 a. m.) informing him in all caps that the Commies were taking over in Tallahassee, and begging him to get the word out so the people of Florida could rise up in revolt in order to take back their state. Ray never failed to chuckle uncomfortably when he read that guy's messages.

He knew the Commies hadn't taken over Tallahassee, but in his opinion the idiots in the Capitol were a thousand times worse than Commies. He rather thought the idea of a million-person march on Tallahassee, with brooms and pitchforks sounded like a better idea every time he thought about it. He wondered if that made him as much of a nut-job as the guy sending the daily missives from the lunatic fringe. He really didn't want to know the answer to that.

The other half of his messages tended to be intra-company bullshit, which he deleted without reading it.

He could never bring himself to simply delete external email without reviewing it because there was the occasional gem: the "tip" email that actually was a for-real news item; the really funny joke; the interesting article from one of the many blogs he subscribed to.

That day, as he scrolled through his messages, he came across one that caused him to break out in a sweat. It was from his ex-wife. He had not seen or heard from her in more than fifteen years. _What in the hell could she want?_ He had to go to an editorial meeting in five minutes, and he needed to focus. He forwarded the message, unread, to his personal email account and deleted it from his business Inbox. He would deal with Deborah later. Right now he had to contend with his editor, which was bad enough. He strolled down the hall wondering which was worse, the Wicked Witch of the East or the Wicked Witch of the West....

He poured a cup of coffee, by-passed the donuts and took his usual place in the seat at the conference room table nearest the door. He always made it a point to be the first person to arrive at meetings, so he could get his preferred seat. He had never actually walked out during an editorial meeting, but he always wanted to have the option if the situation called for it. Other reporters filed in. Daphne Travers was the last to arrive.

Ray watched her with a grudging admiration. She was not a newspaper woman, which pissed him off. It was an insult to the professionals in the newsroom that she had been assigned to the position. How the hell did the company expect her to run a newsroom with no news experience? Daphne made a lot of mistakes and she was a pain in the ass when it came to controlling costs. Nevertheless there was something about her Ray kind of liked. She may not have known the newspaper business, but there was no denying the fact she was smart. Very, very smart. He liked that in women. He was usually willing to give a smart woman a lot of leeway in the bitch department.

From the day Daphne arrived, all the reporters in the newsroom lined up against her. She hung in there and she never backed down from a confrontation. The thing that Ray sort of admired about her was that she never seemed to take it personally. She came in every day, did her job to the best of her ability, which to Ray's mind wasn't much, but he had to give her credit for persistence. What was most impressive to Ray was the fact that she appeared to be learning. He had almost decided she was teachable. Few other reporters shared that opinion. Most of them were openly hostile to her. Ray always tried to be nice to her face, anyway. He was amused to discover that he was the one person she never trusted; she was always on his ass about something.

The meeting that morning went about the same as usual. Daphne wanted a bunch of fluff stories to fill up the paper but she didn't want to pay the reporters to go out and dig up anything. Ray had the impression she would just as soon they sat at their desks and made up total fiction. That would be cheap and easy. She would like that. She should go to work for the _National Enquirer_.

The reporters snarled and bitched. Daphne tried to lay down the law. Slowly a sort of consensus emerged as to who would do what. The meeting appeared ready to end when Daphne said, "You know since Marcella Wilson moved to town, only the society pages have written anything about her. Maybe we should consider doing a feature on Sarasota's newest prominent resident. What do you think?"

There was a chorus of vulgar remarks. Ray silenced the room and shocked the hell out of himself when he said softly, "I'll do it."

Every person in the room stared at him with mouths hanging open. Daphne, caught off guard for the first time ever, blurted, "You will??!"

Ray nodded, "Yeah. I'm kind of interested in that whole business. I was working on something else at the time. I missed the whole Wilson/Techtron saga. I'd kind of like to catch up. Everybody knows I don't do celebrity stories, but Marcella Wilson's more than a celebrity. For the opportunity to spend some time digging around in a huge news story that I missed altogether, I guess I can churn out an article about Mrs. Society-Lady-Come-To-Town. I may need some help in describing her clothes and shoes because I know squat about that kind of thing." He laughed, shrugged and made a face, "It could be fun. It'll get me out of my rut writing about rapists, murderers and political corruption. That shit's getting old anyway."

The reporters laughed, a little uncomfortably. Daphne stared at him with suspicion in her eyes. He gave her what he hoped was an innocent, boyish grin. That appeared to make her mad.

Nobody talked to him as he walked back to his office. He went inside, shut the door and sat down at his desk, wondering what had come over him. He feared he might be cracking up, so he did what he always did when he was worried or confused. He threw himself into his work. He read the paper. He logged onto the Internet and surfed through several news sites and news blogs. Nothing particularly jumped out at him. He made a few notes about a couple of things he might want to follow up on.

Next he made his daily calls. First, he called a secretary he knew in the mayor's office; nothing going on there. Next he called an old buddy who worked in the attorney general's office in Tallahassee; nothing new there other than an update about the ongoing internal feud between lawyers in the attorney general's office and the lawyers in the Department of Financial Services. They wasted a lot of time and inordinate amounts of the state's money on their internal feuding, but compared with the rest of the crooks and crazies who ran the state, they were small potatoes. Besides, lawyers are boring. More importantly, Ray believed that as long as the state's lawyers were feuding amongst themselves they would not have the time to prey upon the citizens of the state of Florida. That, by itself, merited holding his fire.

His last daily call was his favorite. Years ago he had befriended one of the matrons in the upper echelons of Sarasota society when he wrote an impassioned article objecting to the city's announced intention to tear down an old mansion, which happened to have been the lady's parents' home. Victoria Caruthers had been grateful for his efforts – which, sadly, had failed – and she had served as a sort of his official background source on Sarasota Society ever since. She was his principal source of information regarding what old landmarks the city had targeted for destruction. He called her nearly every day. She was a nice old Southern lady. He enjoyed talking to her. They chatted for a while. About the time he would ordinarily have ended the conversation, he said, "Ma'am, this is a little out of my league, but my editor gave me an assignment today I may need some help with."

There was clearly a smile in her voice when she said, "How can I help you?"

He cleared his throat and replied, "Well, she wants us to do an article on Marcella Wilson. I have done lots of bios on local people, mostly our local oddballs. You know what I'm talking about. I've never written anything about society people or celebrities. I'm out of my element. I'd actually like your advice on who I should talk to."

There was a strange edge in her voice when she said, "Why don't you talk to her directly?"

He said, "Oh, I certainly will, if she'll speak to me. I am given to understand she has not been giving interviews, which is understandable given recent events in her life. Still, I like to get as much background information as I can from other sources before I interview someone."

She paused, "That makes sense. To answer your question, I have to say, I don't know who you should talk to. She seems to have portrayed herself as a society woman. To my knowledge she has made no contact with any of the women who actually make up Sarasota Society, if you know what I mean." He did: she meant the Sustaining members of the Junior League and the Yacht Club Auxiliary. She went on, "I personally think she is more of a 'jet set' person than a society person. She moves in the celebrity and corporate circles. I don't know those people, you understand."

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. He said, "If you think of anyone I should talk to, let me know."

"Oh, I will. It would be most interesting to find out more about her."

Ray thought that was an odd comment. He asked, "Why?"

She said with a tone that called his intelligence into question, "I can't put my finger on anything specific, but I always had the feeling there was more to her than the stories ever told. There is something about her and her husband that never made sense."

Ray did laugh that time, and said, "Keep this totally under your hat, but that is exactly how I feel and why I volunteered to do this article. I will confess to you that I am a total nincompoop when it comes to trying to figure out women. I'm going to do some digging around. I may ask you from time to time to help me interpret what I come up with. In the meantime, please keep your ear to the ground and let me know what the grapevine has to say about her."

She giggled like a girl, "Oh, I most certainly will. This sounds like such fun."

"Remember, don't say anything to anyone."

Her voice went a bit chilly, "Ray, you should know by now that I can keep my mouth shut better than most people."

That was correct. She could be a veritable sphinx when it served her purposes. Most people underestimated her, which was exactly the way she wanted it. Her reputation as something of an airhead was of her own making. It was a complete fiction. Very few people knew her secret. She was actually a brilliant woman who had helped her husband, a stockbroker, build a fortune by playing the 'dumb society lady' and listening carefully to conversations people conducted in her presence which they assumed she did not understand.

Through their entire marriage she had read six or seven newspapers a day, clipping articles and making notes about things she thought her husband would find interesting. She was his eyes and ears, and her instincts were amazing. She was also the soul of discretion. She never shared the information she knew with anyone other than her husband, at least not until she called Ray to thank him for the story about her family's endangered home. After that, she had became a very important news source for him. They had never actually met since they didn't move in the same circles but they had a great working relationship over the phone. Ray cherished his daily chat with Victoria.

Chapter 5

After work, Ray went for an extra long run and then stopped at a deli near his house to pick up dinner. He was very careful about his diet and chose a chicken and arugula salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. He ate at a picnic table on the beach, where he lingered to watch the sunset before heading home. He liked eating outside. Watching the sunset was a daily event for Floridians. As a native of Key West, where sunsets are celebrated with a daily party at Mallory Square, watching the sun go down was a ritual that bordered on the sacred for Ray.

When he got home, he showered and decided he had put off Deborah's email long enough. He logged onto his computer and made quick work of the spam and junk mail that filled his Inbox. There were only three real messages. One was a forwarded joke from an old retired mentor, who drove him crazy with that crap ever since Ray had bought him a computer three years ago. One was an invitation to a barbecue over the weekend from the guy down the street who had appointed himself as the neighborhood social director.

The last one was the email from Deborah. It read:

Dear Ray,

I suppose you will have delayed reading this until you are at home alone. I apologize for sending it to your work address but it is the only one I could find. I hope hearing from me was not too much of a shock to your system.

I won't beat around the bush. I'm writing to tell you that I will be in Orlando next month. This will be the first time I'll have visited Florida in years. If you are willing to see me, I'd love to get together. To be clear, I do not have in mind picking up where we left off. That would be unthinkable for either of us. What I do have in mind is to apologize face-to-face for my egregious behavior towards you. Lunch or dinner will be on me if you're interested.

I hope you'll consider it.

Deb

Even after fifteen years, she knew he would not read her message at work. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought that he was so predictable

Similarly, even after fifteen years of separation he was prepared to bet the farm she had more on her mind than buying him dinner and apologizing for deserting him without so much as a fare-thee-well. There was a part of him that wanted to hit reply and simply send the message: Fuck you.

He went so far as to type those words into a reply message, but something kept him from hitting "Send". Maybe that something was the fact that he did very much want to sit across the table from her and hear her apologize. There was a part of him that felt he deserved nothing less.

He was also curious to know what was such a big deal that would cause her to break silence and contact him after all this time.

Curiosity won out. He erased his initial vulgar message and slowly typed: _Now that I have picked myself up off the floor without injury, I think I would like to take you up on your offer. For one thing, I think you owe me that apology. For another, I'm curious to know what your real reason is for the invitation. Let me know what day you want to meet. I'll drive to Orlando if you like. My cell number is below. /R_

After that, he resumed his background reading on the Wilson case until bedtime. He had gone through all the mainstream media articles and learned nothing new. Having developed a general time line, he turned to Google and started doing searches on names and key words. That kind of blind drilling could waste a lot of time, but he had discovered on a number of occasions that, much like panning for gold, while it dredged up a lot of sludge, it occasionally turned up some amazing nuggets. He did not turn up much information of interest on either of the Wilsons. It seemed odd to him that there was so little information about two such prominent people. He was puzzled by that.

He shut down his computer and began to put his notes away when the phone rang. His cell phone hardly ever rang in the evenings. He picked it up without looking at the incoming number.

"Hello."

"You're very funny."

He caught his breath. Her voice was deep and she spoke with perfect diction, thanks to the elocution lessons she took when she first got into television news, followed by more than twenty years of daily practice. The tone was light, but there was a nervous tension in her voice as well. He tried to respond with a similarly light tone, "It seems a little pathetic that after all these years we have changed so little."

"How do you know that?"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not."

"What's up?"

"I want to talk in person."

"I'll be here when you arrive."

She gave him the dates of her visit and her hotel information. She also gave him her cell number. She paused. He interrupted her thought, "Even if you can't talk about it on the phone, tell me this much. Are you okay?"

"We'll talk in person. I'll see you soon."

He went to bed, but it was a long time before he fell asleep. For most of the last fifteen years, when he thought of Deb at all, he thought of her as the ambition-driven bitch who so unceremoniously dumped him when an offer came from a TV station in a bigger market. She had made him feel as though he had only been a "pass-time" for her until something better came along. On the rare occasions when he allowed himself to think of her, his thoughts focused on the spectacular crashed-and-burn ending.

He hardly ever allowed himself to think about the time before that. It was too painful to remember the smart, funny young woman with whom he had fallen in love almost from the first minute they met at a press club luncheon in the early 1980's.

She had been a cub reporter for a local TV station, right out of college. Even with no experience and no knowledge of the local scene, she made a splash in the very early days of her tenure in Sarasota because she had a disarming way of asking questions that sometimes elicited very revealing answers. Veteran reporters were amazed by her successes. News wonks appreciated the information she provided. Most everybody else loved her because she looked so damned good on TV. She was young, fresh-faced, earnest.... and she was built very, very well, thanks to several hours a day in the gym and many hours a week doing roadwork.

When she first arrived in Sarasota, Ray was already known as a weird old bachelor, in the Southern tradition of curmudgeonly old dudes who avoided women, and pretty much all other unavoidable social contacts. The local press community followed with interest the hilarious spectacle of the veteran newspaper reporter drooling all over the new "it" gal in town.

One day during the presidential campaign, the vice presidential candidate, George H. W. Bush, was in town. Both Ray and Deborah were assigned to cover his speech. Ray had heard that Bush was not a good speaker. He had heard a lot of bad political speeches before, but never one that dreadful. After the first five minutes of listening to the guy torture the language and trip over relatively simple English, it was all Ray could do not to break up. He glanced around trying to distract himself. He noticed Deborah standing next to her camera-man with her hands over her face, shaking. For a second, Ray thought she was crying, and his heart went out to her. Then, she opened her eyes and they happened to make eye contact. Then he realized she was in the throes of the giggle-fit he was trying to avoid. He immediately lost it.

In order to avoid creating a scene, which would cause both of them to catch hell back in their respective newsrooms (since having their employees breaking up into hilarity and disrupting speeches of would-be vice-presidents was not a particularly politically smart thing for news organizations), they quietly moved to the edge of the crowd and walked around the corner before they both allowed themselves to laugh out loud. After composing themselves (sort of) and wiping their eyes, they looked at each other and grinned. Ray blurted out, "Well, since we missed the end of the speech, want to go get some lunch and figure out what we can say to our readers-slash-viewers to educate them as to the electability of that individual?"

She shrugged, "Sure. Here's my story: Reagan's going to win by a landslide despite the idiot he tagged for a running mate."

Ray took her arm and steered her toward a nearby restaurant, as they walked, he shook his head and said, "Don't be so sure about the latter. I agree that Reagan is going to become our next president, a thought that has me considering becoming a beach bum in Mexico or the Bahamas, but I don't think Bush is an idiot. Yeah, he looks like a geek and talks like retard, but he's not stupid. More importantly, he is very rich. Most importantly of all, he has the backing of a lot of really super-rich people. I truly fear for our country, and most particularly for our state.

"It's time for my disclaimer: You need to understand that I view everything through the lens of a native son of South Florida whose animating passion is the beauty of this place. I think the first book I ever read all the way through was Rachel Carson's _River of Grass_. I'm what the politicos snidely refer to as a tree-hugger, although in my case it's more likely to be a palmetto, the hugging of which would be exceedingly painful to anyone who might be stupid enough to try it. You need to filter all my political ranting through that lens."

She smiled, "How interesting! A Cracker Liberal."

He shook his head, "Not a liberal exactly. Perhaps more of a libertarian, or maybe an anarchist. I'm pretty much of a 'laissez-faire' kind of guy, economically, but I'm kind of liberal socially. I think Reagan's economic policies are a thinly veiled attempt for the rich to take a bigger slice of the pie, and the hell with everybody else. My guess is that the money-and-power people are going to have a ball over the next few years. At the same time, I'm thinking it's not going to be such a picnic for the manatees, 'gators and wetlands and for those of us humanoids who love such things."

They ordered coffee. He started to light a cigarette. She took it out of his hand and broke it between her fingers, shaking her head and making a tsk-tsk noise. He never smoked another cigarette after that.

They ordered lunch. He ordered a burger and fries. She ordered a grilled fish sandwich, no tarter sauce, extra tomato. When the food came, he looked at her and raised his eyebrows, "This is the best burger in town. You do not have to approve, but I'll thank you to keep your yap shut."

She chuckled, "Fine. I'll call 911 when you keel over with a heart attack."

They talked for a long time over lunch. Eventually the waitress asked them to pay their bill because her shift was over. Both of them realized they were very, very close to missing their deadlines to file stories. He paid the bill and she sprinted for the door, waving at the air behind her. He followed, not quite as quickly.

They didn't see each other again for a while. One day, she called him in the newsroom. She said, "You may get a lot of mileage out of this, but I'm going to ask for your advice anyway. I know how superior, smug and condescending you old newspaper guys are about TV reporters, especially young blond ones with big boobs, but I'm going to go out on a limb here, and ask for your help.

"I just received a tip. If it's real, it could be a big story, but my gut tells me it's a hoax. I haven't been around here very long. I don't know who all the local crackpots are. If it's a real story, it would be big enough for both of us. If it's not a real story and I go with it, I could end my career before it ever gets started. Would you be willing to let me run the info by you?"

He chuckled, "Miss Richardson, I don't know whether to be flattered that you think my age, experience and wisdom are worth crossing the abyss between the newsroom and the TV anchor desk or to be offended that you would think I would even consider stooping to help a cub TV reporter avoid getting egg on her face – a situation that newspaper reporters positively live for, dontcha know. However, given that you seem to be a genuinely smart and potentially competent reporter if you were to choose to go into real journalism instead of TV, and, since your instincts are good enough to have picked me as opposed to some of the other Neanderthals in the newsroom, I guess I'll go with being flattered. I'll help you. What did you hear?"

She told him about a telephone tip she received. He listened without interrupting her. He tried not to let her know how impressed he was. He suspected she had been contacted by a very well-known local crackpot, who was very good at hoaxing newbie reporters. He had snookered virtually every new reporter who showed up in Sarasota from someplace else for more than 20 years. It was always a different story, always potentially explosive. Ray couldn't be absolutely sure without checking it out, but the whole thing had all the marks of the guy local reporters referred to as the Shitbag. The guy had torpedoed more than one journalistic career.

Ray was impressed Deborah had the instincts to be suspicious. He invited her to meet him for a drink after work, saying he wanted to check out a couple of things and then he'd tell her what he thought.

He told his editor he had a tip and needed to go out for a while. He drove around aimlessly for a little while, then made a decision. He actually knew who the Shitbag was. What was more, he was aware the guy knew Ray was onto him although they had never actually acknowledged that to one another. The Shitbag was a retired sportswriter from a Bradenton newspaper. He was an old Cracker who now lived at the edge of the swamp near Myakka State Park. Ray didn't know his phone number, but he knew where the guy lived. He decided to pay a friendly call.

Ray pulled into the yard and beeped the horn. He stayed in the car until the man, who was sitting on the porch repairing a fishing reel, waved at him. He'd learned the secret to not getting shot at by Crackers from a couple of old dudes down by Lake Okeechobee when he was a kid. It had come in handy lots of times, although it did not always guarantee the person on the porch (and there was ALWAYS a person sitting on the porch) wouldn't pull a gun. It just gave you a couple of minutes to explain your business before they blasted you.

Odom Boyd waved him out of the car and yelled, "Come set a spell."

Ray laughed. He hadn't heard anybody use that expression since the old guy who was his favorite gator-hunting guide in the Everglades passed. Ray got out of the car and approached the porch slowly. No sudden moves. Things could change quickly. It might have been 1983 everyplace else, but this place was a throwback to a time generations past where the rules were different. He hesitated before stepping on the porch, which hung sort of off kilter, tilted to one side. There were a bunch of missing boards and some of the ones still there did not look too sturdy. He glanced at Boyd who didn't look up from his knotted fishing line, "Stay to the left and you'll be okay."

They chatted about the weather and then about common acquaintances, most of whom were recently or soon-to-be dead. After the preliminaries petered out, Odom asked, "So, what brings you out here, boy?"

Ray laughed. It had been a couple of decades since anybody had called him 'boy', but since Boyd was probably in his late-80's, he figured the old feller could call him whatever he wanted. Ray said, "I came out here to ask you a question."

"So ask."

"Did you call that new little gal at the TV station this morning?"

Boyd paused for a few seconds longer than would have been appropriate if the answer to the question were "no". He put down his reel and looked at Ray with a mixture of amusement and bemusement. "Waaall, sir," he paused again, "I won't say I did and I won't say I didn't. I would like to know how come you're askin'."

Ray decided to be honest, "You see, that gal may be pretty, blond, perky and she may work for a TV station, but I've got a feeling she's got a reporter's instincts."

"Oh, yeah, what makes you think that? She looks to me to be just as stupid as all the other nitwits on the TV news."

"What makes me say that is because after she got a call this morning from somebody purporting to give her a tip on a huge scandal story, she called me. She said she was too new around here to know who all the crackpots are, and she was afraid somebody was trying to snooker her. She offered to share the story if it was legit, but wanted to check it out before she ended up with egg on her face going to her boss with a bogus story."

Boyd's laugh sounded something like the Wicked Witch of the West's cackle. "Well, I'll be jiggered. If that don't beat all! A TV reporter with a lick of sense. And even more, a TV reporter who actually understands the value of a mentor who's been around for a while. Maybe she isn't such a bimbo after all."

Ray shook his head and said, "She's most definitely not a bimbo."

Boyd looked at him through narrowed eyes, "Don't you think you're a little old for her?"

Ray started to argue, but then said, "Probably. But, I'll be honest with you and tell you that if she doesn't shoot me down, I'm not going to let that stop me."

Boyd shook his head and spit over the railing, "She'll make a damned fool out of you."

Ray chuckled, "Probably I'll do that all by myself."

They chatted about fishing and hunting for a while. Ray could tell Boyd was lonely and enjoyed talking to him. Ray found the old guy fascinating and decided to make it a point to stop by periodically. [He did, too, at least once a month for as long as Boyd lived. Ray was the one who found the body when the old guy died. Ray's posthumous feature article on Boyd's life won several journalism prizes and got him a big raise.]

After a while, Ray realized he was going to have to hurry in order to be on time for that drink with Deborah. He rose to leave, shook Boyd's hand and said softly, "Do me a favor."

"What?"

"Pick on another reporter."

Boyd looked away and said, "What kind of Shitbag would call in bogus tips to cub reporters?"

Ray smiled and looked off in the other direction, "A Shitbag who takes journalism seriously and who wants to make sure the pups learn early on to develop good instincts."

Boyd spat and made a derisive noise. They met many times after that, but they never discussed that subject again. Ray was aware that Boyd continued to test new reporters for as long as he lived. Unfortunately, most of them failed the test. Deborah was one of the few who passed.

Ray met Deborah at a beach bar on Siesta Key. They ordered beers and fish sandwiches and chatted for a while. Finally Ray said, "I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Your instincts were right on the money. The call you got today was from a very well known local crackpot. I'm sorry you're not going to get that big juicy story, but I've got to tell you I'm impressed as hell with your instincts. Even more, I'm amazed you would come to a print reporter for advice."

She laughed, "First of all, thanks for clearing that up. I guess I should thank you for telling me the truth. I know more than a few newspaper reporters who would have joined in the fun of goofing on the newbie, especially her being a girl and a 'TV reporter', the latter of which is sort of an oxymoron I suppose."

He laughed and tilted his head, "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Someone in your family is a newsman. My guess is that someone would be an older guy, like maybe your dad?"

"Very good, Mr. Reporter. Now, my dad's the editor of a local newspaper in a small town in North Carolina. For most of his career, he was a reporter at the Atlanta _Journal-Constitution_. My mom is a free-lance magazine writer. I guess I've got writing in my blood. I always thought I'd end up working for a paper. I had my eye on the New York _Times_."

"How did you end up doing TV work?"

She looked sheepish. "Well, when I got out of college, I had a lot of loans to repay. Running a local paper doesn't pay very well and my parents helped me as much as they could but they were not able to pay for all of my college. When I got out of school, I was offered a job with a paper in Raleigh. The pay was $6.00 an hour, which was actually pretty good for a cub reporter. Before I had a chance to accept it and trot off down the road to being a newspaper reporter, my advisor told me about a TV station in Spartanburg, South Carolina, that was looking for an on-air reporter. They were offering the astonishing salary of $25,000, plus benefits. I thought about it for about five seconds and then called the TV station.

"They invited me to come for an interview. I went without telling my parents where I was going or why. When my dad found out I had taken a job as a TV reporter, he blew his stack. He's still not over it. He now labors under the illusion that I will work a few years as a TV reporter to pay back my loans, then I'll get a real job writing for a paper."

Ray nodded and swallowed a bite of his sandwich, "That sounds reasonable."

"It isn't. For one thing, no newspaper I know of would hire a former TV 'personality'. For another, the money in TV is just so much better than in print news, I don't know how I could ever take the pay cut." She shrugged and took a swig of her beer, "I guess that makes me a bit of a whore, but I've got to be honest with you."

He looked at her with an odd expression. "Why?"

She looked up at him, as surprised by her comment as he was, and answered, "I'm not exactly sure."

Their courtship was a whirlwind that lasted only a few months, ending in marriage on the beach at Siesta Key. Things were wonderful for the first few years. She worked at the TV station, and relatively quickly moved up to substitute anchor. He continued to work for the paper. Sometimes they collaborated on stories.

For a little while early on, they were kind of the "it" couple in Sarasota. He always thought that was funny. That didn't last long because both of them were far too career-driven to be interested in the social scene. He adored her: she was young, vivacious and very smart. It seemed to Ray that she had been a fresh breeze that blew through his stuffy life for a few sweet, wonderful years.

Somewhere along the line, something changed. He never had been able to put his finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that she watched her parents outlive their savings, growing more and more frugal as their resources dwindled, but being too proud to accept help from their children. Maybe it was watching the women at the top of her profession crashing through the glass ceiling and making it into the "really, really big time" in TV news. Whatever the cause, Deborah's commitment to good journalism somehow became lost in her ambition to advance in the TV news/entertainment business. She obsessed over the need to get a better job in a bigger market. She desperately wanted an anchor position, even though it would mean less time out on the streets chasing down stories, at which she excelled.

Ray knew that Deborah assumed if she moved on, Ray would follow her. For his part, Ray had no intention of going anywhere. He had lived in Florida his entire life and had worked for the Sarasota paper since he was "hired" as an unpaid intern when he was a freshman at the University of South Florida. In his heart he knew a crash was coming in his marriage. He didn't know how to address the subject with Deborah, so he said nothing.

One day she came home from work, floating on air, to announce she'd been offered (and accepted) a job in Denver. She chattered for a few minutes and then said, "We should fly out there this weekend to look for a place to live. Maybe you can set up some interviews with the paper out there."

He looked at her and said, "Why would I want to do that?"

She stopped in the middle of the room, with her eyes wide and her mouth open, shocked by the notion that he was not as excited as she was. She said, "What do you mean? We're going to Denver."

He shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips and said the words that haunted him ever since. He could have and probably should have put it differently, but he was so irritated to see the the kind of person she was turning in to and so sad over the immanent demise of their marriage, he simply blurted, " _You_ are going to Denver. _I_ am not going anywhere."

She turned to look at him. A cold film descended over her eyes. She stared at him for a minute and then said, "Oh. Well, if that's the way it is, okay. Let me know if you change your mind."

All of their friends and colleagues thought she had dumped him, and virtually every one of them took his "side." Technically she did leave him. He never had admitted it to anyone else and he only rarely allowed himself to think about it, but deep down he understood how much of a hand he had played in the destruction of his marriage. At least he had the decency to be broken up about it.

For her part, Deborah looked sad for about a minute and then turned on her heel and went into the bedroom to pack for her house-hunting expedition. From that day until the day she left for good, six weeks later, they never discussed their marriage. The only subject Deborah talked about was her new job. Those discussions consisted of running monologues at about 220 words-a-minute. Ray spoke very little.

Few people knew that it was more than five years before they actually divorced. Ray assumed Deborah must have had a serious boyfriend when she finally served him with papers, but he didn't know for sure what prompted her to ultimately make the move to bury their dead marriage. They conducted the entire proceeding long distance, through lawyers. Since they had no children (thank God) there was no reason to talk to one another.

Over the years, he often went for long periods of time without even thinking about her. When he did think about her, he liked to focus on the things about her that annoyed him and the abrupt way she ended their marriage. That day, alone on his porch, he realized how deeply he felt her absence in his life even after all these years.

A tiny, cold feeling of dread niggled at the back of his mind. She would not have contacted him after such a long time simply to apologize. She couldn't have changed that much. He tried not to worry about what could be wrong. He failed.

Chapter 6

Ray continued to spend time, whenever he could spare it, reading through the voluminous published material about Ronald and Marcella Wilson. He didn't turn up anything new nor could he really put is finger on anything he thought was odd or unusual. He contacted an acquaintance who had covered some of the criminal trials of the Tectron employees and talked him into sharing both copies of the trial transcripts as well as his notes. When he asked Ray why he wanted them, Ray responded with a made-up line about how he was working on a story about the difference between the way the justice system treats white collar criminals and other criminals.

The guy sniffed, "You're full of shit, Ray. That's such a hackneyed old line. Your work is much more original than that. If you don't want to tell me what you're working on, fine, but don't blow smoke up my ass. And, if you're going to lie, the least you can do is be creative enough to spin off decent tales."

"Can I still have the notes and transcripts?"

"You can borrow them. Give them back. They're souvenirs of the biggest story I ever worked on."

Ray took the notes and the transcripts and promised to return them promptly. He read through Wilson's trial transcript as well as the trial transcripts for the President and the CFO of Techtron. They were much more interesting than the news articles. It occurred to Ray that he had finally reached the point of agreeing with both Victoria and with Deborah's father: journalistic writing in America's newspapers had sunk to an all-time low. American journalists had not always been truthful or ethical (think of the 19th century yellow journalism scandals) but they had at least been decent, and occasionally brilliant, writers (think of Twain and Hemingway). The ability to write well seemed no longer to be a requirement for print reporters.

He read the transcripts once quickly and then scanned his buddy's notes. The media's take on the story was that the participants had simply succumbed to greed. They had been legitimately making boatloads of money. They got greedy, so they cooked up elaborate schemes to make even more money manipulating the stock price. They did that by cooking the books to make it appear they were selling thousands up on thousands of their cheaply made, inferior products to schools and organizations in third world countries. In fact, for reasons that were unclear, Techtron actually sold very few computers.

Even some of the technical designers engaged in corporate dirty tricks, stealing ideas from other companies instead of creating new ones. The whole company, from top to bottom, seemed riddled with slime.

Ray generally hated to see anybody go to jail because he personally thought that going to jail would be the worst possible thing that could happen to someone. He found himself glad these guys were behind bars, where they could no longer run amok, victimizing both the poor individual employees, whose retirement plan was invested in the company stock, as well as the stockholders.

The employees' stories were consistent. The proof piled up during day after day after day of testimony. These guys appeared to be the worst of the worst of capitalists: wolves in sheep's clothing, touting their desire to "do well by doing good" while ripping off customers as well as their suppliers and attempting to sabotage the work of competitors. The state of Georgia put on a great case in the state criminal trials, which preceded the federal trials. Ray was particularly impressed with the cross-examinations conducted by one particular junior district attorney who handled some of the questioning concerning technical computer manufacturing issues. He managed to elicit very damning testimony from the witnesses without getting so technical the jury would not be able to follow it.

The problem Ray had with the story was that it all seemed too neat, too perfect. Real-life crime stories are not like novels. There are usually loose ends in a real crime story, a few questions which remain unresolved or facts that don't seem to fit. There are often inconsistencies between statements of various witnesses. Often the testimony of the involved parties changes over time.

This crime story was different. These guys stuck to their scripts. The witnesses agreed completely as to what happened, when it happened, who did it and why. The testimony of the principals never changed. Ray noticed that the company president's initial statement, given to the police shortly after his arrest, contained certain words and phrases he used verbatim in his testimony at his trial three years later. These guys were not just well coached, they were like stage actors who knew their lines cold and could recite them day in and day out for years. That absolute consistency and the complete lack of any credible evidence in their favor made Ray uncomfortable.

He worked on other stories also. The rapist he had been following copped a plea so that story was over. He picked up on a story about a red tide bloom off Bradenton and filed a couple of human interest pieces about some of the local "characters". The paper ran local color stories from time to time for the benefit of the tourists. Most of the young reporters were new to Sarasota, and, many of them, new to Florida. They could write articles if someone from the police department or one of their editors told them where the story was. They didn't have a clue how to go out on the streets and dig up stories on their own.

Ray didn't do celebrity stories, but he loved to write about the dying breed of old fish heads that once populated most of coastal Florida. Every couple of months he filed a feature article about a local person or place, usually one whose existence or livelihood was threatened by progress. Because he was acquainted with most of the people he wrote about, he didn't have to interview them. All he had to do was get their permission for him to write their stories. Often that was the hardest part. A lot of the time, he had to wait for the person to die before he could tell their story (to wit: his posthumous feature on Odom Boyd).

By accident one day Ray ran across a guy who's story was bizarre even by South Florida standards. He made his living carving turtle shell napkin rings while "squatting" in an old boathouse at the end of a ramshackle pier. He lived with no electricity or running water. The guy was a complete nut, but his carvings were works of art. He sold virtually all of his work through art dealers in the Far East and Europe. He earned six figures a year, which his agents saved for him in the event he ever decided to get a real house, or, more likely, when he ultimately would require institutionalization. Ray filed what he thought was a hilarious story. Chuckling, he forwarded his article to his editor and muttered to himself, "Take That, Dave Barry! I don't make this shit up either." He was a little worried that his editor would kill the story because Ray was a standard news reporter. He was not supposed to write humor.

Whether they printed the stories or not, at least he was turning in his quota. He knew he was skating. He was hungry for a big, meaty story, but there seemed to be nothing on the horizon.

He decided he'd earned a long run, followed by a crab cake sandwich and a beer. As he walked away from his desk the phone rang. He considered not answering it, but there was always the possibility that each phone call could be The Next Big Story. Reluctantly, he picked up the receiver.

Victoria Caruthers was on the line. They made small talk for a few minutes. Then she said, "I'm calling to let you know about an event this weekend you may want to attend. I have been given to understand that Marcella Wilson plans to attend a fund raiser sponsored by the Yacht Club Auxiliary on Saturday. I happen to have some extra tickets and thought perhaps you would like to attend."

He chuckled, "I'd just fit right in at a Yacht Club Auxiliary fund raiser! Actually that raises a question: what with the Yacht Club Auxiliary members being for the most part filthy rich, why would you reach out to the public to raise money? Why not just give your own money. What kind of charity are you collecting for anyway?"

She laughed, "You know, a part of me would like to be very offended by that remark, except that you are absolutely right. Actually, public fund-raising has been quite controversial within the Auxiliary. Some of the members agree with you. They think we should simply give our own money, since, as you so indelicately pointed out, most of us are very blessed, materially speaking." They both laughed, and she went on, "But a number of years ago, when our membership began to decline, in part because our existing membership was aging and our daughters and daughters-in-law were not joining in the numbers they had in previous generations, a couple of our members suggested we hold a few events that would be open to the public in order to perhaps attract some new blood."

He laughed. She paused. Eventually, she chuckled and said, "I gave you time to chime in about the delicious irony of the Yacht Club Auxiliary, most of whom as you no doubt well know, were at that time also members of the Daughters of the Confederacy, opening our membership to newcomers."

He couldn't resist asking, "Including Yankee newcomers?"

She cleared her throat. "A few."

"Only really, really rich ones I'll wager."

"No comment." She paused and cleared her throat again. She obviously had reservations about inviting him to the fund raiser. He couldn't decide if it was because she was afraid he would be tempted to write a satirical piece about the old blue-haired ladies of the Yacht Club Auxiliary or because she feared he would be too uncouth for the gathering. Probably both. He found himself laughing to himself because she was no doubt 100% right on both counts.

She went on, "Anyway, we're raising money to renovate some of the public pools in the community and to fund swimming lessons around town for poor children. Drownings have become epidemic around here and our president would like us to do what we can to promote water safety not only in and around boats but pools as well."

He grinned and said, "That's a good idea. I am notoriously cheap, but I'll buy a ticket to that. I've seen a few kids after they've been pulled from pools. The lucky ones die. The rest mostly destroy their families' lives because they typically need constant medical care forever."

"I volunteer at the hospital. I agree with you. In any case, I don't expect you to pay for the ticket. I happen to be chairing the event. I'll comp you an admission ticket but I expect you to buy some raffle tickets and a couple of drinks from the bar."

He laughed out loud. "Ma'am, I am a reporter. Gambling and drinking are occupational hazards."

She sniffed, "Somehow I suspect that neither are vices from which you suffer."

"You would be right about that. I'm too cheap for either. I will, however, for the Glorious Cause of the Ladies of the Yacht Club, buy a raffle ticket and a beer."

"Please don't make fun."

"I apologize. It really is a good cause." He changed the tone, "Will we finally meet?"

"I'll be there, but I am sure I will be very busy. Perhaps it would be best if people didn't know we are acquainted."

He thought about that for a minute, considering whether or not to take offense. At first he thought she was saying he was socially beneath her, which was manifestly true so it would be foolish to be offended by that. Then he realized it might not be a good idea for people to know about their friendship because she was his principal source for information from Sarasota's society. The confidentiality of sources went beyond just criminal matters. He found it interesting that she seemed to have realized that before he did. In addition, it was probably true that her being friendly with him would not do her reputation any good in her own circle. He simply said, "You're probably right. I promise to play it cool, but I will look forward to meeting you, if only briefly."

"I'll have a courier drop off the tickets to your office tomorrow."

"Thank you."

He went for his run and stopped for a sandwich and a beer in a joint near his home that had a fabulous view of the Gulf of Mexico. He greeted a number of his neighbors. This place was the more-or-less official venue for the neighborhood's full-time residents' Sunset Celebration. It was too plain, old-fashioned and inexpensive to attract the increasingly well-heeled tourists who were about the only people who could afford to vacation in Sarasota any more. That was the main thing the locals liked about it.

It made Ray feel like an old crank, but he fondly recalled when Siesta Key was overrun in the summertime by families with little kids, playing on the beaches all day and then picnicking in the parks in the evenings. In the winter the Canadians and Yankee retirees arrived. Until recently, they tended to be ordinary, middle class people. It never failed to amuse him when he found his neighborhood filled for several months of the year with women wearing seersucker Capri pants and way-too-large earrings and men in loud, ugly golf pants or shorts and sandals – with socks, of course. They used to annoy him because they tended to be somewhat boisterous in their pleasure to be away from the cold and snow. How he missed those folks now!

The new crowd consisted of middle aged and older people who were for the most part obviously (and very, very proudly) wealthy. They liked to throw their money around, and there was almost no pleasing some of them. They, too, were loud, but not from having fun. They simply made it a habit to be loud, obnoxious and very rude to the locals.

The bartender/owner of the restaurant where Ray and his neighbors hung out was the kind of guy who could never do enough for his regular customers. He was cheerful, attentive and he made sure the service and the food were top notch. Therefore, Ray was surprised to notice one of the waitresses being curt, to the point of rudeness, with a nearby table of tourists.

He asked the bartender what he was going to do about it. The bartender responded that he wasn't going to do anything about it other than perhaps give her a little bonus for the night. He went on to say that he made enough money from his regular locals. He didn't really need or want the tourist business. They made the place too crowded and noisy which ran the risk of running off the regulars. Besides, he didn't like the way these assholes treated his staff. Consequently, he had made a new company policy. The staff were expected to continue to treat the local, regular customers with the respect and attentive service they had become used to – or else. On the other hand, they were encouraged to be as rude to tourists as they could be in order to keep them from coming back.

After Ray finished laughing, he patted the guy on the back, handed him a $10 tip and said, "On behalf of your regulars. Thanks!"

On Saturday, Ray dressed carefully in khaki pants, a light blue shirt and a Navy blue sport coat. He felt ridiculous, but he knew he would feel even stupider if he didn't dress the part. He knew from experience that most of the men would be wearing that same get-up. The only exceptions would be the really old Yacht Club members in their white pants, blue blazers and captain's hats. Those old dudes were for the most part so rich they could wear evening gowns with feather boas and nobody would say a word.

The fund raiser was a silent auction. There were a hundred or more auction items, described on cards, arranged around the room on tables with fishbowls in front of each one. Guests wrote down their bids and put them in the fishbowl. The high bidder would be awarded the prize. In addition, there were door prize tickets for sale, along with a raffle of a Rolex watch. Ray was amused to realize that these old ladies had all but perfected the fine art of hitting people up for money. He half wondered if he would have to pay to use the bathroom. He bought a couple of door prize tickets but passed on the raffle ticket. It would be just his luck he would win the Rolex. Everybody in the newsroom knew how cheap he was. If he showed up wearing anything but his scratched old Timex there would be way too many questions.

He wandered around the room, studying the prizes. He was not surprised to learn the Auxiliary had obtained donations from many, many local businesses. He placed bids on several items. He placed a really low-ball bid on a tennis racket and four lessons at a country club. He had always wanted to learn to play tennis. He didn't think he would win that one, but it was worth a shot.

He put in a medium-low bid on a set of pots and pans from an upscale kitchen store. He didn't cook, but his housekeeper was a fabulous cook who frequently stocked his fridge with leftovers from meals she prepared for her family. He had recently overheard her talking on the phone to her daughter lamenting about the abominable condition of her cookware. If he won the cookware, he'd give it to her as a gift. She'd have new pots and pans, and he'd probably get more leftovers than ever. That's what he would consider a win-win situation.

The best prize of all was a lifetime membership to the gym where he belonged. He knew that the lifetime membership went for $4500. The annual membership was $700. He had been a member of that same gym for almost 20 years. He thought they should give him a lifetime membership for free after all those years of loyalty. He put in a $2500 bid on the membership, and thought he had a pretty good shot at it because there were only a couple of other cards in the bowl. He looked around the room. He was probably the only person in the room who didn't belong to a country club. He believed the two cards already in the bowl were decoys. Twenty-five hundred dollars was a lot to fork over all at once, but the money would go to charity. He would get a gym membership he would have paid for anyway. The gym had already made plenty of money on him; he did not feel bad about trying to get the lifetime membership for cheap. He walked away chuckling.

Lunch would be served in a few minutes. He had promised Victoria he would get something from the bar also, since Marina Jack was donating 100% of the bar proceeds to the charity. He ordered a draft beer, and soon realized he was the only one in the place drinking beer. Everybody else was drinking wine or fancy cocktails. He sighed and felt like a yutz.

He stood off to the side scanning the room for familiar faces. There were a lot of faces he recognized from photos in the paper or the TV news, but he did not see one person he knew personally, other than the editor-in-chief of the paper. He steered clear of her to avoid questions he didn't want to answer.

He did not see Marcella Wilson. He assumed she would show up fashionably late.

Next he searched among the workers to see if he could identify Victoria. He had seen a very old photo of her, but did not know what she looked like now. It did not take long for him to find her. She was standing near the buffet line having a rather intense conversation with the manager of Marina Jack. Apparently, Victoria was not happy with either the setup of the buffet or the fact that lunch was late in being served. Probably both. She never raised her voice nor did she appear use strong language. He could tell from the look on the man's face, however, that she was giving him an ass-chewing the like of which he probably hadn't experienced since boot camp. Just for an instant, Victoria looked in Ray's direction and their eyes met. Her eyes twinkled. He had to turn away to keep from laughing. The next time he dared to look at her, she was finished with her tirade; the manager looked as though he might pass out at any second, and she was wearing a satisfied Cheshire Cat-like look. Ray was a little surprised she wasn't rubbing her hands together.

Soon after that, she took her place at the head of the buffet line with some of the other old battle-axes from the Auxiliary and the Commodore of the Yacht Club, to greet the guests as they lined up for the feed. When it was his turn to greet them, Ray held out his hand to Victoria. He tried not to make too much eye contact as he said, "Ray Bailey from the _Times_. This is a very nice affair and will do some great things in our community. Here's my card. I plan to file a report on the fund-raiser. Please let me know how much money you raise and what projects you plan to fund with the proceeds."

Victoria took the card and smiled warmly, but a little vaguely, "Thank you for coming Mr. Bailey. We will appreciate the publicity." She introduced him to the Commodore, and they motioned him toward the buffet, inviting him to enjoy his lunch. He filled his plate and found a seat in the shadow of a large plant off in a corner of the restaurant. He could see almost the entire room. He did not think very many people would notice him. The food was excellent, which was to be expected.

The Marina Jack restaurant was a Sarasota landmark. He had eaten there regularly until about twenty years ago when the prices started to rise. He had sneaked a glance at the regular menu on his way in and caught his breath. One dinner in that place could cost more than he typically spent on food for an entire week. Since the lunch was free, thanks to Victoria's complementary ticket, he tucked in and enjoyed the scallops and shrimp, and then went back for seconds.

While he was filling his plate the second time, he lost his seat to a young couple, obviously tourists, who were very wrapped up in each other. They were probably honeymooners who came to have lunch at the restaurant and got roped into buying a ticket to the fund raiser. He decided to go outside, but before he made it to the door, he saw Victoria and some of the other Auxiliary ladies forming up a receiving line at the front door. He hung back for a second and then saw Marcella Wilson and a couple of other women parading up the walk. They walked in with Marcella in the rear. Victoria and her welcoming committee greeted Marcella's entourage, and then turned to welcome The Lady herself.

Victoria was cool. Marcella was cooler. Ray wanted to laugh. Victoria was probably 75, with beautiful silver-gray hair. She was the classic Steel Magnolia: a tiny woman not more than 5'0" in heels, weighing perhaps 90 pounds fully clothed. Marcella Wilson was in her 50's, and statuesque. Once again he had the feeling she was not one of the nouveau riche women who overran Sarasota in the wintertime. She was tall and graceful where Victoria was tiny and birdlike, but both appeared to be cut from the same cloth. They greeted each other as more-or-less equals, taking into account Victoria's greater age and stature as a pillar of the community.

Marcella afforded Victoria the appropriate level of deference, but not one iota more. Ray found himself enjoying the show. It was an utterly silent and completely dignified battle for dominance between two strong women. Ray was amazed at how few people in the room were aware of the clash of the titans taking place silently under everyone's noses. It only lasted a minute or so, and in Ray's opinion it appeared to end in a draw.

Ray had been so engrossed in the show that he had sort of stopped in the middle of the hallway leading from the entrance into the restaurant. Too late to get out of the way, he realized that Victoria and Marcella were headed straight toward him. Victoria's face showed mild surprise for about a nanosecond and, then, without missing a beat in her stride, she interrupted the story she was telling Marcella, and steered her in Ray's direction. His first instinct was to bolt, but he had nowhere to go.

Victoria stopped in front of him and said, "Marcella, I want you to meet Mr. Bailey. He works for the local paper. He is covering this event and intends to do some articles about the dangers of drowning in swimming pools." She shot him a look and raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. He couldn't decide if he wanted to smack her or laugh. He thought it was actually a great suggestion and he made a mental note to write at least one article on the subject.

Marcella's handshake was much firmer than he expected. He thought she was the most attractive middle aged lady he had seen in a long time. Her lips were slightly thin, which set her apart from the women with botox lips who all looked like their husbands popped them one on the way to lunch. Her face had a few lines and wrinkles in all the places you would expect them to be in a woman her age, unlike many of the women around town whose unlined faces reminded him of the Joker in the Batman movie. She had applied her makeup with restraint (how very un-Southern of her!). She was slim and seemed to be in good shape but not too muscular.

He was a "leg" man, but he intentionally checked out her chest. She had ballet-dancer-small breasts. It was all he could do not to laugh. There was so much silicone in the rest of the room he felt sure that if the pier collapsed and the restaurant fell into the harbor, the plastic boobs in the room could keep it afloat. Marcella's entire look was designed to be natural, classy and very neat. It was a lovely package, to be sure. Ray knew enough about Southern women to suspect that Marcella's "totally natural" look was as artificial and time-consuming as the big-haired, painted and surgically enhanced ladies who populated the rest of the room, but he liked it even so.

Marcella delayed her greeting for a long second. It was obvious she was sizing him up as well. He caught a glimmer of something in her eyes that made him think she was not impressed. That didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the fact that the look only lasted for a second, and it was followed by what appeared to be a look of genuine interest. She said, "Mr. Bailey. I've read some of your articles. You are a very good writer."

"Thank you."

She paused for a minute and furrowed her brow, "I don't seem to recall meeting you or seeing your name on any bylines of stories concerning my .... the events ...., um, the Techtron story."

He smiled and shook his head, "I write local news for a then-independently-owned paper in a small market. That was a national story. Our paper picked up the stories from the AP and the UPI. I have to confess, I didn't even follow the story."

She looked astonished. "I would think that makes you one of the few people in America who didn't."

He shrugged and said, "I was working on something else at the time and wasn't paying attention."

She laughed. He felt embarrassed. She said, "It's refreshing to meet someone so candid. I hope we shall see each other again." She turned and sailed toward the buffet. Victoria glanced at him for just an instant. He saw a mixture of amusement and consternation in her eyes.

He went outside and wandered around the marina, ogling the boats. He didn't envy the rich men of the Yacht Club their fancy, high-maintenance wives, but he sure as hell coveted their boats.

After a while, he noticed the people inside the restaurant congregating in a clump in the middle of the room. He assumed, correctly, that meant the auction winners were being announced. He went back inside. The grand prize went to one of the Yacht Club members: it was a $10,000 base-model, plain-Jane Rolex watch. As the winner reached out to accept it, his $100,000+ diamond-studded Rolex glittered in the sun. Everybody in the crowd laughed, including the winner himself who shrugged and grinned.

As he expected, Ray won the gym membership. He paid with a credit card. As he was walking away from the table, Marcella Wilson walked over to him and congratulated him. He chuckled, "Thanks. I've been a member of that gym for 20 years. I would have spent the money anyway, and it was for a good cause. I actually got a heck of a bargain."

She looked surprised. "That is odd. Usually the prizes at these things go for more than the retail cost."

"Not this one. I think I was the only bidder and I put in a very low bid."

"Why do you suppose nobody else bid against you?"

He waved his arm around the room, "Look at these people. I'm probably the only one who needs to join a gym. The rest are either country-club members or they have fully tricked out gyms in their homes. Probably both."

She laughed and said with a sheepish look on her face, "I guess that was a sort of 'let them eat cake' remark."

"Maybe, but you're new in town. It might not have been as obvious to you as it was to me. I'm prepared to cut you some slack."

"You are too kind."

"No. I'm not." He let that remark kind of hang there.

They looked at each other for a second. There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so Ray shook her hand and started to turn away. She put her hand on his arm and said, "I hope you don't think it forward of me, but I'd like to invite you to lunch one day soon. As you pointed out, I'm new here. You have evidently lived here a long time and know the local lore as well or better than anyone. I think that hearing some of those stories would help me become acclimated."

He looked her directly in the eyes for a minute and grinned, "You mean you want to know where the bones are buried so you can avoid potential social pitfalls?"

She shook her head and smiled, "Yes, although I would never put it so bluntly. You're not a Southerner?"

He scratched his head. That one was a hard question. Technically Florida was in the South, but everybody who spent any time in the Sunshine State knows that the South ends around Jacksonville. Besides, having grown up in the Keys, he always felt he was more of an Islander than a Floridian. He had never been certain he could legitimately call himself a Cracker (although he usually did for lack of a better term); he was pretty sure he was not anything resembling a real Southerner. He shook his head and held his hands out palm up, "I don't know the answer to that. I don't think I qualify as a Southerner. Most certainly not a Southern Gentleman. I'm a Cracker. Worse than that, I'm native son of the Conch Republic."

She smiled, "I guess that explains it."

While he was wondering what "it" was, she handed him her card and asked him to call her to arrange lunch. He stuck it in his pocket and headed for the door. His little foray into society had just succeeded more magnificently than his wildest imaginings.

He met Marcella for lunch on Tuesday at Marina Jack. The agenda was to tell her the local stories. He talked. She listened. They both laughed a lot. He asked her a few questions, which she deflected and finessed. He found out absolutely nothing about her. He did, however, manage to set a date for dinner with her in a couple of weeks, upon her return from a trip, the destination of which she did not reveal.

That meant he had two weeks to find out everything he could about Marcella Wilson. After only a couple of days of intensive research, he realized that well was almost totally dry. He could find no information about her prior to her marriage. Part of the problem was that he did not know her maiden name. Unlike many women, she did not use her maiden name on any of her significant documents. When she married Roland Wilson, she changed her name and all of her identification documents. He could find no reference to her maiden name anywhere. He found that curious.

He also found it curious that he had such mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, she was a lovely woman. On the other, there was something in her that seemed to bring out a mean streak in him he didn't realize he had. He couldn't figure it out, but he didn't like it.

And so, he did what he always did when he was conflicted about something, he threw himself into his work, cranking out stories and trolling all his usual haunts for new material.

Chapter 7

A few days before his ex-wife was due to arrive in Orlando, she sent him an email confirming her hotel contact information and inviting him to meet her for lunch at the Gaylord Palms Resort on Thursday. He considered canceling the meeting, but he really did want to see her, and something made him reply with the simple message: I'll see you then.

On the appointed day, he got held up in traffic and arrived at the hotel a few minutes late. Deborah was already seated in the restaurant. The first thing he noticed as he approached the table was that she was extremely thin. She had always been slim and athletic. Now she looked positively gaunt. He tried unsuccessfully to ignore the frightening thoughts that fired off one after another in the back of his mind.

They chatted for a while. She had advanced to the main news anchor position at the top-rated TV station in Denver. That was actually quite a wonderful accomplishment, but, given what he knew to be her network aspirations, he felt sure she saw it as a career failure. He made some would-be consoling remark about how the networks would be calling soon. She made a face.

They ordered lunch. He noticed that she merely pushed her food around on her plate. He did not see her take even a bite. Among the bad thoughts kept bubbling up in his mind, first on the list was an eating disorder. She was older than the typical anorexic, but her personality fit the profile almost perfectly. He didn't say anything, but he watched her fork as it moved her food around the plate and never once ventured in the direction of her mouth, and his worries boiled over.

She asked him a lot of questions about his life and career in recent years. He answered truthfully, without too much elaboration. He asked her questions. She answered briefly and with a remarkable degree of disinterest in her own life and career.

When he had finished eating his lunch, she paid the bill, over his protests. They walked out of the restaurant side-by-side. He noted that he had not received the promised apology. He didn't say anything about that, however, because he felt that they were not finished. She stopped next to the elevator, and said, "I need to talk to you, but I would like to have this part of our conversation in private. We booked a suite with a sitting room. Would you feel terribly uncomfortable if I invited you to my room?"

For some reason that made him want to cry. Actually, he felt that he would give almost anything for her to invite him to her room ... for real. He was astonished (not to mention appalled with himself) to realize that was true. The emotional impact of that rendered him speechless, so he merely shook his head and followed her to the elevator.

As he walked into her suite, Ray got the next big jolt of the afternoon. Her husband walked out of the bedroom and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She introduced Ray to Carl Bashears. Carl shook his hand, and looked quickly from Ray to Deborah. She evidently gave him some kind of signal, and he said, "Well, you two have some catching up to do. I think I'll run downstairs to the pool bar for lunch. I'll be back in a little while."

Deborah sat down on the love seat and motioned Ray to a club chair facing her. He sat, feeling a little like a school kid facing a very tough lesson. She looked at him with sad eyes for a long time, "As I told you, I feel that I owe you an apology. For a long time, I didn't see it that way. For many years, I was very, very angry with you. It seemed to me that at the most important moment of my life, you shut me out and turned your back on me. I was hurt and angry for a long time. Only after I married Carl and learned about the give and take of communications in a good marriage did I realize the terrible thing I did to you when I simply assumed that you would turn your back on a long and very successful career and follow me, without ever discussing it.

"It only gradually dawned on me that we were both wrong. I should have talked to you about my ambition so we could have decided together the best way to reconcile our divergent career paths. I think we could have worked something out if we had talked about it. But we didn't. I assumed you would follow me. You assumed I would leave you, and you made the decision to let me go without a fight. Today as I sit here, despite the happiness I have found with Carl, I believe with all my heart there had to have been some kind of middle way for us if we had made the effort to find it.

"The sad fact is that we didn't talk about it at all. I was ready to go charging off to Denver at the first invitation. You could never live that far inland. We each made assumptions without talking it through. We wronged each other terribly. I am able to say today that I am sorry for making the assumptions I did. I am sorry I simply assumed you would ditch a career, into which you already had invested a couple of decades, to follow me across the country to a place where you would have shriveled up and died. I loved you with my heart, soul and body, but my mind couldn't get past its own ambition. I couldn't look at my big career opportunity from your perspective. I am sorry. I really am."

They were both quiet for a while. Ray was battling tears. Deborah seemed far, far away.

She continued with difficulty, "As much as it was difficult and as much as I think we could have done it differently, maybe it was just as well. You've had a wonderful career. Who would have imagined a print reporter from such a small market would end up with two Pulitzer prizes?! My God, Ray, you have no idea how big a deal that would be to almost every reporter in the world except you!

"I've had a fair career, but I've had an even better personal life. I love Denver! I got involved in the community from the first day I arrived and have sunk my roots more deeply with each passing year. I met Carl about ten years ago. We married five years ago, and have adored each other every minute of every day since. He has two grown children who have produced four grandchildren since we've been married. I highly recommend grandparent-hood! I skipped the responsibilities and pains of parenthood, and went straight for the enjoyment of being a grandma. It's been wonderful.

"Anyway, I've had a more or less fantastic life in Denver. That doesn't make me any less regretful for the way I hurt you. I needed to say that.

"I needed to see you and to have this conversation now because I am very sick. Correction: I am dying.

"A few months ago I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. There is very little the doctors can do for my kind of cancer. We've tried radiation and chemo, with no improvement. There is nothing else to be done. I've switched to what they call palliative care. That means I only take pain medication, no therapy. I'm simply living my life as fully as I can until the time comes for me to die.

"I have good days and bad days. The bad days are increasing in frequency and in intensity. The doctors say I don't have much longer to be able to be out and about. We have made arrangements for hospice care when that time comes. I think that time may be coming sooner than I ever imagined.

"That's why I wanted to see you now. I wanted to apologize, and I wanted to say good-bye."

Ray had listened to her and had, somehow, managed to maintain eye contact without dissolving into tears. When she was finished, he contemplated throwing himself on the floor and screaming. Instead, he moved over next to her on the love seat, and put his arms around her. She was nothing but skin and bones. He held her very gently to avoid hurting her. She didn't cry. He knew enough people who had died from cancer to understand that she had probably cried herself out already.

She had reached the point where she was slowly withdrawing from life. She seemed very detached from the whole conversation. He tried to control his reaction, but without success. His tears soaked the shoulder of her shirt before he could bring himself under control.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and took her hand, "Thank you. Thank you for telling me this in person. I can't imagine how upset I'd have been if I had read about it in the obits." He paused to compose himself, "I truly wish we had taken the time and effort to have talked about our future. I agree with you that if we had done that, we could have worked something out.

"I didn't want to stand in the way of your success. I was so very proud of you and I wanted you to go as far and as fast as your unbridled ambition would take you. Unfortunately, I didn't want to go with you. I've never stopped loving you or missing you. I couldn't go with you, but I didn't want to hold you back. I can see how you might have interpreted my response as turning my back on you. You're right: We should have talked about it. I guess talking to each other was not our strong suit." They were both quiet for a while.

After a few minutes, he said, "You must be tired. I should be going."

She didn't argue with him. Before he got up from the couch, he let his lips brush her cheek. Then he stood to go. She started to get up as well, but seemed to think better of it and sank back down on the couch. He said, "Would you like to lie down?"

She clearly wanted to say no, but she hesitated. He helped her up and she leaned on him as he half led her, half carried her to the bedroom. He flipped back the bed spread and helped her stretch out. He covered her with the blanket, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead and whispered, "Good-bye, sweetheart."

She touched his cheek and fell asleep, exhausted.

He walked out into the sitting room and collapsed into tears. Soon he composed himself enough to leave.

As he stepped off the elevator, Carl was waiting to go back to the room. He paused and asked Ray, "How is she?"

Ray said, "She's asleep. I tucked her in for a nap."

"Did she eat anything at lunch?"

Ray shook his head. "She pushed her food around and tried to make it look as though she ate something."

Carl looked at him, dry-eyed but with a look that was full of raw grief and nodded.

Ray said, "Thank you for giving us a few minutes."

Carl said, "It was very important for her to see you. I hope the conversation went well."

"It did." Ray reached in his pocket and handed Carl his card, "If you need anything, call me. In any case, call me when...." His voice broke.

Carl tucked the card into his pocket and said, "I will. You should know that she doesn't want a public funeral. There will be a private interment only. I'll let you know after it's over."

Ray had to clear his throat several times before he could say, "Thank you. I would appreciate that. She told me she loves you very much and she's been very happy in these last few years."

It was Carl's turn to clear his throat before speaking, "Thank you for telling me. I guess I know that to be true, but it's somehow comforting to know she feels it strongly enough to tell other people, especially you."

They shook hands awkwardly, and Ray headed for the parking lot. He sat for a while staring off into space trying to compose himself before trying to drive home through the nightmare of Orlando traffic. Whatever he may have expected of the day, Deborah's actual announcement was far, far worse. He felt as though she had left him all over again. The old wound that had never completely healed had been ripped open. He focused on his breathing to avoid hyperventilating. Eventually, he regained some control and pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, alone.

He arrived on Siesta Key just before sunset. He stopped at a mini-market and bought a six pack of what had once been Deborah's favorite beer. He drove to the beach and, taking two bottles of beer with him, sat cross-legged in the beach, sipping a beer and watching the sun go down. How many times had he and Deb sat in this very spot, drinking the same beer and watching the sun sink into the Gulf in all its molten glory? As empty and bereft as he felt at that moment, he also experienced his usual primal sensation of awe and dread when the sun sank into the water. He took a sip from the second beer, and then poured the rest out onto the sand, a libation to the gods in gratitude for the love that had been lost, almost found and soon to be lost again, this time irretrievably and forever.

Chapter 8

Fortunately for Ray, his lunch with Deborah had taken place on a Friday. On Thursday, he had turned in his feature for the Sunday paper, and notified his editor he would be out of town on Friday. His initial plan had been to go fishing over the weekend, probably in Lake Okeechobee.

After the wrenching encounter with Deb, however, he felt the need to hole up at home where he felt safe, and where her spirit still somehow lingered. Even after the weekend passed, he did very little for several days beyond cranking out the bare minimum number of articles he was expected to produce in order to collect his paycheck. Once he had done that, he hid out in his house.

His research on Marcella Wilson stalled. He didn't have any other good stories in the pipeline. He was frustrated and bordering on depression. He worked best when he had at least two or three things in varying stages of development. Since he had almost concluded there was no story in the Wilson saga, he found himself, for the first time in his career, with exactly zero stories in the pipeline. That scared him.

He trolled around all the usual haunts where stories might lurk: the police station, a couple of bars where cops hung out, a couple of bars where reporters hung out. Coming up dry there, he cast a wider net, and ventured out into other local establishments, including barbershops, and bait shops. He touched base with all his usual sources of information, a vast network of amazing people he had met over the years including not only the typical bartenders, cabbies and cops, but also a couple of pimps, a caterer to the local Society, the guy who operated the news stand at the courthouse (who was also the biggest bookie in Sarasota) and a nun who ran a shelter for homeless men and a companion shelter for runaway children.

He put the word out to everybody he knew that he was looking for a story. Several people gave him some ideas that seemed worth looking into, but none of the ideas excited him. He had learned to trust his gut reactions to stories. He knew how to excite others with stories that excited him. Everything else was just filler. He pumped out a whole lot of filler articles, including a couple of stories about children drowning in pools, for the benefit of the Yacht Club Auxiliary – meaning, Victoria.

He wrote a lot of straight news stories, hoping to get extra credit for handing in more inches of copy than was required of him. He wrote up a number of short feature articles and put them aside. He could dole those out one at a time to help get past his dry spell if it continued any length of time.

One day, on a whim, he called Victoria. She surprised him by inviting him to come to her house for coffee. He drove to her house immediately. After they chatted for a little while, she said, "You know, Mr. Bailey, it isn't any of my business, but I am wondering if anything is wrong."

"Why would you ask that?"

She shook her head, "I have no reason, other than I have noticed more articles over your byline in the paper than usual, but none of them are up to your usual standards both in terms of subject matter and, even more noticeably, in terms of writing style. Forgive me. Early in my life I studied to be a school teacher and I'm very picky about writing. My son, who is a newspaperman in Chicago, says I am a frustrated city editor. I do not mean to pry."

He smiled at her and said, "First of all, I don't consider your concern to be prying. You're right. I've been turning in a lot of crap lately. I have a quota of articles I have to submit. The new ownership of the paper doesn't give a fffff.....fig about quality. They just want lots of articles to stick in between the advertising. I typically try to give them my best simply because I have been used to doing that for my whole career up to now. I guess their lowered standards have tempted me to let myself slide. Thank you for the warning. I'll watch it. Even if the editorial staff of the paper doesn't care, I owe it to the readers who actually do care about those kinds of things to do a decent job."

He paused, "I guess I've been distracted."

"With?"

"Partly with my temporary obsession with Marcella Wilson, but I think that's over now. And partly with a personal situation that cropped up." He paused again, and then decided to see if he could say it out loud without going hysterical, "My ex-wife, from whom I have been divorced for a long time, but whom I apparently never stopped loving, has terminal cancer. She visited me recently to say good-bye, this time permanently. I guess that experience has set be off my game a bit."

She stirred her tea and put the cup down on the coffee table. She didn't look at him for a long time, but she scooted ever so slightly closer to him on the couch. When she did look up at him, she met his eyes and held them in an eye-lock that all but forbade him to look away. Then she opened her arms, pulled him toward her and hugged him tightly. He sobbed almost uncontrollably on her shoulder for some time. When his tears subsided, he pulled away. She handed him a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his face and blow his nose.

She took his hand between hers, "Before you say anything, I want to tell you that what just happened is private, between you and me. I will never tell anyone. Secondly, I want you to know that I find the fact you are so able to express your grief to be a mark in your favor, not a sign of weakness which many people believe. I am honored that you feel you can trust me that much. I will do my best to merit your trust."

She added, "I remember Deborah Richardson. She was a lovely woman and, I thought, a very decent reporter. I met her a few times and liked her. Actually, I remember when you got married. I didn't know you at the time, but Deborah was covering a Daughters of the Confederacy event and she kept messing up her intro. She finally turned to me and laughed, saying, 'I'm so sorry. I'm just too distracted for this. I'm about to be married to just the most wonderful man and I can't seem to concentrate.' We talked for a while. She babbled on about how wonderful you were and I listened, amused. I was sorry to hear she left and you stayed here. I suppose I understood why you stayed here. What I never understood was how she could have left if she felt that way about you."

Ray blurted, "You and me both."

They were quiet for a while, and then Victoria continued, "She's from a different generation than me. In my day, women hitched their wagons to their husbands' stars. Ms. Richardson was cut from a different cloth. She wanted to make her own way."

Ray nodded. "You're absolutely right. I guess I come from somewhere between the two of you. In my head I think that women should have their own careers and their own lives. In my heart, I wanted us to move forward in life together, but I couldn't bring myself to sacrifice my career."

Victoria patted his hand, and poured him more coffee, "Those two things are not incompatible. They are just difficult."

"I think both Deborah and I came to that same conclusion independently. Unfortunately we arrived at that realization long after our marriage crashed and burned. We could have done it differently, but we didn't because it would have been difficult. I guess that's a huge regret I'll always have to bear."

Victoria put her hand over his as he reached for his cup, "I think she forgave you, or she would not have made the effort to see you. I also think it was her way of apologizing for her part in the breakdown of your marriage."

He nodded and swallowed with great difficulty, "I think you're right."

After a very long pause, she cleared her throat and said quietly, "Losing the person you hold dearest in the world is the hardest thing there is."

Ray knew her husband had died more than twenty years before. People said that she had never so much as gone out on a dinner date with another man. It was Ray's turn to take her hands between his. Her bejeweled fingers trembled slightly for a moment. When she pulled away and picked up her teacup, however, her hand was perfectly steady.

They drank their tea and munched on scones together. After a while, Victoria said, "This is changing the subject, but I'm wondering why you have abandoned the Marcella Wilson story."

He shook his head. "I haven't so much abandoned it as I have run up against a dead end. I'm supposed to have dinner with Marcella when she comes back from a trip, and I intend to keep that date, partly because I have nothing better to do and partly in the hope she'll tell me something I can use. I'll need to get it from her because I've come up with nothing in my research."

She was quiet. It seemed to him she was contemplating whether or not to continue. Eventually she decided to forge ahead. She said, "You said you have turned up nothing on Mrs. Wilson. Don't you think that's odd?"

He nodded and breathed deeply. He was glad she had switched gears. He was back on familiar turf. He chewed his scone slowly, with appreciation. "Yes, I do. There are a lot of weird things about it. Internet searches do not come up with anything about her other than stories related to her marriage. I have found no references to her maiden name. Ray thought that was odd. Most women, even those who do not routinely use their maiden names after their marriage, use those names occasionally. Google 90% of married women and within a few minutes you'll come up with a maiden name and/or place and time of birth. I have spent hours running searches on her and have come up with absolutely zilch.

"Typically I don't used the people and background search engines that cost money, but I tried a couple of them and still came up with nothing. It's as though she did not exist before her marriage. It seems to me she, or somebody, must have gone to some trouble to make sure her maiden name and place of birth is never mentioned in any of the articles about her. People generally don't go to all that trouble. At least, not unless there's something they want to hide."

"What did you think of her when you met her? You said you had lunch one day after your introduction at the Yacht Club."

He thought about it for a while. "She struck me as a lot more classy than the typical corporate wife, at least the few that I've met. She reminded me of you and the women in your circle. I took her for a real lady."

She smiled and poured more tea, taking her time to get the milk and sugar portioned out just so. She pursed her mouth and said, "I thought so, too, at first. The first couple of times I met her, I took her for a strictly upper crust Southern Lady. Her accent sounds like North Georgia. I assumed she was from Atlanta. Since my husband is from Atlanta and we lived in Atlanta for a number of years after our marriage, I mentioned the names of some of the old denizens of Atlanta society. She didn't seem to know any of them.

"When I asked her where she was from, she told me she is from North Carolina. I don't believe that. She doesn't have a North Carolina accent, for one thing. For another, a very dear friend of mine lives in Winston-Salem. She's an old society battle-axe like me and her husband is a big shot in a tobacco company so she moves in both society and money circles. She knows everybody in inland North Carolina, and most of the piedmont as well. I called her and asked if she had ever met Marcella. She had not. I told her that Marcella claimed to be from North Carolina.

"She laughed and said, 'She's not from Winston-Salem society, I can tell you that without any doubt. To my knowledge neither she nor her husband ever visited here. They moved in the kind of circles I would have known about. Let me do some checking in other towns and see what I can come up with.' She called me back a few days later and said the nobody she knew had ever met Marcella or known her (or her husband) to even visit North Carolina."

Ray laughed and said, "Miss Victoria, you should have been a reporter!"

She put down her cup and joined in the laughter, "That's what my son always tells me. In fact, he says it was my tendency to investigate things I found interesting that taught him how to run down a story. Nobody but he and I know that the story he wrote in college that won him a journalism prize and got him an internship with the Chicago _Tribune_ was actually something on which I had done the preliminary research. I mentioned it to him one Sunday at dinner. He said he had an assignment to do an investigative piece and he asked if he could use it. He did a lot more research in addition to what I had done and he truly made the story his own. He has always told people I inspired him to become a reporter. He usually winks at me when he says that."

Ray smiled at her, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "What have we got? Mystery woman marries Atlanta millionaire. About four years later he founds Techtron. I seem to recall they supposedly met at some kind of charity ball somewhere. Maybe we can start there. How did they meet?"

"Roland Wilson was from Atlanta. He lived there his entire life. His family was an old Atlanta family. They were blue bloods, at least on his father's side, but not exactly top tier, if you know what I mean. My husband was Roland Wilson's father's stockbroker. The elder Wilson was an attorney. He did well, but his success paled in comparison with his son's.

"When Roland started in business he came to Henry on his father's advice. Henry handled his investments for a few years. When Roland started to make a lot of money, he moved his account to a New York stockbroker who was known to be much more aggressive than Henry. After that we sort of lost touch with him.

"Roland's mother was not from a society family, but she was, of course, a member of the Junior League and very active in other charities in Atlanta, which is what you would expect of a woman in her station. The entire Wilson clan was expected to show up for her charity events. I know a lot of the older Junior League Sustainers, so I should be able to check out the when and how of their meeting -- that is, if they met at a charity function in Atlanta."

"Okay, you check that out. If we can find out how she came to meet Wilson, maybe we can backtrack and find out who she knew before she met him."

He continued, "What do we know about her after they met? We know that she was sort of with him all the way. They traveled together marketing his products and meeting with government and educational officials in a lot of countries. She seemed to be always at his side. Did she speak foreign languages? Had she traveled abroad before?"

Victoria made a face. He went on, "I'll check that out."

They continued to run down the short list of what they knew and make a much longer list of what they didn't know. They divided up assignments.

As Ray prepared to leave, Victoria laughed, "I just had an idea. I need a haircut and my regular hairdresser recently informed me that he plans to retire. I need to find a new salon. Where did you say Marcella went to have her hair done?"

He gave her the name of the salon at St. Armands Circle. She made a face, "Pricey, but they do have an excellent reputation for color. I may just make an appointment."

Ray laughed, "Don't stylists operate sort of on the same rules as priests? What women say to their stylist is confidential, isn't it?"

She nodded, "Generally, that is true. The stylist who does a woman's hair will typically not gossip about her if he or she knows on which side the bread is buttered. If you want to find out dirt, you need to talk to a stylist whose chair is nearby. Overheard information is often circulated."

He started to shake her hand. She responded with a hug and a peck on the cheek. She said, "Plan to come by one morning next week. We'll touch base. Take care." She paused and added softly, "And, please do not hesitate to call me if you need to talk."

He kissed her cheek and whispered, "You may be sorry you made that offer."

He headed straight for the morgue at the newspaper, and spent the rest of the day reading articles from the society pages of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. That world was a mystery to him even though he had covered many stories about society in Sarasota. He appreciated the wonderful charity work the women did, and he had always rather enjoyed the charity events he attended, perhaps by virtue of a sort of vicarious pleasure at being around the movers and shakers in his community, not to mention the terrific food.

As he pored through the articles, a general picture of Atlanta Society seemed to emerge, which he understood because a smaller, less complex version of it existed in Sarasota. The cities of the South had their own social pecking order which, at their core, harked back to generations past. In old Southern cities like Atlanta, the social hierarchy stretched back into the antebellum period. The true Southern aristocrats could trace their ancestry to various Confederate officers and gentlemen. The Social Registers of the South were maintained by those aristocratic families; admission was based on complicated rules that rested fundamentally on bloodlines.

Along side that "Social Register" society was the society made up of upwardly mobile people who had made money, mostly after the end of WWII, along with the huge influx of Yankees that started in the 1950's and reached a flood tide in the 1980's. That society was based more or less on financial position, although some ways of accumulating wealth seemed to be more socially acceptable than others. In addition to all that, the social standing of the families in the place of origin factored in as well. Ray couldn't quite follow all of the rules, but he had the sense that the two "societies" co-existed but did not really intermingle in places like Atlanta, at least not as much as they did in Sarasota, where the entire social circle was much smaller.

He surmised that Marcella Wilson would have been involved in the "rich" society circle as opposed to the social register set. He found very few references to her in the paper. From what he could tell, she and her husband attended certain high-profile events, such as charity balls, during what Ray thought of as their "glory years". Marcella did not, however, appear to have been involved actively in any of the charities that put on the events. She certainly did not participate on the board of directors of any of the more prominent charities. Her name never appeared in any of the articles profiling the committees that hosted fund-raising events.

The only reference to anything she was involved in was one small article which mentioned that she and her husband joined Peachtree Presbyterian Church when they first moved to Buckhead. He thought that was interesting. According to its website PPC was the largest Presbyterian congregation in America. That would be just the kind of place people who wanted to have a church membership (because being members of a church is, even today, more or less expected of any respectable Southerner) but who did not want to get involved. He intended to check it out, but he surmised the Wilsons probably gave a sizable pledge to the church and only rarely attended services.

He stepped outside and called a friend who worked at the research desk for the Atlanta Municipal Library. She had started out as a reporter, but she was not a very good writer. When it became apparent she would not make it as a reporter, she got a job as a research librarian and was positively the happiet human being Ray knew. She was a fantastic researchser. He loved it when he could come up with excuses to call her because she was also a great gal.

After they chatted for a few minutes, Ray told her what he was doing and asked if she would be willing to look into the Wilson's local involvements. She laughed and said, "I can actually answer your question about their church involvement without any research at all. I am a member of Peachtree Presbyterian and I have been on the finance committee for years. I won't tell you how much money they gave; that would be a breach of confidence. I will tell you your guess about their membership is correct. The word on them was that they were sort of one of our fairly sizable group of 'record only' members. They gave a regular pledge, paid in one installment annually at the time of the annual stewardship pledge drive. They hardly ever attended services.

"The joke was that if somebody important was visiting or there was likely to be news coverage for some reason, we could expect some of those members to show up. Otherwise they did not attend services. The Wilsons did not participate in the congregation in any way whatsoever and they never gave money for any special purpose beyond their pledge except for once. The church needed a new piano for the choir room. They donated a very expensive grand piano.

Ray laughed, "Did they show up when it was officially presented?"

She said, "Actually, they did not attend the dedication of the piano, although an article about it appeared in the newspaper. The church acknowledged the gift in our internal newsletter, but did not issue a press release. We assumed the Wilsons were the source for that article. I thought that was odd."

Ray asked, "Does the church have many members like that?"

She laughed out loud, "Oh, yeah, all the Buckhead churches have quite a lot of them. Rich people move in to Buckhead and the first thing they do is join a church. It's what people do in the South because, as you know, in social discourse one of the first things people ask is where you go to church. They maintain their membership in good standing by paying pledges (often very large pledges, for tax purposes) and attending just often enough to meet the minimum membership requirements. The other thing a lot of them do is to join a country club."

She paused. "That's something you might want to check out. A lot of those Buckhead folks are a whole lot more active in their country clubs than they are in their churches. They play golf regularly and eat in the restaurants, schmoozing with the other rich folks. My guess is the Wilsons probably joined a club. Given their money and business contacts, I'm betting they weaseled an invitation to join the Buckhead Club. Let me do some checking around."

He said, "I'm interested in her, not so much what the two of them did together. What I'm trying to find out is where she came from and what she did before she met him."

She giggled, "You know how much I enjoy a research challenge. Let me dig around a bit. I'll let you know what I come up with."

Ray decided to leave the subject for a while. He had Victoria and Karen Thompson looking into Marcella's background. He decided to focus some of his energy and efforts improving his current job performance. The first thing he did was rewrite the feature articles he had set aside for future reference. He realized that, since he no longer had a discriminating editorial staff to write for, he had gotten lazy. He decided to write with Victoria's standards in mind. His writing improved immediately.

For a few days, he followed a breaking story about a dust-up between the city and residents in one of the older neighborhoods concerning the enlargement (or not) of a water retention pond. It was exactly the kind of story he liked to work on when he wanted to show off. The story itself was boring as hell. He added all kinds of local color and polished up his best grammar. He turned in a very good article. He was amply rewarded. The next time he spoke to Victoria, she told him she enjoyed it.

Chapter 9

About ten days after his conversation with Victoria, Marcella called him on his cell phone while he was having a beer at the beach waiting for the sun to go down. They chatted for a few minutes. He asked her where she had been. She responded by telling him she had some personal business to attend to but did not divulge any details. She asked what he had been up to and he replied that he had been basically up to 'no damned good'. She laughed, but did not inquire further into what that involved.

After a couple of minutes, she asked him if he were still willing to have dinner with her; she said she would love to hear more stories about the local lore. He said he was about out of stories, but would be more than happy to have dinner. She suggested two nights hence and asked him where he liked to eat.

He laughed, "Mrs. Wilson, you would not be caught dead in the kinds of places I frequent. My idea of fine dining is a joint that serves draft beer in glass mugs instead of plastic cups. Some of the places I frequent don't even have draft beer. They serve their beer in bottles, and they don't offer glasses at all. I think you should make the suggestion as to the restaurant."

"Since you told me you are a native Floridian, may I assume you like seafood?"

"I actually eat little else."

"Have you been to Moore's Stone Crab?"

He laughed, "Yes. That is my 'special occasion place'. Birthdays. Outrageous celebration spurges. It's out of my price range for frequent dining, but I love the food."

"I have not been there, but a number of people have told me it is good. Shall I meet you there about 8:00 p. m.?"

"That sounds fine," he said, thinking that 8:00 p. m. was an ungodly late hour to start dinner. What was more, he knew they would probably have cocktails first and would not eat until 9:00 or after. He made it a point to get his weekly work turned in by Thursday afternoon. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be worth a damn on Friday.

On Thursday, he arrived a few minutes early and waited for her outside. She was delivered to the door in a black Mercedes driven by a uniformed chauffeur. She was in the back seat. For the umpteenth time it crossed his mind that she had some money somewhere, and he couldn't understand why the FBI hadn't looked into that, when there were still hundreds of millions missing from the Techtron retirement plan.

He opened the door for her and she stepped out. Before they entered the restaurant she stopped him with a light hand on his chest. She cleared her throat and said, "This is awkward, so I'm just going to blurt it out. Dinner is on me, but I don't want to embarrass you. I gave them my credit card information in advance. When we are finished, we can simply leave. You will be spared the awkwardness of sitting there while I pay, and I will be spared the awkwardness of paying for a gentleman."

He chuckled, "First of all, thank you for your consideration, but I have to tell you I don't feel the least bit awkward when someone, even a woman, offers to buy me dinner. And," he paused, "I am by no means a gentleman, at least not in the sense I think you meant that comment."

She looked at him with an odd expression but did not reply.

They were ushered to a table overlooking the water. The view probably would have been spectacular a little earlier in the evening. By the time they arrived, it was dark already. The inky blackness of the water, which ordinarily gave him the creeps, was offset somewhat by the twinkling lights along the coast. She asked if he wanted to order a cocktail or a bottle of wine. He grimaced. "I am strictly a beer drinker for the most part. Especially when I eat seafood. Please order wine for yourself, but if you don't mind, I'd rather have a glass of beer."

She smiled. "Roland and I used to go fishing with a captain out of the Bahamas. The chef on his boat insisted on serving only beer with seafood. He could cook haute cuisine with the best of them and he made some amazing food-wine parings when he served meat, but said that real seafood should be consumed with only local beverages. In the Bahamas that meant water, tea or local beer. He said in France or California it is okay to drink wine with seafood if it is local wine and local seafood. I thought that was strange until the first time I ate grilled grouper and washed it down with a bottle of Red Stripe on the beach in Jamaica! Are there any good local beers here?"

"There are a few Florida beers, but most are strictly micro-breweries you have to drink on site. With seafood, I like Red Stripe or Kalik; I guess the Bahamians know how to make beer to go with all that seafood. To be totally honest, though, my favorite beer, period, is Yuengling draft."

She laughed, "I love Yuengling!"

He was surprised. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. Roland tried it on a trip to Philadelphia a number of years ago. He started bringing it home with him whenever he traveled. At the time they didn't sell it in Georgia. Roland liked the regular lager. I love Black & Tan."

"Black & Tan is a little too heavy to go with fish, I think."

"I agree, but I might have a glass for a cocktail."

He grinned, "I like your style, lady."

They ordered glasses of beer and studied the menu. It only took a minute for them to realize their tastes in seafood were remarkably similar. They decided to share an order of steamers and then share a combination of blackened fish and grilled scallops. When the food arrived, they switched to Red Stripe. They ate the messy food and talked, mostly about food and beer and fishing. He was surprised to find that Marcella loved to fish, and was very knowledgeable both about deep sea and freshwater angling.

She told him she learned her love of fishing from her husband. Ray knew she and her husband had only been married a few years. Her knowledge and passion about the subject struck him as much older than that. Ray was willing to bet she had grown up around water and had fished her whole life. That didn't narrow things down much, but it was a clue he hadn't had before.

She peppered him with questions, but deflected questions when he turned them back on her. On safe subjects (which meant any subject that did not involve her personally) she was funny, witty and loquacious. She clammed up completely when he tried to extract any personal information. He realized he was going to have to take an indirect route.

She liked to fish. That was a start. He would invite her to go fishing. Nothing facilitates sharing stories like a day on the water.

They enjoyed their meal, which they topped off with a shared piece of key lime pie. On the way out of the restaurant, she said, "I'm going to have to put in an extra couple of hours in the gym tomorrow."

He said, "I'm already planning to add an extra couple of miles on my run tomorrow."

She asked, "Where do you run?"

He told her about his route around Siesta Key and she asked if he would mind a running partner from time to time. He couldn't believe it when he blurted out, "Any time. Since you like great seafood and good, cold beer, it occurs to me you might not be as repelled by the joints I frequent as I originally thought. Why don't you plan to join me for a run one afternoon, and we'll end up at my local hangout for brewskies and swimmers at sunset."

She grinned with what looked like genuine pleasure and said, "That sounds positively wonderful!"

"How about Saturday?"

"What time?"

He thought about it for a minute and, ignoring the bells going off in the back of his head telling him to stop this nonsense, he said, "Well, the sun sets these days about 7:00. How far do you usually run?"

She said, "I don't run as much as I should, but about three days a week, I run five to six miles. Once a week or so, I like to go a bit farther, maybe eight to ten miles."

He nodded. "It is 5 miles round trip from my house to the end of Siesta Key, up to the bridge and back. We could add another couple of miles by running all the way to the public beach and back. I like to stop at a little bar near the public beach for my nightly brew, and sunset observance."

She smiled, "That sounds lovely. You'd make a great Islander."

He laughed out loud, "I am an Islander. Grew up in downtown Margaritaville. I was living the Island life back when only old fishermen, hippies and bums were doing it."

"You were a Parrot Head before it was cool."

Her car pulled up. He opened the door and helped her inside, he said with a wink, "Ma'am, I was a Parrot Head before there was such a thing."

"I'll bet you have great stories about Key West."

"I do. They all predate the coming of the cruise ships and Yuppies who ruined the place. We knew the place had gone purely to hell when Jimmy up and moved to Miami, of all the damned places."

She smiled, "I can't wait to hear the stories. I'll see you on Saturday. Where shall we meet?"

"I could pick you up?"

"That won't be necessary." She handed him a calling card. "My email address is on this card, please send me your address. I'll have my driver drop me off. What time do you think?"

"Five should be plenty of time to get in a run and then find a good spot for the sunset show."

"Won't we need to shower and change before dinner?"

He laughed and shook his head. "You're welcome to do so if you want, but I usually just pop in straight from my run. When the barkeep sees me coming, he puts out a pitcher of ice water, which I drink pretty much straight down. Then he opens my beer. It's a straight-off-the-beach kind of place. They require patrons to wear shoes because the law insists on that. Half the people there of an evening are in bathing suits (often wet) or running togs (usually very sweaty). We won't stand out, trust me."

"Okay," she said with some misgiving in her voice. She waved and the deeply tinted window slid up, hiding her from his view.

He walked to his car feeling like a complete idiot. It had been a long time since he had been out on a date, but he recognized when women were flirting with him. Marcella had sat across from him all evening flirting like crazy. Part of him figured that it was important for her to understand the kind of person she was actually dealing with. He assumed that if he gave her a taste of his lifestyle she would go scurrying back to her fancy condo on Longboat Key and bother him no more. He would put her and her story behind him. Part of him wanted that to happen. She was out of his league and he knew it.

But, there was something else that worried him. He was flattered by the attention of such a lovely lady. He told himself he was just emotionally vulnerable what with the whole business with Deborah. The facts or logic of the situation notwithstanding, he rather liked looking across the table into those amazing doe eyes.

He puttered around on Friday, and made a few calls, checking in with sources. He called Victoria and filled her in on his dinner with Marcella. She was puzzled. "None of that makes any sense. Why would she pick you out like that? Don't get me wrong. You're not bad looking and you've got a wonderful personality. I'm surprised there isn't a line of neighborhood women hanging out in your front yard. But, please don't be offended when I say that you are not the kind of man I would expect a woman like Marcella Wilson to be interested in."

"I am not offended at all. I'm trying to figure it out myself." He chuckled. "I will be interested to see how she likes Cap'n Dick's."

"What?"

"That's the name of the place I'm taking her to dinner."

"Cap'n Dick's bar? Is that place still in business?"

"Don't even tell me you know that place!!"

"She laughed. As a matter of fact I think I do, at least I did once many years ago. It must have been several owners ago. Actually, the few times that Henry and I went there, I think the owner was actually a former fishing vessel captain named Dick something or other."

"Dick D'Amato. Actually it was Riccardo D'Amato. He wasn't a captain at all. He was a mate. He immigrated to America shortly after WWII. I think he was only a teenager at the time. He spent a couple of years in a DP camp in Europe and then some GI from Sarasota took him under his wing and promised him a job on his dad's fishing boat if Dick could get to the US. He never actually confessed but I heard from a credible source that Riccardo stowed away on a ship transporting refugees and orphans to the US. Anyway, somehow he got to the States and made his way to Sarasota. The GI's family hired him and he worked as a mate on their charter boats when the weather permitted and as a bus boy in restaurants all over Siesta Key when the weather was bad. The boat captain he worked for let him live on the boat sort of as a night watchman.

"He saved every dime he earned, and eventually had enough to open a bar of his own. He sold fish sandwiches, shrimp po-boys and cold beer. Called the place Cap'n Dick's, which was a joke. Actually, the original name of the place was supposed to be Swabby Dick's but the city council made him change it. They thought the name was obscene."

Victoria laughed. "Surely he's not still running the place?"

"No. Sadly, Cap died about ten years ago. His son actually ran the place for a long time. He still comes in occasionally, although he has a sort of fancy place on the mainland where he spends most of his time. Dick's grandson now runs the bar. He's doing a great job. Fantastic food. Nice atmosphere. Hardly any tourists."

"How does he manage that?"

Ray explained about the anti-tourist policy. Victoria laughed until she got the hiccups. When she recovered, she said, "First of all, I can't wait to hear how Mrs. Wilson likes the place. Second of all, do they still have those fabulous hush puppies?"

"Oh, yeah. They use same recipe that Dick got from the wife of the first captain he worked for. That old gal was from up around Cedar Key where they take their fish and all the accouterments very seriously. Best damned hush puppies on the planet."

"The next time you stop by my house, come for lunch. Bring us some fish sandwiches and hush puppies."

"Deal. Do you want me to call you on Sunday?"

"Yes. I'll be dying to hear."

"What time do you get home from church?"

"Who says I go to church?"

"I thought all you Southern ladies go to church every Sunday, all gussied up in your hats and white gloves."

"I suppose a lot of them do, but not me. I quit going to church when I married Henry."

"Huh?"

"Henry was Baptist. My family was Catholic. We had irreconcilable religious differences which we surmounted by both of us giving up religion altogether. That turned out to be one of the best decision either of us ever made besides getting married in the first place."

It was his turn to laugh loud and long. He got himself under control and rasped, "Miss Victoria, you must be the most amazing woman I know."

She said softly, "You don't know the half of it." She changed tone. "Call me anytime Sunday. I get up early and I usually stay home all day on Sundays. I may be a heathen, but I try not to flaunt that fact before my evangelical friends in order to prevent them from trying to 'save' me."

"Your secret is safe with me. I'll talk to you soon."

He spent most of Saturday cleaning his house. That was stupid and unnecessary because the place was already immaculate, but it gave him something to do.

A few minutes before 5:00 p. m. he heard a car pull in the driveway. Marcella got out and waved the driver away. Ray thought it was interesting that she sent the driver away before she made sure he hadn't stood her up. He noticed she had a purse and sweats with her. He invited her to leave them inside the house. He noticed that she scanned the room with a practiced eye. She would know at a glance the origin and probable cost of virtually every piece of furniture in the room. If there had been any doubt about his not being in her league, giving her a peek at his house would prove it. To her credit, she did not make a bad face or otherwise react to the surroundings at all.

They stretched a few minutes on the porch and then took off at a slow pace, chatting. After a mile or so, she said, "Would you mind if we picked it up a little. I like to go just a tad faster."

"Set the pace. I'll try to keep up."

She sped up to a comfortable six miles an hour. He was a little surprised she didn't go faster. He was quite a bit older than she was. He assumed she as holding back for his benefit. After another mile or so, he said, "Want to pick it up just a little more?"

She stepped aside and let him move forward and set the pace. They were both running too hard to talk but not so hard that either of them was out of breath. They ran a total of about eight miles and then looped back toward his house. He said, "In the summertime, I stop into the restaurant along my run. Once it gets to the time in the year when it will be dark by the time I am finished with dinner, I like to drive. I don't like to walk out here at night. There are no street lights and way too many tourists who are unfamiliar with the roads. I'm terrified of getting hit by a car. If it's all the same to you, let's drive to the restaurant."

"That's fine. Mind if I use your bathroom to splash my face?"

"Sure. Clean towels are under the sink. I'll get us some water."

She came out from the bathroom, wearing the sweat suit, with her hair freshly combed, looking fresh and relaxed. He handed her a bottle of water. She looked around as she drank it. "I'm impressed."

"By what?"

"You're a bachelor. I've heard tales of bachelor pads my entire life. This place makes my house look like a pigsty. I'm a bit on the messy side. I'm embarrassed to admit that to an obvious neat freak."

He looked around his living room, seeing it through the eyes of a stranger. "Actually, come to think of it, this place looks like nobody lives here at all, doesn't it?"

"It does rather lack personal touches."

He was grateful she didn't state the obvious: the place desperately needed a woman's touch.

They drove to Cap'n Dick's and found a table facing the beach. The sunset spectacle was about to begin. Ray ordered two glasses of beer and leaned back to watch the show. She started to say something but he put his fingers to his lips. Some things simply demand to be observed in respectful silence. Sunsets, for him, ranked at the very top of that list. The waitress knew he would not be ready to order until the final rays of the sun had disappeared and the purple trailers started to fade. He relaxed and all but forgot that Marcella, or anyone else, was there.

When the last of the rays had faded from red to purple and the sky began to darken, he turned to her and smiled, "Is that not the most incredible thing imaginable? I'm not technically a religious person, but I have to tell you, I fail to understand how anyone could watch a sunset over the ocean and not be moved."

She looked surprised, but did not respond. He felt a little embarrassed at having said that aloud.

They ordered grilled fish sandwiches for dinner. Marcella was quiet. At first he thought she might be uncomfortable in the setting. He rather hoped that was the case. She made him uncomfortable and he found himself wanting to be done with her. He thought that was odd. There was much about her he liked. There was even more about her – or, more importantly, his reaction to her – that troubled him.

They ate without talking, enjoying the tasty fish and the freshly baked sandwich rolls. The bar was strictly a late-afternoon, early evening place. It cleared out shortly after dark. Soon Ray and Marcella were the only ones left. They lingered over their beers, talking about food and fishing and travel, until it was obvious the bartender wanted to close up. Ray walked up to the bar and paid the bill. Then they walked to his car. He said, "It's not a Mercedes, but it's German engineering." She laughed and hopped into the front seat of his VW.

Ray slid behind the wheel and asked, "Where to, milady?"

She looked at her watch. She said, "I told my driver to pick me up at your house at 8:30 p. m." He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and saw that it was 8:30 already. He drove home and found her car waiting in the driveway. He walked around to the passenger's seat and opened the door. As he led her to her car, he said, "Since you like to fish, I was wondering if one day you might like to go out on the water with me."

She grinned and said, "I would love to. I haven't been fishing in a while. Give me a call next week. My number is on the card I gave you the other day. "

He shook her hand and she closed the door.

Chapter 10

He walked into the house and leaned against the inside of the front door. _What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I do that?_

He read for a while and then went to bed, determined to put Marcella Wilson and her strange "story" behind him, and focus on his job for a change. For several days he did just that. He was determined to find his next "big story" and spent hours every day trolling the town for something interesting. He came up with at least a half dozen news items and maybe twice that many potential human interest articles. He thought he might be able to expand a couple of them into full-blown features for the Sunday paper. He was moderately pleased with his success, but he knew that none of the stuff he had dug up was anything close to a great story. It was better than nothing, but it didn't make his heart race and his typing-fingers tingle like a "great" story did.

Late the following week he received an email from Marcella asking if he was still willing to take her fishing. She said she was planning an out-of-town trip, but wanted to schedule it around their "fishing date." He noticed that, as usual, she didn't say where she was going. He wanted to reply by telling her he was too busy to go fishing and that she should schedule her travel at her convenience. Instead, he looked at the calendar and checked the weather. Saturday seemed like a perfect day for fishing. He replied asking if she was free on Saturday.

A couple of hours later, she replied she would postpone her trip until after the weekend and she would be delighted to go with him on Saturday.

He found himself hoping like hell it would rain on the one hand, and, on the other, planning what he would pack for drinks and snacks. He feared he was turning into some kind of a nut.

Consequently, to prove he could still function more or less normally, he put in several of the most productive writing days he had accomplished in years. Most of the stories he had dug up were not time sensitive. He wrote six local interest stories for his semi-regular Thursday feature in the local section. He outlined three longer pieces for the Sunday paper, and wrote up proposals for his editor. It was no use writing a lengthy article until they said they wanted it, but the outline would make the writing easy. He called one of the photographers and asked for a series of photos for each of the articles. The photographers liked having "no-rush" assignments like that to give them something to do between deadline assignments.

He turned in one story for the Thursday paper and filed the rest of the articles away in his "pending publication" file, which was almost empty. Ray felt good about his work for the first time in a long while. He noticed with some satisfaction that since he had started writing with Victoria in mind, his style had improved dramatically. After the new editor, who cared about nothing but word-count, had taken over he got lazy. Writing for a discriminating reader forced him to slow down and consider his choice of words more carefully. He knew he was back in his groove when he found himself struggling with an awkward sentence, which he copied down on a piece of paper and diagrammed the way his junior high English teacher had taught him to do.

By Thursday afternoon, he was more or less finished with his work for the entire week. He called Marcella to confirm their plans for Saturday. He noticed that her calling card listed only her name, cell phone number and email address. It did not give a physical address. Her cell number was evidently an old one because the area code was from Atlanta. Marcella answered, and they chatted for a few minutes. Based on the weather report and tide chart, Ray calculated that the best time to go fishing on Saturday would be early in the morning. He asked her how early she could be ready.

She laughed, "It will probably surprise you to know that I am a very early riser. I'm always up by 5:00 a. m. at the latest. Do you want to go out and watch the sun come up on the water?"

He made a face even though they were speaking on the phone, "Actually, given the changeable channels in the canals I have to go through to get from the marina to the Gulf, I generally don't like to go out before daylight or stay out after dark. Call me a chicken, but I am not thrilled about the idea of hitting a sand bar in the dark."

"That's an understandable concern. What time is sunup?"

"6:07"

"How about we plan to take off about 6:30. That way we'll beat the Saturday rush of boat traffic."

"Works for me. Shall I pick you up?"

"No. I'll meet you. Where do you keep your boat?"

He gave her the address of the marina. She added, "Do you want me to bring snacks and/or lunch?"

He said, "No. This is my treat. What say we snack for breakfast. I'll bring some granola bars and coffee or whatever. We'll fish until we either have enough fish to cook for lunch or we're too hungry to continue. If we have a good catch, we can go back to my place and throw it on the grill. If we don't catch anything, there are a couple of fish-camp type restaurants in the vicinity of the marina that serve excellent local seafood. Either way we can have fresh catch for lunch."

"That sounds great. I'll plan to meet you at the marina around 6:15. I'm looking forward to it." She paused. "Oh, by the way, I have my own poles. Are we going into the Gulf or are we staying in the intracoastal?"

Ray said, "That depends entirely on the winds and the weather report. My boat is a 21' open bow runabout. I only take her out in the Gulf on days when it's not too wavy and there is absolutely nothing on the radar. As I said, I'm a big chicken."

"Not a chicken. You're a man who's lived his entire life near the water and who understands the risks. What kind of gear to you use?"

"I have a relatively light pole with sort of medium-weight line. That way I don't tire out my arms holding up a heavy pole, but I can bag some pretty decent sized fish, if I were to get lucky, which I never do. I'll have a couple of deep sea poles on board in case conditions are right for us to go off-shore, but we'll probably stay close in. It's a good time of year for redfish, if you like that."

"I like almost any kind of fish. I'll see you on Saturday."

On Friday, he cleaned the boat from top to bottom, checked the line on all his poles and got everything squared away for a day on the water. On the way home, he stopped at the store for snacks and water. He bought a large thermos so he could take enough coffee for both of them. He had noticed that she enjoyed a couple of cups of regular coffee after dinner: the hallmark of a fiend. That was something they had in common.

On Saturday, he got up about 5:00 a. m., packed the cooler and checked the weather report and radar one last time. Everything looked good. The winds were expected to be calm. It was cool in the pre-dawn hours, but shortly after dawn the temperature was supposed to rise to the high 70's and later in the day into the 80's. For a second he stopped to remember his boating expeditions with Deborah. She didn't fish, but she loved being out on the water. She would sit quietly for hours on end, occasionally reading, but mostly just soaking up the sun and enjoying the beautiful scenery. He shook his head and tried not to think about her.

He arrived at the marina a few minutes after 6:00 a. m. He kept his boat in out-of-water storage, but if he called ahead they would have it in the water, at the dock, gassed up and ready to go. She was tied up at the dock, ready to go. He checked out the boat and the poles, and sat down with a cup of coffee watching the finale of the sunrise and anticipating the new day coming to life. As much as he loved the drama of sunset, there was always something about daybreak that thrilled him.

He didn't notice Marcella approaching until he heard her laugh. He looked up, startled, and she said, "You look like the picture of contentment. The title of the painting could be: 'Man in a boat with coffee, smiling'."

He chuckled, "Yeah. I guess the prospect of a day on the water is always a thrill." He looked at her. She was carrying what he could tell was a very good fishing equipment, but not the extravagantly expensive stuff he had expected. Her tackle was the kind of outfit really good anglers used. She was dressed for fishing, too. He was sure her clothes were expensive designer stuff, but they were obviously comfortable and perfect for fishing. Incongruously, she was wearing an old beat-up slouch hat that made him want to laugh. There was clearly a story there. He continued, "Especially when I plan to spend the day with a pretty lady in such a lovely hat."

She laughed, and then stopped before stepping on the boat, raising her eyebrows, in the timeless manner of sailors, seeking permission to board. He held out his hand in a welcoming gesture and she stepped on the boat like someone who had been around boats her entire life. She grinned and touched the brim of the hat, "Isn't it just the loveliest thing? I never go fishing without my lucky hat. It's a superstition, but I have to tell you, it works. I am about the luckiest fisherman, er, woman around. Prepare to be amazed."

"That's good, because I have lousy luck. I can be right in the middle of a huge school of fish, with folks all around me catching them like crazy and I'll go home empty handed. My dad always told me the problem with me was I let my mind wander."

She shook her head. "That is the deadliest sin in fishing. Concentration is key."

He fired up the engine and nodded. "I know. I know. And I try. It is just so hard for me to concentrate on the water and my line when the scenery is so beautiful and there are so many stories rattling around in my otherwise empty head to distract me."

She smiled, "There are some writers who are good fishermen, and they often turn out some awesome fishing stories, but I imagine most writers suck at fishing for that reason. You're too distracted by the interesting stuff going on inside your head to pay attention to the fish."

"You're probably right. What about you? What distracts you?"

"Absolutely nothing. When I am on the water, I am totally focused on fishing."

"Sounds like we should have a real fun day."

She laughed and said, "Sorry. Maybe I should have warned you...." She stopped suddenly and, like a snake striking, grabbed a net, "There. Look. A school of perfect bait-fish."

He swung the boat around to put the nose directly in the school facing the opposite direction from which the school was headed and cut the engine to idle. Marcella leaned forward and in one smooth and graceful movement dipped the net into the school of fish. When she raised the net, it was full to over flowing of quivering silver bait-fish. She could barely hold it up. Ray opened the bait bucket and she dumped in the haul. Ray whistled and a said, "Good eye."

She smiled, and for the first time he saw her eyes light up as well, "Oh, my dear man, you ain't seen nothin' yet."

She was absolutely right. What followed was six hours of the most incredible fishing he had ever witnessed. She was not familiar with Sarasota waters from first-hand experience, but he soon learned she had spent most of the week reading fishing reports on the Internet and she had studied a navigational map of the area. She may not have fished Sarasota before, but she was an unsurpassed expert angler and she was prepared. That proved to be more than enough. After a very short time, he simply drove the boat to where she told him to go and then helped her haul in her catch. He did very little fishing of his own. He was too enthralled with watching her.

At one point, he simply sat back with a cup of coffee and stared at her. He knew she wouldn't notice because she was concentrating with her mind, body and soul on the point where her line entered the water. He recalled that newspaper articles usually described Marcella as "attractive". That was often a sort of journalistic code-word for a woman who may not be technically beautiful but who fixes herself up well, usually at considerable cost and and often with artificial enhancements.

He looked at her carefully, smiling to himself and wondering if those same reporters would use that adjective at that moment, what with her standing there in the bow of his boat, with fish blood smeared on the front of her pants and sweat running down the backs of her legs. Several tiny fish eyes were stuck on her vest. Her hands were slimy from the gore in the bait bucket. Her hair was pulled up under that big, floppy hat, but a few strands had escaped to fly around her face and curl up on the back of her neck. She must have tried to push some of that stray hair back under the hat because he noticed she had a little smear of fish blood on the back of her neck. He thought to himself, "attractive" was not an appropriate desription for Marcella. _She was freaking drop-dead gorgeous!_

He tried to shake that thought from his head, but at that very moment she had a bite. He could see her entire body tense for a second and then her arms went up and she flicked the rod to set the hook. She smiled and he heard her whisper, "C'mon, baby, let me see you."

Ray watched transfixed for the ten minutes or so she spent fighting the fish. She fished with not only her body and mind. She fished with her soul. She talked to the fish. She talked to her fishing gear. She seemed to have forgotten Ray was even there. If there had been any doubt that Marcella Wilson had spent at least a large part of her life, probably her entire childhood, near the water, it was put to rest that day. Wherever she was from, Ray knew the fishing was good.

After a while, she whooped, "Look at that sucker!" She reeled fast and smooth and brought the fish along side. Ray grabbed the net and a gaff, not knowing what kind of fish it was.

He leaned over the side and whistled, "Holy smoke! That is the biggest red fish I have seen in long time." He netted it and pulled it in the boat.

Marcella picked it up and said, "What do you think? Five pounds?"

Ray nodded, "Oh, at least."

She grinned, her face glistening with sweat, salt water and joy, "That's lunch!"

Ray nodded, "And dinner, as well as fish dip for tomorrow."

He put the fish in the cooler, which was almost full. He said, "Ma'am, I salute you. I have fished with some wonderful anglers. Since it is well established that I suck at fishing, I usually do what I did today: I drive the boat and help pull the catch aboard. You are the best I have ever seen." He took off his hat and bowed.

She was sitting in the bow of the boat, sweaty and smeared with fish gore, but to Ray she looked like Guenevere on her throne. She inclined her head and accepted his salute. He half expected her to raise her hand in a kind of blessing. She said, "Speaking of lunch. I'm hungry."

"I'm not surprised. I may have to feed you lunch. After all you caught this morning, I'd think your arms may be too tired to lift the fork to your mouth."

She laughed. "I think I'll be able to manage."

He turned the boat around and headed back toward Sarasota. They were quiet most of the way. He found that odd. He usually felt it awkward to be quiet with someone he didn't know well. He and Marcella did not seem to need to fill up the silence. When they pulled into his slip at the marina, she helped him clean the boat. They needed assistance from a couple of guys hanging out on the dock to get cooler up on the dock. A couple of fishermen who knew Ray followed them to the fish-cleaning tables. One old salt remarked, "Well, well, Raymond, looks like you finally figured out the secret. Since you couldn't catch a fish if it jumped in your boat, you found yourself a lady-friend who can fish. Very smart."

At that very moment, Ray opened the cooler and the old guy added, "Holy shit! Can that lady fish!" He turned to her and said, "Any time Ray is busy, I'll take you out for free."

She laughed but didn't answer.

Ray started to clean the fish. Since he didn't typically catch many fish, he did not have a lot of experience cleaning them. He was a little nervous with so many people standing around watching. Marcella cleared her throat and said, "Why don't you let me do that?"

Ray looked at her, astonished, "You clean your own fish?"

"Damn right I do. I have rarely met a mate anywhere who can clean fish better than I can. Outta my way."

She pulled a knife from a sheath at her waist and then proceeded to put on a virtual clinic on how to perfectly clean fish. Her knife flashed as fish after fish was cleaned, skinned, filleted and bagged with a speed and efficiency that drew a crowd. When she finished her exhibition the fishermen applauded. She rinsed her knife and her hands and started to wash down the cleaning table. Ray took the hose away from her and said, "At least, let me do that."

She handed him the hose and he washed down the table. When he was finished, he heard Marcella giggling. He turned around and looked at her. Her arms were bloody to the elbow and she had bloody streaks running down her legs. She took off her shoes and said, "Perhaps you should turn that thing on me."

He laughed and said, "You look like a crime scene." He squirted her legs and she bent over so he could rinse her arms. She dried herself with a beach towel and threw it over her arm. "I'll sit on this in your car to avoid getting the seat nasty."

They loaded their poles and their catch into the trunk of his car and headed for his house. When they pulled into the driveway, she looked down at herself and said, a bit sheepishly, "While you're getting the fire going, would you mind terribly if I use your shower. I promise to clean up after myself, but I'm starting to smell really bad and it's going to get much worse very fast if I don't apply some soap and water soon."

"Absolutely." He led her directly to the bathroom, pulled out some clean towels from under the sink. He asked, "Do you want a sweat suit or something to put on so you don't have to put on those dirty clothes?"

She shook her head and held up her large tote bag. "I brought a change of clothes. I know myself to be a very messy angler." She shooed him out of the bathroom.

He unloaded the car and started the gas grill on the deck. In an amazingly brief time, she walked into the kitchen grinning. Her hair was wet, pulled back in a pony tail. She had on no makeup, and the lines in her face showed her age. Her khaki crop pants and black shirt showed off her excellent figure without being too revealing. Ray thought she was very beautiful.

She looked around the kitchen. He was heating oil for hush puppies. He asked, "Do you want fries or should we have veggies?"

"We're grilling the fish. Let's grill some veggies. Fried hush puppies are of course crucial. I happen to make outstanding tartar sauce. Why don't you shower, and let me take over here."

Without even thinking about it, he simply did as she suggested. As he stepped in the shower, it crossed his mind that only a few minutes earlier she had been there, naked. He put that thought out of his mind as soon as it bubbled up.

He showered, changed and returned to the kitchen. She had whipped up a bowl of home-made tarter sauce and was mixing up a batch of hush puppies. He watched her without saying anything. She minced a small onion and put about half into the batter. Then she pursed her lips and looked at him, "More?"

He smiled and nodded, "Oh, yeah."

She dumped the rest of the onion in the batter and then reached for the cayenne pepper. Once more she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

"Just a tad."

She sprinkled in a little heat and stirred the lumpy batter ever so slightly. She turned to him and said, "I'm not much of a grill cook. My fried fish is like nothing you've ever tasted, but I have never learned the knack of grilling fish. Why don't you man the grill and I'll do the inside work."

"That sounds good." He picked up the plate of fillets and headed for the door. Then he turned around and put a few pieces on a plate. "If you're so handy with the Fry Daddy, how's about tossing a few of those in there with the hush puppies for a little variety."

"Sure. I noticed in the fridge you have the cole slaw made. Do we need anything else?"

"I'll slice some onions and zucchini for the grill and throw on the fish at the last minute. I think that will do us."

"Do you want tea or beer?"

"What would you prefer?"

She smiled. "After a day on the water like that? What do you think?"

He went into the garage where he had a second fridge. He came in with two bottles of beer. He set one on the counter in front of her, and took the other along with the plate of fish and veggies out onto the deck.

Less than half an hour later, he came back into the kitchen. She had the table set, and was taking the last batch of fish out of the fryer.

He set the platter of grilled fish and vegetables on the counter and picked up her beer bottle. It was still nearly half full, but it but it was warm. He emptied it in the sink and fetched each of them a cold one from the garage.

While they feasted, he looked up at her and said, "Okay, lady, I want to know where in the sam hill you learned to fish like that."

She paused for a very long time, chewing carefully in the manner of fish eaters everywhere, testing for bones. It was very clear she was considering how to answer him. Eventually she took a deep breath and looked him directly in the eye. She held his gaze for a long time and said, "You're a reporter. I have managed, with some difficulty and at considerable expense, to keep my background private and out of the news. If I tell you my story, am I going to read it in the paper tomorrow?"

He shook his head. It was his turn to think for a minute. How much privacy was he willing to give her? What if she revealed something he could use? He decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it, and said, "This is a private conversation. It won't go any further than this table."

She stared at him for a few minutes, clearly weighing whether or not to trust him. Finally she sighed, "Okay. I'll tell you. Obviously, I didn't learn to fish, clean fish or cook fish like that in any fancy finishing school. My dad was a charter boat captain out of Destin. I'm an only child. My mother died when I was ten. During summers and school holidays, Dad would take me out with him. I started out as second mate. I learned to bait hooks and clean fish from the mates. I learned to navigate and find fish from my dad and from some of the really great fishermen who fished out of Destin. I went to school because the law said I had to, but I spent virtually all of the rest of my time on the boat with Dad.

"On the rare occasions we were able to take a vacation, we went fishing on lakes and rivers inland. Dad also liked to go fly fishing in the Keys. I have to confess, I never enjoyed fly-fishing as much as he did. It's just too damned much work. And it makes my arms tired. I go strictly for volume of fish. I like to catch fish I can eat, except for tarpon which is catch-and-release fishing for fun and excitement. I don't like trophy fishing, although we used to take people out to fish for the big ones. God, it is beautiful to watch someone bring in a sailfish, but I always wanted to let them go, which pissed everybody off."

Ray laughed.

She went on, "Anyway, in many ways the ocean is my true home and fishing is the thing I love more than anything."

He munched on a hush puppy, which was fantastic, and considered very carefully the next question he wanted to ask. Before he quite got up the nerve, he heard her chuckle. She said softly, "Your next question would be: so how did you get from the docks of Destin to high society in Atlanta?"

He looked at her and said very softly, "I'm dying to know, but I appreciate that you are a very private person. I know that I'm nosy by profession; I'm trying hard not to pry."

She laughed. "Thank you. I'm sure that coming from you, that is an enormous sacrifice. I won't go into the details, but I'll give you the highlights. My dad had a client who was from Chicago. He was a fabulously rich businessman. You would probably recognize his name if I told you, but who he was doesn't matter. He chartered Dad's boat a couple of times a year for several years. The summer before my senior in high school he chartered the boat for an offshore trip lasting several days. It was just Dad and me, the client and a lady friend of his. She was seasick most of the time. One night after the lady went to bed, the three of us were up on the deck, drinking beer and watching the stars. The client asked me what I was going to do after high school. I told him I planned to work for my dad full-time and maybe run a boat of my own someday. He asked my dad what he thought about that plan. My dad shrugged and said it sounded good to him. Dad had never done anything but fish. It seemed logical to him that I would do the same thing.

"The client threw a fit. He said that was no life for a girl. He asked me how many of dad's clients had made passes at me. I shrugged and told him a few had made remarks or even advances. That's why I kept my knife on my belt at all times." She smiled, lost in her thoughts, "You know, I always carry a blade even today except when I travel by air. I think the reason I don't like to fly is because I can't take my knife with me any more.

"Anyway, the client told my dad that I had the excuse of not knowing any better, but he was a bad parent because I was so ignorant. The man offered to pay for me to go to college. He said if I wanted to go back and fish for a living after I got out of college that was my business, but at least I'd have an education to fall back on if I ever came to my senses and decided to get a decent job and live like normal people. "I had no intention of taking him up on his offer.

A couple of months later, my dad found out he had lung cancer and wasn't expected to live very long. Other than the boat and an old ramshackle house, we didn't have anything in the way of material possessions. Dad didn't have any insurance for cancer treatments, so he decided not to waste money on treatment other than pain medication. He sold the house, and we moved onto the boat. We sort of putzed around taking out fishing charters as long as dad could manage that. When he got too sick to fish or to easily get on and off the boat, we sold the boat and moved into a cheesy apartment near the Air Force base in Ft. Walton Beach. Dad lived long enough to see me graduate from high school. Actually, he was too sick to go to the graduation ceremony but he saw me in my cap and gown beforehand and he saw me with my diploma afterwards.

He died a couple of weeks later. After I paid his final expenses, all I had left for his lifetime of backbreaking work was five thousand dollars. That, and a high school diploma, were what I had on which to build my future.

"I had planned to work on a fishing boat for my dad. I knew better than to try to get a job on a fishing boat run by anybody else. Even as good as I am with a knife, I knew for sure that something bad would happen to me if I tried to do that. So, I guess in the manner of solo women since the dawn of time, I turned to a man for protection. I called upon the only man I knew who might help me: my dad's rich client. I asked him if his offer to send me to college were still open and, if not, I asked for a job.

"He told me to close up my affairs in Florida, buy a plane ticket to Chicago and let him know when I would arrive. I packed all the half-way decent clothes I had, which wasn't much, along with my dad's captain's logs and the purple heart he got in WWII. That didn't even fill up a backpack. I boxed up the rest of our meager possessions and put it out on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, free to anyone who might need it. A neighbor took me to the airport.

"It was July. I thought it was hot in Florida. Chicago was having a heat wave and it was much hotter and more humid and more utterly miserable there than I had ever experienced in Florida. From the minute I got off the plane until the day I left four years later, I hated Chicago." She chuckled. "I thought it was bad in the summertime. Oh, my lord, that first winter I thought I would die....

"Anyway, my mentor had a big house on The Loop that had air conditioning. I had never been in a building other than a movie theater that was air conditioned. I thought that was extravagant to the point of obscenity, but, to be honest, I got used to it pretty damned fast.

"I stayed with him and his wife-du-jour that summer. In the fall, he rented me an apartment near the campus of Northwestern University and set up a trust fund which provided income for me to live on and enough money to pay for my books and tuition. I had always hated school, although I had earned very good grades. I wasn't really interested in much of anything, but I had agreed to go to college so I had to study something. The only thing I knew anything about was the ocean, so I decided to major in marine biology. That turned out to be a good fit for me. I struggled with a lot of other classes, but I never had any trouble with science. I was almost the only girl in most of my upper level science classes. I guess I was kind of a nerd before that word was invented.

"Boys had never paid any attention to me in high school because I was considered to be that crazy chick who worked on a fishing boat, and could out-cuss, out-spit and out-fight almost every boy in the school. I guess I probably don't have to tell you that reputation didn't get me a lot of dates.

"It was different at Northwestern. My mentor's wife, who was only a couple of years older than me at the time, took me shopping and bought me some really cool clothes. She was kind of an idiot, but she had really great fashion taste. She took me to a stylist and had my hair cut by a professional for the first time in my life. Up until then, my dad cut my hair, or I cut it myself.

"Before I arrived in Chicago, the closest I had ever come to wearing makeup was putting on chap stick when the salt spray caused my lips to break open and bleed. She took me to the cosmetic counter at a department store and they taught me how to put on makeup. Who would ever have guessed I was sort of pretty? Anyway, I got plenty of male attention, some good and some not-so-good.

"I managed to get by without having to pull my knife on anyone in Chicago except for a homeless guy who tried to mug me one night when I came home late from the library. I didn't cut him, but I scared the hell out of him. He must have spread the word because none of the neighborhood bums or panhandlers ever bothered me after that.

"Anyway, I ended up with a certificate to teach science. My trust fund was still chugging along pretty nicely, so after graduation I decided to move to Southern California and get a graduate degree in marine sciences. USC had a good program for that and Southern California didn't have winters like Chicago plus it had an ocean nearby. Lake Michigan is beautiful, but it is not an ocean. I had never been to California nor did I know anybody there, but it seemed like a good place to go.

"Shortly after I left Chicago, my mentor died. He left me a lot of money." She paused for effect, "A whole lot of money."

She laughed, "You know people often said that I married Roland for his money. Actually it was the other way around. I was the one with the money.... , although Roland never knew that."

He put up his hand. She stopped, and he said, "Sorry to interrupt you, but I want to interject this. Please don't tell me anything about your husband or Tectron that has not already appeared in the press. I agreed to keep your story to myself. I don't want to know anything about that other story that I might even be tempted to use."

She looked at him for a long time, with a very sad look. Then she put her hand over his and said, "You are indeed an honorable and upright man. That's what I have been told about you."

She thought for a minute. "In that case, I guess that's about as far as I can go other than to say I began post-graduate work at USC, but being an heiress was just too tempting. I started traveling. I was sort of a gypsy for several years. I didn't have a permanent address. The Trustee's firm took care of my affairs and they deposited money in my checking account. I sort of flitted around the globe partying with the jet set. It was fun for a while. Then it became boring and I decided to try to do something useful. I kind of got involved in some environmental organizations and embarked upon a career as a do-gooder. Soon after that, I met Roland and you know the rest of that story."

She was finished. She took a sip of beer and then shrugged. "So you see, Mr. Bailey, the reason I have gone to great lengths to hide my background is because I just simply don't want my rich society friends to know about my tough childhood and the fact that I am basically the beneficiary of a rich man's charity."

He started to protest, then he realized she was right in a sense.

She continued, "I also don't want people to know who my benefactor was because he was a rather notorious womanizer and, as I said, his last wife was not much older than me. I always feared that people would think he gave me money in exchange for sexual favors. That was not the case but I am quite certain no one would believe me."

He put his hand over hers as it lay on the table, "Where on earth did you get your impeccable manners and regal bearing?"

She laughed, "From an actress who was playing the part of a queen in a movie." He looked dubious. "Honest, I did! When I first moved to LA, I lived near the USC campus. A neighbor of mine was an actress. She wasn't exactly an A-List movie star, but she was a really good character actress who worked regularly. She'd never had a starring role in a major movie but when I knew her she was only in her early sixties and she had been in more than 150 movies, and countless TV shows. She wasn't rich but she was financially comfortable. She was also very kind. Since I was more or less alone in the world, she took an interest in me and mothered me in a way. Or at least she did the closest thing I ever had to 'mothering'.

"At the time, my manners were appalling. I had learned to dress and fix my hair and wear makeup while I was in Chicago, but I smoked, drank and swore like a sailor. I often got into fights with strangers. In Destin, my blade was always the best protection around. It was not likely to help me in LA where so many people carried guns. My lack of social skills was not just unattractive; in LA it was dangerous.

"My neighbor took it upon herself to teach me to behave like a lady. Maybe she went too far. There are a lot of people who say I carry myself like royalty. In America, that is not necessarily, or even usually, a compliment. I think that has worked against me because many people perceive me as arrogant or someone putting on airs. The latter accusation, of course, is true."

She looked at her watch. "Oh, my. It's very late. I have bent your ear and ended up taking up your whole day. I should call my driver."

He squeezed her hand. "Honestly I'm not going to do anything but go for a run. Why don't you let me take you home?"

She considered that for a minute, "Okay. If you're going for a run anyway, why don't you change into your running clothes. Let's run on Longboat Key before you come home."

"Sounds good." He went into the bedroom to change while she cleaned up the kitchen.

She lived in a gated community on Longboat Key. Her condo was large and beautifully decorated, but neither opulent or gauche. It struck him as odd that she would have such wonderful taste given what she had said about her background. He assumed she paid expensive decorators to get the look just right. Whoever was responsible for it, her home was beautiful.

She was back in a flash in running clothes. He waved his arms around the room and said, "I thought you said you were messy."

She laughed out loud, "I'm positively a pig. Fortunately, I have an excellent housekeeper."

They ran for a long time; eventually running out of gas altogether, they walked the last mile or so back to her condo. She invited Ray inside. He agreed to take a bottle of water, but said he needed to go. She walked him to the door and, as he started to leave, she put her hand on his arm, saying, "Thank you for today. It was the best time I've had in ... in a very, very long time."

He smiled at her and said, "I love to go out on the water, but I don't like to go out alone. Anytime you get a hankering to wet your line, call me. I'll be happy to take you out."

She smiled at him and said very softly, "I'll hold you to that promise." She lifted herself up on her toes and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

He responded by putting his hand on her cheek. Then he turned and left her before he embarrassed himself by throwing his arms around her and kissing her on the lips.

Chapter 11

The next few weeks were busy for Ray. The wife of one of the sportswriters was seriously injured in an auto accident and her husband took a leave of absence to take care of her and their children, leaving a hole in the sports staff during the height of football season. Since football is the state religion of Florida, that was practically a catastrophe for the Sports Department.

Ray loved sports and volunteered to fill in. He agreed to attend high school events on Friday nights in exchange for occasional tickets to college and pro games. That meant his workload increased dramatically, and he worked from Friday night through Sunday afternoon nearly every weekend. The paper agreed to let him take off a couple of days during the week -- once in a while, when his editor remembered, and only if he continued to turn in his regular quota of stories.

That was okay with Ray. He loved being busy and he had always rather envied the sportswriters because they got to write about fun things and their schedules were usually predictable. He was happy to have the opportunity to try the life of a sportswriter.

He took Marcella out fishing one day during the week. She caught almost as many fish as she had the first time. They kept part of the catch and gave the rest of it to a bunch of tourists who had spent a bundle to charter a boat and come back empty handed. Ray directed them to a nearby restaurant where he knew the chef would cook their catch for them.

The marina regulars didn't know who Marcella was, but she became known on the docks as "Ray's squeeze, that woman who can fish." They exchanged emails several times a day and spoke on the phone every couple of days. From Ray's perspective, they were becoming good friends.

One day Victoria called Ray and invited him to stop at her house after work for tea. When he arrived they chatted for a while, mostly about upcoming events in the society circles that Victoria wanted to publicize. Ray made notes. He shared with her some of the stories he was working on.

After the conversation petered out a bit, Victoria cleared her throat and said tentatively, "I know it is absolutely none of my business, but I think you should know that it has been noticed around town that you and Marcella Wilson have been seeing each other."

"Do people know what we do and where we go?"

"I've heard you run together sometimes on Siesta Key, sometimes near her condo. You've been seen at a couple of restaurants."

"Anything else?"

She looked puzzled and shook her head, "What else is there?"

He laughed and said, "Nothing, really. I've taken her out in my boat a couple of times. I am surprised you hadn't heard that."

"You don't keep your boat at the Yacht Club. My sources tend to come from that circle."

He howled, "Compared to most of those monstrosities at the Yacht Club, my boat wouldn't qualify as a dinghy."

Victoria smiled, "I'm sure you are exaggerating."

He made a face, "You haven't seen my boat!"

There was a long pause. Victoria obviously wanted to know more but was trying desperately not to ask. Finally she said, "I can't stand it. What have you found out about her?"

He paused and pursed his lips. "Well, here's the thing, Miss Victoria, Marcella told me some things about her past, but she told them to me in strict confidence. I don't know what came over me, but I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone her story. I also specifically asked her not to tell me anything that pertains to her late husband or to Techtron that has not been published."

Victoria chuckled, "Are you falling in love with her?"

He shook his head, "I don't think so. I think she intimidates me way too much to fall in love with her. I am, however, fascinated by her and I enjoy her company. As much as I enjoy spending time with you and my other friends, I have to tell you I rather like spending time with a woman who is sort of in my age group. Not to mention one who shares my passions for running and boating." He decided not to mention the fishing part.

Victoria nodded and put down her cup. She put her hand on his arm and said, "As well you should. It has been a long time since you have been in a relationship with a woman. I just hope you will be careful."

"I am always careful where women are concerned. Maybe too careful ... which is why I have been alone so long."

"On that note, have you heard from Deborah?"

"Actually, I received an email from her last week. She said she was feeling very weak and tired. She has hospice care at her home. I don't think it will be much longer." He stopped and cleared his throat.

Victoria poured him some more tea, patted his arm and promptly changed the subject.

As he was leaving, she said, "This is awkward, but I'm going to say it anyway. According to the newspapers, Marcella Wilson is broke, but she doesn't live like it. I am planning to host a fund raiser during the holidays to raise money to expand the children's wing of the hospital. As you know the pool of money in this town is very deep, but it is not very wide. If Marcella has any money, I'd love to tap into it. If she really is broke, I don't want to embarrass her. What I want to know, if you can tell me without giving away confidences, is should I invite her or not?"

He chuckled, "I don't know how much money she has, but she is not broke. I think she would appreciate an invitation. I have the impression she is lonely, although she hasn't said so in those words."

Victoria suddenly got a strange look on her face, "Suppose I invite you. Bring her as your guest. You are my friend. It won't look like such a crass maneuver to get my hand in her pocket."

Ray laughed, "Miss Victoria, it is a crass maneuver to get your hand in her pocket, and she'll know it the minute she gets an invitation whether it comes directly from you or through me. What is more, you have never invited me to a charity function before so I find myself interpreting your suggestion as crass maneuver to get your hand in my pocket as well."

Victoria opened the door and put her hand on his shoulder, "It most certainly is. The date is December 14. Please mark it on your calendar, and please consider inviting Marcella to be your guest."

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, "I could never say no to you, even when you are being conniving and manipulative."

She looked at him with a wide-eyed silent-screen-star-surprised look and said, "Moi!?"

He had set his cell phone on silent while he was visiting with Victoria. When he got in his car, he noticed he had two messages. The first one was from Marcella; she had left a message to the effect that she was just checking in and asked him to call her when he had a minute. The second call was from Carl Bashears. He said simply that Deborah had passed away. She had been cremated and her ashes scattered in the mountains behind their home. Ray felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

Without even thinking about it, he immediately dialed Marcella's number. She answered on the second ring and sounded sincerely glad to hear from him. He blurted out, "If you are not busy, would you mind if I stopped by your place? I just got some bad news and, quite honestly, I just don't want to go home alone. Would I be imposing if I stopped by?"

She paused for only an instant, "Not at all. I made a pot of soup for dinner but haven't eaten yet. If you wouldn't mind stopping at a store for some good bread and a bag of mixed greens for salad, we can have dinner here."

He stopped at the store for a baguette and mixed greens. He also bought some gorgonzola and pine nuts because he liked them in salad.

A few minutes later he pulled into the gatehouse of her complex. The guard waved him through. He pulled into the driveway and Marcella opened the front door before he got out of the car. She waited for him to come in, taking the grocery bag from him as he entered. She took his arm and ushered him into the living room. A bottle of wine was open on the coffee table. Marcella headed for the kitchen with the groceries, calling over her shoulder, "Pour us some wine. I'll be right back."

She came back a minute later and sat down beside him. He had not poured the wine. In fact, he sat there sort of staring off into space. She asked, "Would you rather have a beer?"

He shook his head. She poured wine for each of them, but he didn't taste his. She took his hand and asked gently, "What is it?"

He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes, wondering how in the hell he was going to be able to say it out loud. What was he doing here anyway? Why had he come here? Marcella still had his hand between both of hers. He felt her willing him to calm himself and to tell her what had happened. Her strength helped him regain just enough composure to say, "It may have been wrong of me to come here right now, but I found out today that my ex-wife died recently. We have been divorced for a long time and she had remarried, but I always cared about her. I can't explain it. I just feel as though I have lost her all over again. It isn't like we were ever going to be together again. It's just that I am sad to know she is gone forever." He paused, swallowed to stop a sob, and continued, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here tonight." He started to get up.

She pulled him back on the couch and put her hand on his chest. "You most certainly should be here. As you should know, I know a thing or two about grief. Everyone I have ever loved has died and I am prone to wonder if it's my fault. Sometimes I feel like the Grim Reaper. I know that's crazy. In any case, I know how it feels to lose the people you love, or have loved at one point in your life. I am honored you came here tonight."

He relaxed and closed his eyes. She quit pushing on his chest but did not move her hand. Instead of holding him in his seat, it rested on his chest, comforting him and supporting him. She leaned close and whispered, "It is okay to cry."

He tried not to cry, but the tears came as if responding to her invitation. She put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. She did not look at him, for which he was grateful. She simply held him while he cried. When he stopped, he said simply, "Thank you."

She tightened her arms into a firm and yet tender hug, and said, "It's what friends do." She sat up and sipped her wine. She added, "I'm going to go stir the soup. Are you ready to eat or would you rather wait a while."

He smiled with an odd expression, "Amazingly, I am very hungry."

She patted his hand. "I'll finish dinner."

She went into the kitchen. He sipped the wine, which was, not surprisingly, very good. In a few minutes, Marcella beckoned him from the doorway. She had set the table in the kitchen, which was much more intimate than the dining room and seemed more appropriate for the casual dinner of soup and salad. Ray moved like an automaton from the living room to the kitchen, following her instructions.

They ate their soup and talked very little. When they had finished dinner, Ray said, "I hope you don't think it is rude of me to invite myself to dinner and then eat and run, but I think I need to go home now."

Marcella smiled and led him to the door, "Not at all. I agree that you should go home now. I am grateful you came to me when you received this news. Now, however, is not the time for us to cling to each other. As painful as it may be for you to be alone, you need to go."

She walked him to the door, holding his arm. When they reached the door, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and closed the door behind him.

The next morning he knew his guardian angel had helped him get home because for the life of him, he could not remember driving there. It was Friday, which meant he had to attend the local football games. He decided to sleep in.

About nine o'clock he awoke to the ringing of his cell phone. Marcella was calling to ask if he planned to go for a run today and if he wanted company. He hadn't thought about it, but it sounded like a good idea. He told her he had to go to a couple of high school football games in the evening so his day was free. She suggested that they meet in the early afternoon at his house for a run followed by supper at Cap'n Dick's. He agreed.

They ran about twice as far as they usually did. He needed the extra exercise. She seemed to enjoy it, too. After their run, they returned to his house where they showered and changed clothes. They arrived at Dick's a half hour or so before sunset. The waitress asked if they wanted their usual beer. Ray shook his head. "I have to make the rounds of football games tonight and file at least one story, perhaps more, by the 2:00 a.m. deadline. I need all my faculties. I will have tea, sweet, with lots and lots of lemon."

The waitress said, "You mean half lemonade and half tea?"

"That sounds good."

Marcella raised her hand, "I'll have tea also, unsweetened, no lemon."

Ray made a face and said, "Bleck."

Marcella laughed. "While I technically grew up in the South, I never learned to drink tea. In my youth we only consumed only three beverages: coffee, in huge quantities, was the fuel on which we ran every day; water, which we drank mostly in the summer when it was hot and we sweated a lot; and, beer. I can't remember a time when I didn't have beer in the evening. I guess today they would probably take a kid away from a parent who would have her work in a dangerous occupation like fishing and let her drink beer. (I smoked, too, from the time I was maybe twelve or thirteen. I smoked what my dad smoked: Pall Malls.) I never developed a taste for Southern-style tea-syrup. I learned to drink tea when I got to Chicago, where it comes diluted and unsweetened."

Ray chuckled, "That's funny. My dad ran a bar, but I never saw him drink alcohol. Maybe he had a drinking problem early in his life and had quit or something. I don't know. I do know that he drank tea from morning till night. Sweet, thick and very, very strong tea. We had a lemon tree in our back yard, so my mom would often make lemonade for me. To this day lemonade and tea are my favorite beverages. I didn't really drink beer until I went to college."

"Did you work in the bar?"

"Sure. I worked for my dad same as you did for yours. I don't know that it is true now, but it used to be if your parents owned a business, you worked there. I can remember pulling draft beers when I was so little I had to stand on a chair to reach the beer taps. I suppose that was illegal even then; today I am sure the state of Florida would jerk my dad's liquor license for that.

"My main responsibilities as a kid involved busing tables, sweeping up spills and helping the bands set up. It was a great life, let me tell you. Dad's place catered to local fishermen, but there were always some tourists, many of whom were serious anglers, who came in to hang out with the fish-heads." He laughed, "You'd think that someone who has been around great fishermen his whole life wouldn't suck so bad at actual fishing."

She smiled and patted his hand, "You drive the boat beautifully and you know exactly how to maneuver it when someone has hooked one. That's important."

He made a face, "I guess that's something. Anyway, it was a swell life."

"Did your mom work in the bar, too?"

"Sometimes during busy spells she would come in to help in the evenings. She was a cook in one of the restaurants at the harbor. She worked the breakfast and lunch shifts. God, she was a fabulous cook...." His voice trailed off.

"You use the past tense for both of them. When did they die?"

He swallowed slowly and laid his hands flat on the table for support. "They were killed in an automobile accident on Alligator Alley when they were on their way home from my college graduation." He paused, sipped his tea and continued, speaking rapidly in order to get to the end of the story as quickly as possible, "The highway patrol determined that a late afternoon thundershower blew up, possibly with a tornado or maybe just a microburst. Dad lost control of the car, apparently due to the high wind and driving rain. The car flipped over and landed upside down in a ditch beside the road. It was pretty wet that summer and the ditch was full. The car sank, so it was more or less invisible from the road unless someone was looking closely. There wasn't a lot of traffic at the time and apparently no one witnessed the accident. When they didn't check in with me by the time I thought they should have arrived home, I started calling their house.

"When they didn't answer, I called the bar and someone went to their house. They weren't home yet. Their night manager got on the phone and called all the restaurants in the Keys where he thought they might have stopped but nobody had seen them. They were already several hours overdue.

"I called the highway patrol and they found the car a few hours later. Both my parents had drowned."

At some point while he was talking, she reached across the table and took his hand. She did not let it go when he stopped talking. The sunset show was about to begin. They watched it in silence, holding hands. By the time the waitress brought the food, Ray had recovered his composure. Marcella patted the back of his hand.

After dinner, he said, "Well, I'm starting at the game in Bradenton, so I can drop you off at home."

She nodded, but then said softly almost wistfully, "You know I've never been to a high school football game."

He looked at her, surprised, "You're from Florida and you've never worshiped at the altar of the gridiron god?"

She shook her head, "Recall that I was not particularly involved in my high school. Choctawhatchee High had a decent football team and I followed their results, but I didn't go to the games. I went to a couple of college games at Northwestern, where football involved bundling up like an Eskimo, drinking hot chocolate and praying I wouldn't freeze to death. I've been to a lot of pro games, generally sitting in sky boxes drinking incredibly expensive liquor and eating gourmet food. I've never experienced the sweaty Friday night frenzies in Florida." She paused, "Would you mind if I tag along?"

He tucked her hand in his elbow, and said, smiling, "C'mon, Sugar, you are about to be belatedly initiated into the Ritual."

They pulled into the high school parking lot, which was packed. The game was between Bradenton Manatee and Bradenton Bayshore, a crosstown rivalry that always drew a crowd. There were more adults than students in attendance. Ray recognized a lot of members of the press, and saw a few others he knew to be college scouts. He flashed his press credentials and pushed Marcella ahead of him before anyone could ask about her credentials or a ticket. They sat in the press booth for a while, but Ray wanted to get down on the ground and pick up some local color. He also wanted to get Marcella out of the press booth before someone recognized her. They wandered around the sidelines on both sides of the field. They drank sodas from the booster club wagons. Ray bought some Buddy Poppies from the VFW. On a whim, he bought Marcella a Manatee pennant, as a souvenir of her first Friday night football experience.

She grinned, "I'll put this in my scrapbook."

They laughed like teenagers.

All evening long, Ray's blackberry buzzed constantly with messages coming in from stringers who were attending other games around the state. By the end of the third quarter, it was mathematically impossible for Bayshore to come back and win, so Ray suggested they go down the road and catch the end of the Bradenton Christian game. They arrived about midway through the fourth quarter of a slaughter in which Bradenton Christian had trounced Leesburg Christian Academy by a score of 67-3.

Marcella commented, "So much for Christian charity. What about the issue of running up the score on a team that is down?"

Ray led her back to the car, laughing, "Let me explain, my dear. Obviously your sports education is woefully lacking in some of the basics. The whole idea of it being bad form to run up the score on another team is either an invention of television, where they like the games to be close so people don't turn them off, or the polite and misguided folks in the Midwest, who operate under the delusion that sports is a game. In Florida, football is not a game: it is combination of religion and gladiatorial combat. The faithful do not come out to see their team play a good game. They come out to share in the experience of annihilating the enemy. If it is possible to run up the score in order to add humiliation to the defeat, all the better."

She shook her head, "I guess I don't get it."

He opened the car and helped her in. He put his lips next to her ear and whispered, "Yes, you do."

She looked up with a question in her eyes. He closed the door and walked around to the driver's side. He got in and smiled at her. She said, with an edge to her voice, "Would you care to explain?"

He said, "Close your eyes. Think about when you've got a really big one on the hook, and you battle him for a long time. Then there comes the moment when you've won. The fight might not be totally over, but you know you've got him. Sometimes, just sometimes, don't you play him just a little more, just to feel the thrill of subduing him all over again .... ?"

He watched her face by the light of the dashboard. She smiled and opened her eyes. She whispered, "Yeah."

"It's like that."

"Only with thousands of people watching."

"Yeah."

She laughed, and appeared somewhat uncomfortable. "I guess I like my way a little better, but I'm glad to have had this experience."

He grinned and said, "Since we've reverted to high school, I think we should do what untold millions of American kids do after a football game...."

"Have sex in the back seat of your car?"

He laughed, although with a bit of awkwardness. "No. Actually, I meant let's go out for pizza." He paused, looking startled, "But I can't. I have to file my story."

"My house is fairly close. Let's go there. We'll order pizza delivered. You can use my computer to file your story; I assume you do that electronically. Unlike the high school students, we can legally drink beer. I bought a new kind I want you to try anyway."

A little warning bell went off in the back of his mind, but he ignored it, and said, "Sounds like a plan."

She left him alone on the lanai to file his story which did not take him long to write. When he came back inside the pizza had just arrived. She said, "I didn't even ask what you wanted. I always order veggie pizzas. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine."

"Are you finished with your story already? I'm amazed."

"It takes a lot longer than that to write a news piece and even longer to write a feature. This story was mainly a listing of the scores. I threw in a few paragraphs of narrative to give the flavor of a Friday night in Florida, but nobody reads that stuff. I did that only for Victoria's benefit."

"Victoria?"

He paused, and then decided to fess up. He told her about his long-term friendship with the doyenne of Sarasota Society. She grinned, "I've met her only briefly. By reputation she is a real dragon lady."

"Correction: Steel magnolia."

"You like her, though."

"I adore her. She may be a dragon lady with other women, but she's never been anything other than a totally stand-up gal with me."

He noticed that Marcella's expression was just a tad skeptical. He didn't like that for some reason. Again he ignored that feeling, and sat down to eat. They talked about sports and big games they had each seen. He asked her if she had ever been to a college game in Florida. She shook her head, "I have attended post-season Bowl games in which Florida teams played, including an Orange Bowl game once, but that, like attending the Super Bowl, is not the same as attending regular games."

He interjected, with an expression bordering on awe, "You've been to the Super Bowl?!"

She shrugged and made a face, "Several times." She didn't elaborate. He didn't pursue it.

Returning to the subject, he said, "You're right, those really Big Games are all about the media and big shots doing business as opposed to the regular games which are for the fans. I'm going to the Florida-Tennessee game next week in Gainesville. Now, that'll be a for-real, smash-mouth football game. I can try to get a ticket for you, if you like."

She thought about that for a minute and then shook her head. "I don't think so. The game is likely to be televised and there will be national reporters there. I really don't want to draw attention to myself. Not that anyone would necessarily pay attention to me, but I don't want to risk it."

He nodded and said, "You're probably right." He felt a little rejected somehow. He said, "FYI, in case it matters to you, people have noticed you hanging out with me."

She looked startled, "What people?"

"People in the kind of circles where you would ordinarily move, as opposed to the world I live in."

"People like Victoria Caruthers?" she said, with the barest hint of hostility in her voice.

He sighed, "Victoria is not a gossip if that's what you are implying. She did mention to me that others, who are gossips, had 'noticed' us running together. I guess it never occurred to me that you might have a problem with that. If you want to cool it, I'll understand."

She took his hand, "I think you misunderstood me. While I loathe and despise gossips, I have no problem being seen publicly with you. The fact that you move in different social circles from me, matters not. To be honest, these days, I'm not moving in any circles. If the local gossips want to gnaw on that, so be it. I just don't want to show up with my face on the front pages of the tabloids and having photographers hanging out of trees at my front gate with telephoto lenses trained on my house. I have been there and done that and it totally sucks."

He put his other hand on top of hers, "I'm sorry. I guess I was being over-sensitive." He chuckled, "I have a hard time remembering that not everything is about me."

They finished their pizza and Ray glanced at his watch, "I really have to go. I am covering the Hurricanes game in Miami tomorrow. It will be a very long day. I'm staying over for the Dolphins game on Sunday night. After that, I'm going to take a couple of days off and go to the Keys."

She walked him to the door and put her hand on his arm, saying, "I'll miss you."

He slid his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head quickly, "I'll be in touch."

Chapter 12

He had a great time at the Hurricanes game and an even better time exploring Miami. He spent most of his time wandering up and down the streets of South Beach. The last time he had been there, the area was virtually a depressed slum. He was thrilled to see how it now thrummed with life. The restaurants and clubs were packed with beautiful people all of whom appeared to be having a blast. Ray was tempted to join in the fun until he took a look at one of the menus posted out front and realized his expense account would not buy so much as a burger and a coke in those joints. He wandered further and ended up in a Cuban diner a couple of blocks from the beach, where he feasted on fabulous black beans and rice with Cuban coffee for under five dollars.

There were still parts of Miami that resembled a war zone, but Miami Beach was nicer than it had been in decades.

On Monday morning, he drove to the Keys. He had long ago quit staying in Key West. It was too expensive and too crowded. For many years, when he visited, he bunked at his dad's night manager's home. That man had died several years ago and Ray had no further human ties with Key West. He checked into a room at a motel on Marathon where he had stayed many times before. The room wouldn't be ready till 4:00 p. m. which was just about perfect timing. He pulled out onto the highway and headed southwest.

He had traveled from Largo to Key West literally thousands of times in his life. Not once did he fail to be amazed by the beauty of the drive or to be awed by the human labor that went into the building of the bridges that made up most of the Overseas Highway. He had lived in Sarasota for more than thirty years, but Key West was still his spiritual home. When he crossed the last bridge and found himself within the borders of the Conch Republic, he felt himself to be home in a special way. He parked in the first spot he found. It was blocks and blocks from Duval Street but he didn't mind walking. He made his way to the main thoroughfare via back streets, pausing in front of houses that had been residences of people he once knew.

He didn't intentionally decide to visit his boyhood home, but he soon ended up standing on the sidewalk in front of the house in which he grew up. The place had never been a palace, but now it was positively a dump. Looking around the neighborhood, which was rapidly gentrifying, he figured that very soon some rich person would buy it and fix it up. That thought made him a little sad, but, not quite as sad as it made him to look at the pitiful state of the home where he spent the happy years of his charmed childhood.

He sighed and walked away. This time, he intentionally headed for the bar his dad had owned. Ray had sold it to the night manager after his dad died. That man had, in turn, had sold it to his own manager when he retired. Ray knew the business was still a going concern. He didn't realize the new owners hadn't changed a thing. He blinked back the tears as he stopped just inside the front door. He half expected to see his dad standing behind the bar, polishing glasses. He took a deep breath and walked toward the bar. He noticed it no longer smelled like stale cigarettes since Florida had outlawed smoking in establishments that served food. He rather liked that.

He walked up to the bar and ordered a glass of draft beer. He looked around and saw most of the same old photos that had hung there when he was a kid. They were yellowed with age and some of them had deteriorated to the point the subjects were hard to make out. Over the bar was a picture of him when he was four years old, holding the first fish he ever caught. He smiled at the memory.

The bartender noticed and said, "That picture is supposed to be the son of the original owner of this place. The bar has changed hands a few times, but the locals who keep the place going insist that we don't change anything or they say they'll stop coming. Problem is, the locals who want the place to stay the same are dying off and/or moving away because they can't afford to live here any more. I am scared the owners are going to have to turn this place into a fucking fern bar like all those god-damned tourist restaurants over on Duval street."

Ray nodded. For some reason he didn't tell the bartender he was the kid in the photo. He silently sipped his beer and reminisced. After the bartender walked away to wait on another customer, an old man, who had been sitting in the corner, walked over to the bar, sat at the corner stared at Ray for a long time. He said, "You're Ray, aren't you?"

Ray nodded. He couldn't place the old guy. He replied, "And you are?"

"You don't know me. I moved here just about the time you went off to college. I remember you breezing in and out of the bar, but I don't think we ever talked. You look a lot like your dad."

Ray knew that was true. He was almost the same age his father had been when he died. There were days he had trouble looking at himself in the mirror because he was such a spitting image of his old man.

The patron patted his arm and said, "It's good to see you again. I'm one of the last of the old customers who knew your dad. I'm moving to Homestead soon because I can't afford to live here any more. Sad to say, but I think the days are numbered for this place. It's been a great place to hang out."

Ray shook the man's hand and thanked him. He offered to buy the man a beer. He shook his head, "Haven't touched the stuff in decades. I come in here to drink tea and hang out."

They walked out into the sunshine together. Ray paused on the sidewalk and said more to himself than the other man, "God, I hope the place burns down before they can turn it into a fern bar where they served goat cheese on pizza."

The man patted his shoulder, "If I were you, I'd make this my last trip to Key West. The city you grew up in is gone. It's buried under layers of cruise line money."

Ray smiled sadly, "I think I may take that advice, sir."

He walked up Duval Street toward Mallory Square. With the passage of every block, he became more appalled. The place had gone totally to hell!

He laughed out loud at that thought. In reality, his home town appeared to be more prosperous than ever. When he was a kid, Key West was inhabited almost exclusively by fishermen and sailors, along with the barkeeps and prostitutes who serviced both occupations.

Later in the Sixties the hippies discovered Key West. The locals thought it was hysterical how the hippies thought they invented drug smuggling. They were so clueless they never caught on to the fact that smuggling all sorts of things, including but not limited to drugs, had been practically a respectable profession in the Keys for generations. Smugglers and pirates (which a lot of the times were the same thing) were prominent citizens of the Keys before their images became decorations on tee-shirts. Ray was pretty sure there were still a few pirates around if one knew where to look.

Key West was cleaner than it had ever been. Prosperous-looking businesses flourished on every corner. Tourists and shoppers jammed the streets. The changes were probably good for the economy of Monroe County, but Ray was not happy to realize that the Key West he grew up in had all but disappeared.

Ray had had enough. He decided he didn't need to see what they'd done with Sloppy Joe's so he didn't go all the way to Mallory Square. He headed for his car and drove back to Marathon. He stopped at the fishing docks and asked after a captain whose boat he had chartered before. The captain occupying the next slip told him the other charter company had moved its operations to Belize. He told Ray he had three people lined up for the next day on a boat that would accommodate six; he offered to take Ray with that group if he was interested. Ray told him he sucked as a fisherman, but was a pretty decent back-up mate. The Cap said, "These guys are total landlubbers who will puke over the side all day. I may need the help."

"That sounds like a barrel of fun."

He picked up a fish sandwich from a local joint and took it back to his hotel where he sat by the pool, ate his sandwich, then cracked open a beer and called Marcella. They chatted for a few minutes. She asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no. I guess it was a bad idea for me to come here. You know that old saw about how you can't go home again. Maybe it should say you shouldn't try to go home again." He tried to change the subject, "I'm going fishing tomorrow. I'll be the odd-man out on a six-pack. Cap says the others are landlubbers. Maybe that means I'll catch something by tapping into their beginners luck."

There was a long silence on the phone, and then Marcella said in a rush, "Ray, go back to the marina and charter a boat for the day, just for us. There's a puddle jumper flight from Sarasota to Marathon that will get me in at 8:00 tonight. If I leave my house in the next twenty minutes, I can make it. Pick me up at the Marathon airport at 8:00." She hung up.

He called the boat owner back and canceled his reservation. He asked if the guy knew of any boats that might be available for charter all day. The Cap said, "Mine."

"I thought you had a party of three."

Cap said, "I run three boats. I'll let one of the other captains take out the 'lubbers from Indianapolis or wherever they're from. I'll take you. How many people?"

"Two. And we'll pay full freight. Don't take on any additional passengers."

"What do you want to eat?"

"Snacks only. We'll eat our catch when we get back."

"I thought you said you were a piece of shit fisherman."

"I totally suck. But the lady who will be with me will amaze and bedazzle you."

"If you say so."

"Mark my words."

He called around and found Marcella a room in a semi-decent hotel on the Atlantic side of the island. He made the reservation in his name.

After that, he took a nap.

She was the only passenger on the plane, which looked suspiciously like a private charter. He did not mention that. She pretended it was a commercial flight. Frankly, he was so glad to see her, he wouldn't have cared if she had hitch-hiked. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. She held up one small overnight bag and one large fishing tackle box, with a special bag for her poles, and said, "I'm ready!"

He laughed and said, "I'm betting you are the only rich society lady in the state of Florida who could take an overnight trip with that little luggage -- and most of it fishing equipment."

She nodded and grinned. He told her he had reserved her a room on the beach. She looked surprised. "Where are you staying?"

"I'm in a motel on the Bay side. It's a dump, but it's cheap and they have a nice place to clean fish and grill them."

"Aren't there usually two beds in places like that?"

For a minute, he wasn't following her, "Yeah, why?"

"If you don't mind, I 'd just as soon stay with you. We have to get up early anyway. I promise I don't snore or anything."

He looked at her and sighed, "I do."

She said softly, "I'll deal with it."

He pulled into the motel parking lot and ushered her into the room which consisted of a sitting room with a kitchenette and a large bedroom with two queen sized beds. The floor was tile, the décor was early-Sixties rummage sale. It was, however, very clean.

Marcella looked around and nodded approvingly. "This isn't what I'm used to now, but it's a hell of a lot better than the dumps my dad and I used to stay in when we took our busman's holidays to fish camps around here. God, they were so gross."

"Are you sure? There's a nice room awaiting you on the other side of the island."

She said emphatically, "Cancel it. This is fine."

He asked if she had eaten. She said she could make do with some snacks, pointing to the pretzels and peanut butter on the counter. He offered her a beer or a Coke. She held up the bottle of water she brought with her. She ate a few pretzels and they watched TV for a little while. She asked, "What time do we have to be at the dock?"

"Cap said he'd be there by 6:00 a. m. We can show up whenever we're ready since we're the only passengers."

"What happened to the three landlubbers?"

"They're going on a different boat. This Captain runs three boats. I chartered one for just us. I have to admit I may need you to help me out when I get the bill."

She put her hand on his arm and whispered, "Help you out, hell. I invited myself along on your trip and I'm the one with privacy issues. I'll pay the charter."

She stood up and stretched. "Right now, I'm going to bed. I think we should get an early start. I want to be out on the water before the sun comes up, if that's okay with you."

He smiled. "That's fine. Do we need to set the alarm?"

"Set it for 5:00, but I usually wake up before that."

She went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later wearing very demure cotton man-style pajamas. She crawled into the bed where his stuff was not piled and said, "Good-night." She seemed to be asleep instantly.

Ray brushed his teeth and climbed into the other bed. He hadn't brought pajamas and he started to crawl into bed with his pants on. He decided that was just stupid, so he took them off and slept in his underwear. It took him a long time to go to sleep, however. He was distracted by the soft, regular sound of Marcella's breathing only a few feet away.

Chapter 13

The next morning, Ray's alarm went off at 5:00 a. m. He sat up in bed and smelled coffee. He noticed the door was closed and Marcella was not in her bed. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth but decided not to shave. Showering and shaving was for after fishing. He felt grungy, but he knew he'd be a whole lot nastier before the day was over. He walked out into the other room. Marcella was drinking a cup of coffee and studying fishing reports on Ray's laptop. She looked up and grinned at him, but didn't say anything. He could sense her excitement at the prospect of being on the water soon. He started to feel it himself. He especially liked the fact that he would not have to drive the boat so he could concentrate on watching Marcella fish.

She was wearing shorts and a tank top over a bathing suit. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head in a knot. Her fishing hat lay on the table next to the computer. He poured himself some coffee and looked over her shoulder at the fishing report. It looked good.

She said, "If there's an all night grocery, I need some sunscreen and it would be nice to get some snacks."

"Cap said he'll provide drinks and snacks. I have sunscreen."

She nodded and resumed reading the fishing report.

He went back into the bedroom and packed his day kit with sunscreen, a hat and a clean tee shirt. He tossed in his cell phone. He would not have service once they got a few miles out, but it had a decent camera. In a few minutes he was back. She stood up when he walked through the door and said, "Ready?"

"I'm all set."

The captain and his son, a silent and sullen fifteen- or sixteen-year-old were already board when they arrived. Ray notice that Marcella checked the kid out carefully.

The captain greeted them. He introduced his son. Ray introduced her as simply "Marcella". The captain acknowledged the introduction by calling her Mrs. Bailey. Ray started to correct him, but Marcella shot him a look. He let it go. The captain showed them where to stow their gear as well as the location of the head and the snacks and drinks. He invited them to help themselves. Then he went up to the bridge and started the motor.

They left the dock while it was still pitch dark. It was cool. Marcella had grabbed a couple of sweatshirts that were in Ray's back seat before they got on the boat. Both of them were glad she had done so. They rode in silence and sat transfixed as the sun came up. A short time after daybreak, the captain dropped anchor over a reef. Marcella had decided at the last minute not to bring her own gear. She said she didn't want to insult the captain by not using his. The mate handed her a pole and she expertly checked out the rigging. She didn't like the feel of it and asked the kid if they had a pole that was slightly heavier. He looked at her with a strange expression and said, "Yeah, but this is the one the ladies usually use. How heavy you wanna go?"

"Give me a sort of medium heavy one. And give me the loosest reel you've got."

He gave her a grudging look of respect. Ray wanted to laugh. The kid was obviously used to dealing with clients, especially female ones, who knew nothing about fishing. He asked Ray if his rig was okay, Ray chuckled and said, "This will do fine. I won't catch much. You don't need to worry about me. The lady will keep you busy, believe me."

The kid gave him a puzzled look.

Marcella dropped her hook. Seconds later, Ray saw her arms go up and the tip of her pole whip back. Even as she was lowering her arms from over her head, she started reeling like mad. The captain yelled at the mate, "My, God, she's got one already. Give her a hand."

The kid moved toward her. She tossed her head and snapped, "I can do it myself."

Within the first half hour, she caught several fish. Even Ray caught a couple, totally by accident, he was sure. The school moved off the reef and the captain moved the boat to another reef. Marcella pulled in one fish after another every time she dropped her hook. It was uncanny.

Soon Ray gave up fishing altogether. Watching Marcella was just too fascinating. She always fished with total concentration, but this was different. She was not concentrating on finding the fish. The captain was taking her to them. She was concentrating on bringing them in fast, so she could get more. She was not so much fishing as she was hunting.

At one point, the captain came out from the bridge and sat down on the top step where he could see the fish finder and watch her at the same time. At first Ray didn't like the look on his face, but then he realized the captain was looking at her with the same mixture of admiration, awe and lust that he did. He couldn't fault the guy for that!

At one point the captain shouted, "Starboard! Twenty yards. 2 o'clock."

She didn't say anything or register in any way that she heard him other than to hold out her right arm and flick the pole. Ray thought that was insane. She was using a setup for bottom fishing, not casting. She flicked the end of her pole and the hook sailed out in an arc, like some kind of guided missile. It landed in the foam on the top of a swell, precisely where the captain told her to cast it. In only a few seconds, Ray heard her grunt. Her arms flew up and this time she set the hook with three sharp snaps. Must have been one big fish for her to work that hard to set the hook. She started reeling, smoothly and steadily, as fast as she could. The pole bent almost double. Ray and the captain moved toward her simultaneously. She set her feet, reared back and reeled madly. Sweat glistened on every inch of visible skin, the muscles in her arms and shoulder bulged and trembled.

The captain reached for the pole to help her. Through gritted teeth, she said, "I can do it."

Cap said, "I'm sure you can. You show that fish whose boss and tire him out a bit. Until you do, I'm staying here to protect my pole." She growled an incoherent response.

He asked the Captain, "Should we put her in the chair?"

Cap said, "I don't think this one is that big. Let's see how it goes."

She kept reeling and pulling up on the pole, which still bent almost in half. The fish was still fighting, but Marcella was winning the tug of war. The fish eased up on the pole just a tad and the captain was able to lean over the side to look for the fish; he was ready with the net and a gaff if he needed it. Marcella kept reeling. Ray noticed rivulets of sweat dripping into her eyes. He wiped her face. She was still gritting her teeth and grunting like a tennis pro. She jerked her head towards Ray and made a noise that (if he used his imagination) sounded a little like, "Thanks."

Sooner than Ray would have expected for the size of it, the fish was along side. It was a huge bonita. The mate pulled it aboard. Marcella waved her hand, "Weigh it and throw it back. I don't like bonita and I don't keep fish I won't eat."

She looked at the captain and said, "Where's the school now?"

Ray couldn't believe she was ready to go again. He was exhausted from just watching her. The captain handed her a bottle of water and said, "They've moved off."

The mate looked up from the cooler and said, "We've got our limit on everything. Only thing we can legally catch now is sharks."

Marcella downed the water and said, "Then let's go home. I don't waste my energy on fucking sharks."

The mate weighed anchor and the captain went into the wheelhouse and put the boat in gear. A few minutes later he yelled for his son. The kid went up the ladder to the bridge. Marcella finished her water and stretched like a cat. Ray said, "That was very impressive."

She grinned and let down her hair, "I don't know about that, but it sure as hell was fun."

The captain had asked his son to drive the boat for a while. He came out of the wheelhouse and reached into the cooler. Even though it was still early, he handed Marcella a beer and offered one to Ray. He took a bottle of water for himself. He then sat down on top of the cooler and stared at Marcella.

He said, "We've met before."

She held his gaze and did not flinch. She said evenly, "I sincerely doubt that."

"I think we have. I have only seen a demonstration of fishing mastery like that once before. Interestingly, it was by a young girl."

Ray could almost feel the air around Marcella trembling but she showed no sign of agitation. She arched her eyebrows and said, "Oh?"

The captain never took his eyes off her face. He began the story, "I grew up in Crestview, Florida. I think you know where that is. My dad and I used to go out fishing with a captain out of Destin. His name was Christopher Pappas. His wife died when she was very young and left him with a young daughter. Cap'n Pappas was a great fisherman and, I imagine, a loving father, but he didn't know jack about raising a girl. The first few times we went out with him, she was pretty young. She baited our hooks and brought us drinks and pretty much stayed out of sight, presumably so the Coasties wouldn't find out he had a mate who was way, way, way under age. She reminded me of a feral cat: wild and dangerous. When she was little, she didn't speak at all to the customers and hardly ever said anything to her father. I never heard him call her by name. If he called her anything, it was 'gal'.

"After high school, I did a tour in the Navy which consisted mostly of not-so-luxuriously cruising up and down the coast of southeast Asia trying not to get blown up by the mines laid by both the North Vietnamese and the Americans. When I came home on leave, I told my dad I wanted to go out on water that wasn't mined and catch fresh fish to eat instead of the shit Uncle Sam fed us. He splurged and took me out with Cap'n Pappas, just the two of us.

"At that point Captain Pappas' daughter was perhaps fifteen or so. When we first boarded the boat, she was sitting on the aft rail, smoking a cigarette." He smiled. "Keep in mind she was the first female I had seen in months who wasn't an Asian prostitute. She was young, fresh and – to me, anyway – gorgeous. She was wearing a bikini top and short, short jean cutoffs. I think they called them Daisy Dukes. Anyway, it was all I could do not to either keel over or grab her. Her father came up behind me and said very softly, 'You can put those thoughts away, son. She is under age, for one thing. What is more, you would be lucky if you only ended up in jail. You see that knife she carries at her waist? Let me tell you, boy, she knows how to use it. Keep that in mind.'

"The captain walked over to the girl and said something softly. She got up, flicked the ciggie in the water, and said something that sounded a lot like, 'Fuck you.' She went inside and came out wearing a teeshirt and jeans.

"In a much shorter period of time than I would have expected we had a fairly decent catch, and we were tired. On the way back in, Cap asked if we wanted to troll. Dad said nah, he'd just as soon drink a beer and cruise. Cap then yelled at the girl, 'You can fish. First one is our dinner, anything else you catch goes to the customers. See if you can get enough for the Sailor here to have hisself a welcome-home fish-fry for his neighbors in thanks for the sacrifices he's making for this fucked up country we call home.' She laughed and without a word picked up a pole.

"If I hadn't seen what happened next with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it even today. She pulled in mackerel and amberjack and god knows what else, just trolling. One after another after another. It was amazing. Then it got just god-damned unbelievable.

"All of a sudden, the captain whirled the boat around and I heard him yell, 'Get ready.'

"She snapped to attention and had a baited hook ready. He shut off the engine and hollered, 'Aft! Four o'clock. Thirty yards! NOW! NOW! NOW!'

"My dad laughed and muttered, 'There is no girl on earth who can cast a deep-sea rig thirty ....'

"About that time the bait settled almost without a splash right in the sweet spot at the top of a swell at least thirty yards from the boat. Cap was coming down the ladder. I heard him whistle.

"She had a bite almost immediately. Her dad tossed the anchor overboard and was at her side in a second. He baited another hook, and they traded poles. He brought in the fish while she hooked another one. She kept the fish busy until he landed the first one and baited the hook. They swapped poles again. They went on like that for maybe twenty minutes. She was hooking big grouper that would have taken her a long time to bring in the boat. He was a big, strong man who could land them faster than she could. They were an incredible team. She hooked 'em. He landed 'em. It was the single most awesome display of fishing expertise I have ever seen.

"Until today, anyway.

"When we got back to the dock, Cap started cleaning the fish while the girl cleaned the boat. There were so many fish it was going to take him a while, especially since he worked slowly and carefully. He asked her what she wanted for dinner, she muttered something rude to the effect of , 'You know fucking well what I want,' and then said she was going to go shower. He asked her to help him clean the fish. She looked at him and sighed.

"She took a knife from a sheath at her waist. Her whetstone was in a little pocket on the outside of the sheath. She spit on it and slid the knife oh-so-slowly along the whetstone a couple of times. Both my dad and I shuddered. I don't know if we were aroused or scared, most likely a little of both. Then she started in on the fish, like a surgeon ... or like Jack the Ripper.

"She ended up with a neat stack of baggies all tied up for us, and a huge garbage can full of skin and bones. She was a bloody mess from head to toe.

"When she was finished, she growled at him, 'If you have nothing else for me to do, I think I'll go take that shower now.' Her look challenged him to give her just one more order. She still had the knife in her hand.

"He shook his head and patted her on the shoulder, 'Good work today, Gal.'

"Then she smiled at him. I couldn't decide if I wanted to cry or throw myself at her feet and beg her to smile at me like that too."

He looked at her for a long time, then he smiled. "You've developed a lot more upper body strength since then, but the technique is unmistakable."

She paused for a long time. Ray thought for a minute she was going to deny that she was the same person. Ray noticed he felt a huge sense of relief. He had not actually thought she was lying about her past, but somehow having this corroboration of her story made him feel better.

She smiled at the captain and said softly, "I remember that day. I didn't know what had got into Dad. I was so pissed off at him for making me change my clothes I couldn't see straight. I hated wearing long pants on the boat; they were hot and confining. What made the day memorable, though, was that it was the only time he ever let me fish when we had customers aboard. I think that was his way of making amends." She grinned with a faraway look on her face, "I think that was the first day my dad actually realized I was a girl."

The captain said softly, "I have the feeling I was not the first client who noticed."

She made a disgusted face and tried to laugh, not entirely successfully. "No. You weren't. It is God's mercy that I managed not to be raped. When I first started going on the boat with Dad, I was ten and I knew nothing about sex. Frankly, I didn't know much more eight years later when I went away, but I learned a few key things very fast. I knew that men wanted to touch me, and I didn't like the looks on their faces when they did it. I learned very early never to go below decks when dad was at the wheel and there were any male clients on the boat, even if it was a man with his wife.

"The closest call I ever had was just that situation. I went to the head and the man followed me. His wife and kids were on the deck. That was the day I started carrying a blade. The man waited for me in the galley. When I came out of the head, he pulled me toward him and put his hands on me. I was probably twelve at the most. I didn't know a lot about sex, but I did know the parts of the anatomy that were involved. He grabbed me, and I picked up a boning knife that happened to be lying on the counter. I pressed it flat against the front of his pants and told him that if he made one more move I would cut first and then scream. He could explain to his wife why I cut him.

"After that, I was very careful."

They were all quiet for a while.

The captain said, "My dad would never let me go out with Captain Pappas after that. I think he had seen the way I looked at the girl. By the time I got out of the Navy, my parents had moved to Islamorada. I visited to Destin a few years later and asked about Captain Pappas. One of the other fishermen told me he had died. I asked about his daughter. They told me nobody had seen her since his death. Nobody seemed to know her name.

"I think I became a fisherman because of Captain Pappas, and his amazing daughter."

He looked her up and down. He said, "It appears you have done very well for yourself, Mrs. Bailey."

She made a non-committal face, "Whether I have done well or poorly in my life depends entirely on who you talk to, Cap." She sighed and a look of unbelievable sadness flickered across her face, then she brightened, "But I can still fish, can't I?"

He grinned and said, "Oh, yes, ma'am, you can for a fact."

When they got back to the dock, the mate started to clean the fish. He had the general idea, but he was awkward and he tended to damage the fillets. Marcella reached inside her shorts and brought out a blade. She stepped up beside him and put her hand on his arm. She said, "Sharpen your knife."

He looked at her oddly, but he had either overheard the conversation between Marcella and his dad or her look was so commanding he did as she said. Then she grabbed a fish and stood next to him. "Watch, and then do what I do."

The captain and Ray both stood close and watched her, too. She cleaned fish with the intense concentration and delicate touch of a neurosurgeon. The kid followed along and did a creditable job with the first one. The next one went more smoothly. By the fourth fish, he was skinning and boning almost as cleanly as she did, if not quite as quickly.

She cleaned her hands, arms and legs, but couldn't do much about the bloody mess on her shirt and shorts. She laughed. "The fish are neat when I am done, but I've never learned to clean fish without making a mess of me."

Ray said, "God, I hope I don't get pulled over for speeding on the way back to the hotel. They'll arrest you for murder."

She shot him a strange look before she laughed.

When it came time to pay, the captain initially did not want to charge them. He said he felt he owed her a free fishing trip in honor of her dad. She shrugged and said that seeing as how she had done well financially, she owed it to him to pay her way. She not only paid the charter; she gave him a huge tip besides.

As they got in the car, Ray noticed the mate watching her with naked adoration. He chuckled, "Like father, like son."

"What?"

Ray nodded in the direction of the kid, "I think they are both infatuated with you."

She snorted, "They are infatuated with what they think I am."

Ray decided to let the remark slide.

They had given most of the catch to the captain and his son, taking only a bag of thick grouper steaks to grill for dinner. They stopped at a grocery for beer, bread and the makings of tartar sauce. Ray went into the store and Marcella waited in the car.

When they got back to the motel, she headed straight for the shower while he took the fish and a bag of charcoal out to the dock where there was a large outdoor grill. Marcella came out a little while later with plates, bread, a bowl of tartar sauce and some lemons. She also carried a bucket of ice with a few bottles of beer peeking out. She was wearing a bathing suit with a beach towel wrapped around her like a sarong. She said, "I thought we should make a party. Want to have dinner by the pool?"

He said, "It will be a while before the coals are hot enough. Let's have a drink and cool off in the pool for a while."

"Did you bring a suit?"

He shrugged. "We are about the only people here. I reckon I can go swimming in my shorts."

She dropped her towel and jumped into the deep end of the pool. She came up spluttering. "Whoa! It's cold."

"It probably isn't heated." He tested the water and then just jumped in all at once, too. They did not linger in the water. When they got out, Ray realized his khaki shorts would take a long time to dry and the air was growing cool. He said, "I'll be right back."

He went inside to change into dry jeans. When he came back out, she was standing at the fence around the the pool enclosure which overlooked a boat ramp, watching some amateurs try to pull their boat out of the water.

She was facing away from him. He stopped before opening the gate to the pool and studied her carefully. He had never seen her in a bathing suit. There were tiny tell-tale signs of her age. She had a few spider veins on her legs and a couple of spots on her thighs that looked like the beginnings of varicose veins. She had a few tiny wrinkles around her eyes and some lines that looked like they could become wrinkles around her mouth. But, she was slim and very, very muscular. She obviously worked out a lot. She looked totally natural to him. He thought it was very interesting that the only part of her that wasn't honed to hard-bodied near-perfection were her breasts which were small and the only part of her that appeared to jiggle. He thought that was funny. Almost every other woman he had met who moved in her circles had plastic breasts that did not sag, bag or jiggle.

She turned around and saw him looking at her. She smiled and motioned for him to join her. He tried to make his face neutral, but was very afraid she had realized he was checking her out. He was embarrassed. He joined her at the railing where they watched the would-be boaters finally get their boat on the trailer and out of the water. He checked the coals and said they still had a ways to go. He re-joined her by the pool and stretched out in a chaise. She brought him a beer and leaned over to whisper in his ear, "I have never had any kind of plastic surgery if that is what you were wondering about."

He blushed.

She laughed. "Thanks for that look of approval, by the way."

He blushed more deeply and concentrate on carefully tearing off the label of his beer bottle.

They made sandwiches for dinner. The fresh fish with lemon, rye bread and home-made tartar sauce were fabulous. After dinner, they stretched out on the chairs by the pool and talked.

They discussed going to the bridge where they could watch the sunset, but they were both tired, relaxed and they'd each had two beers. They decided to stay put. When the sun went down, she went inside and put on sweats. She also brought out a blanket from the bed. They pushed their chairs together and snuggled under the covers, talking.

Eventually, the bugs drove them inside. Marcella got ready for bed first and padded out into the sitting room in her pajamas and flip flops. She said, "You know. I am really pooped. There was a day I could fish all day and then party all night. I think I'm getting old. I'm ready for the sack." She looked at him and asked, "What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "We have to be back in Sarasota for me to go to an editorial meeting on Wednesday morning. Other than that, I have nothing planned. Do you want to rent a boat and go out on the water, or do you dive?"

She shook her head, "No. I don't really like to swim in the ocean. Swimming is for pools. I know a little too much about the critters that are under the sea to want to get in the water with them. And, we can go out in your boat when we get home. How about we sleep in, then go for a run. Before we head north, I'd like to drive across the Seven Mile Bridge. We don't have to go all the way to Key West, but I would like to go across the big bridge."

He nodded and pulled her down on the couch next to him. "There's a place a couple of miles up the road where you can run or walk about two miles out on what used to be the old bridge. We could run down there and then out over the water."

"Is the highway lighted? Could we go there to watch the sun come up?"

"Sure. We can run out, watch the sun come up and then walk back. I'll bet there are some great breakfast places along the Overseas Highway. We can stop and have breakfast on the way back to the hotel."

"How far is it?"

"I don't know. Maybe four miles one way. We usually run much farther than that. What do you think?"

"I'm definitely up for it, since we got no exercise today."

"Correction. I got no exercise today. You got tons of exercise."

She laughed. "I guess you're right, although I don't really consider fishing to be exercise."

"The way you do it, it most certainly is."

She chuckled. "Well since we're getting up before dawn again tomorrow, I guess I'll turn in. Feel free to watch TV as long as you want. You won't bother me. I sleep like a log."

He had his arm around her and he tightened his grip. He leaned his head down, kissed her forehead and murmured, "You know........"

She put her fingers over his lips and said, "Shhhh. Not here. Not now. When we take that step, I would prefer it to be at your house or at mine." She looked a little sheepish. "I guess you could say I've never really seen myself as the kind of person to make assignations in cheap hotels in the Keys."

He held her close, "You'll spend the night in a cheap motel with a man you barely know, which would get a lot of attention if someone found out, but you won't sleep with me?"

She pulled away and said, "First of all, I think I know you very well, or at least I know the important things about you. Secondly, I learned many decades ago not to be concerned about what other people think about what I do. I'm the one who has to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. What other people may think we are doing in here is not my problem. What we are actually up to is what matters to me. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense. However, in my business, perception is reality."

She cuddled up next to him, "That is total bullshit. Do you know how easy it is to be manipulated when you believe that? "

He laughed, "I know you're right, but to most people appearances are everything.

"As far as the other thing, you are probably right to want to wait. But, I want you to know that if you change your mind, all you have to do is ..."

She interrupted, laughing, and said as she headed into the bedroom, "Yeah, I know 'pucker up and blow.'"

He laughed, too, and said, "Wrong island, Shweetheart."

She was still laughing when she closed the bedroom door behind her. He waited until he thought she would have fallen asleep and then he crawled into his bed. He was very tired and went to sleep a lot faster than the night before, but the last thing he heard was the sound of her breathing. It occurred to him just before he slid into sleep that he was falling in love with her. Or, more likely, he already had fallen in love with her and was only now noticing.

Chapter 14

The sidewalk on the Overseas Highway was well lighted, so they ran to the bridge before sunrise. They were not the only ones running early. They arrived at the approach to the Seven Mile Bridge a little while before sunrise. The old bridge had been converted to a walking, running and biking path that juts two miles out into the water. They ran nearly to the end and stood by the railing waiting for the morning show to begin. It was chilly. They stood with their arms around each other, only partly for warmth.

Sunrise in the Keys is only slightly less glorious than sunset, and has the advantage of being at a time of day when fewer people are out and about, so it seems more intimate. They watched the fireball rise from the sea and turn the water from black to purple and, eventually, to its usual daytime palette of green and blue. Ray rested his chin on Marcella's shoulder. She leaned her head against his cheek. They watched the sun rise in silence. When it was fully light, they ran back in the direction of the motel. They stopped for breakfast at a likely-looking spot a mile or so away from the motel where they gorged on grits, fried fish bites and home-made biscuits. Too full to run they walked hand-in-hand the last mile back to the hotel.

It only took them a few minutes to gather their things and load the car. Ray turned in the keys well before the 11:00 a. m. checkout time. As they prepared to leave, he asked, "You still want to go over the bridge?"

She said, "Yes, if you don't mind."

He turned right and drove in silence across the Seven Mile Bridge while they both marveled at the beauty of the scenery and the incredible feat of human engineering and labor that made it possible to drive across open ocean. He asked her if she wanted to go all the way to Key West. She said she didn't unless he wanted to. He shook his head and told her he did not plan to go back to Key West, ever again. She took his hand in both of hers. He believed that she knew all too well how difficult it was to leave your childhood home behind forever.

They turned around on Bahia Honda and headed back across the bridge in the other direction, toward the mainland of Florida. The scenery on the eastbound trip was as spectacular as the vistas they had enjoyed heading west. They talked very little, too engrossed in the scenery and their own private thoughts.

It was mid-morning in late October. The traffic was light (at least as far as traffic in the Keys goes). The weather was spectacular. Ray drove fast enough to keep from being run over and slow enough to enjoy the scenery. Periodically he stopped at roadside pull-offs to let the line of cars behind him pass by. It had been a long time since he'd had a day with absolutely no deadlines or plans. He apologized to Marcella for behaving like such an old fart. She laughed and said she was having a wonderful time.

As they passed through Homestead he said, "Unless you want to do some shopping or some such, I plan to avoid Miami."

She shrugged, "Please do. I have not been to Miami since Roland died, and I frankly was never that crazy about it before."

"Yes. Sorry. I forgot about that."

She smiled, "You know that is one thing I like about you. You do not seem to be obsessed with that story. Sometimes I think you don't even know the story at all."

"That is very close to the mark. When all of your trouble was going on, I was down in the 'Glades working on an environmental story. Anyway, I spent a pretty fair chunk of that period sleeping in the cab of a rented pick up truck or bunking on the couch of a Miccosukee Indian family who sort of adopted me. They had a TV, but most of the time it was tuned to game shows and reality shows which were the only shows the matriarch of the family – and owner of said TV – watched. When I went to town it was usually to spend time in newspaper archives or libraries. I sort of missed the whole Techtron disaster. When you first moved to Sarasota and there was a big flurry of interest, I frankly had to look you up on Google to find out what the buzz was about."

She howled. "How many hits did you get?"

"I dunno. Something like 300,000."

She shook her head and was quiet for a long time. "Would you like to hear the story?"

He thought about that. On the one hand, he knew he sure as hell would love to hear the story from her lips. On the other hand, he had promised her confidentiality. He shook his head. "I would love to hear it, if you want to tell it. But, I want to caution you. Please don't tell me anything that hasn't been published already. Even if you give it a different interpretation and different meaning, don't tell me anything I might be tempted to use."

She thought about that for a while, "The problem with that is I don't know what has been published because I stopped reading the papers very early on in the game. I couldn't handle it."

She paused, "Here's what I'll do. I'll tell you what I think the public knows or what I wouldn't mind for the public to know. I still want everything that went before my marriage to remain private between you and me."

"As I told you the other day, I left graduate school at U. S. C. because I suddenly had the wherewithal to relax and have fun. The initial trust fund my benefactor had set up was enough for a student to live on, if I were careful, but it was not enough to live on permanently. When he died, he left me a bequest that added enough to the trust fund to live on, very comfortably, for the rest of my life. I did not need to work. I could simply enjoy life. I wasn't in the league of the super rich who could spend wildly, but I was set for life if I were careful.

"As you might expect, that was pretty heady stuff to someone with my background. As if he anticipated that, the bequest included a provision giving the Trustee control over how much money I could take out at any one time. That particular attorney and I had a sort of love-hate relationship for years." She chuckled. "Much more hate than love to be honest, in both directions.

"As I told you, I sort of drifted around for a while. I lived in New York City for a time, then I moved to London. At one point in the late 1970's, I took a trip around the world. That was incredible.

"When I came back to the States, I decided to try to do something useful. You will understand that it would be difficult for a person to grow up the way I did and not feel passionately about species endangerment and/or clean water.

"I got involved in a couple of environmental organizations. I moved to Galveston because I wanted to be near the ocean but I didn't want to go back to Florida, and I really hadn't liked L.A. I traveled a lot working with the Ocean Conservancy.

"I met Roland Wilson in Palm Beach during the charity ball season in 1992. I was not really rich enough to be part of that scene, but a woman I worked with at the Ocean Conservancy was a filthy rich denizen of Palm Beach society. She invited me down for the charity ball season. I didn't have anything better to do, so I went.

"Roland was from an old aristocratic family in Atlanta. They were sort of Georgia blue bloods. They were comfortable, but they weren't exactly Palm Beach rich either. He was interested in economic development as well as social and educational issues. I don't remember who invited him, but I think he ended up in Palm Beach that season sort of like I did: an outsider invited by a Palm Beach insider. In both cases, perhaps they misjudged how much money we actually had and wanted us to make large donations to their charities.

"We met at one of the balls. You can't have lived your whole life in Florida and not have heard about the Palm Beach balls. It's quite an experience. I think they are the most hideously disgusting experiences imaginable. They'll spend $5 million to throw a party ostensibly for the purpose of raising money for charity; the charity will end up with maybe a few hundred thousand or a million. The whole thing is an excuse for the super rich to try to outdo each other with over-the-top entertainment. That first time I went there, I was overwhelmed by the opulence of it all.

"Roland saw it differently. He was underwhelmed by it. He thought the whole Palm Beach set lacked breeding and class. The folks in the Palm Beach behave as though they need neither because they have enough money to do as they please. Roland was always a snob when it came to that. He didn't care about how much money people had, or didn't have. The only thing he cared about was whether or not the person had class, which he defined a little differently than you would ordinarily think. For him someone with class was someone who was honest and decent and truthful. He didn't care if you knew which fork to use at a fancy dinner, which was good because it took me years to learn all that etiquette stuff and I know I embarrassed him more than once with my gauche behavior. He didn't like Palm Beach because he thought those people were phonies. I think he was right about that.

"The weird thing is there was always a sort of phoniness about Roland, too. He was too good to be true in some ways, but he was kind of a bastard in other ways. There always seemed to be something artificial about him.

"And I will say this before you do: I am perfectly aware of how much that sounds like a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

"Anyway, he hadn't yet spun off the vision of a laptop computer for every poor child in the third world, but he was definitely headed in that general direction. He was all about economic development of depressed areas, including those in the U. S., although mostly he focused on the Third World.

"He captivated me with his vision. He had breeding and class, which I lacked, but we shared the same vision that those who 'have' ought to share with those who 'have not'. In a way it wasn't much to go on, given the enormity of all the other differences between us, but it was something. More importantly, we each had something the other lacked. We also learned very quickly that our personalities were opposites, but in many ways complementary.

"I fell in love with him largely because I thought he was everything I was not: comfortable with his money, socially at ease, and he seemed to have a purpose in his life that I lacked.

"It took me a long time to understand what Roland saw in me. I eventually came to understand that he admired and even envied my fearlessness. I can take about anything life dishes out. My most profound experience as a kid was standing in the aft of the boat a few days after my mother's funeral. Dad was in the wheelhouse, oblivious to my very existence, much less presence on the boat. I was ten years old. I had lost my mother and I was utterly bereft. Everything in me cried out for Dad to hold me in his lap so we could cry together. He was a kind, generous and loving man, but it never once occurred to him that I might have, as they say today, 'issues'. His cure for his grief (and, make no mistake, my father loved, adored and idolized my mother; his grief was enormous and he never really got over it) was to throw himself into his work.

"The few months after Mother died, we worked constantly. It never crossed his mind that I might need consolation from him. I can't fault him for that. I didn't even fault him at the time because I knew how deeply he was hurting. He had no consolation to give. Still it is a big deal, at ten years of age, to know that you are pretty much on your own, at least emotionally. Dad fed me, clothed me (at least as well as befitted a second mate on a fishing boat), and made sure I went to school often enough to keep the truant officer away. Beyond that, I was totally on my own. At first, I was terrified. Somehow I managed to survive. I don't think I've been afraid of anything since.

"Roland liked that because he was a sort of coward. He had a good heart and he was smart, but he was weak and he was afraid to take risks. Significantly, he was easily deceived. I know there are a lot of people, including the thousands of his former employees who lost everything they had when Techtron collapsed, who think he was a criminal. In my heart, to this day, I don't think that's true. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm deluding myself to cover up for the fact that I hitched my wagon to a star that fell so dramatically. Whatever the reason, I still have trouble seeing Roland as the perpetrator of the crime and not one of its many victims.

"The press spun the story as one of greed. They said Roland got greedy and went along with the scheme to rip off Techtron's stockholders by falsifying the records on revenue. I have never believed that. I know from up-close observation how easily he could ignore huge issues that were right in front of him if they were 'difficult'. I know how he trusted the people around him to do the right thing. I know that his was the vision that set the whole thing in motion, but he did not have the technical ability to understand the complex accounting weirdness that was going on, the interest in details to try to figure it out or the courage to confront people when the questions started to bubble up around him. Roland was a big-picture kind of guy. He left the details to others. The press and, therefore, the American people saw him as the Bad Guy: A real-life Gordon Gecko whose Greed cost him and his employees everything they had."

She paused, shook her head and studied her hands for a long moment.

He was holding his breath, but he could not stop himself from asking, "Do you know who was behind it?"

She thought about that for a minute and then said with a wry look, "I suppose the truth of that is that we all sort of were."

"What does that mean?"

She shrugged, "I believe that whoever was behind the whole thing presented themselves as his friends and loyal employees, while they were systematically setting him up. The rest of us who were close to him didn't do enough to make him pay attention. There were a couple of people within Techtron who were worried and who tried to warn him that something was wrong. He ignored them. I was not involved with Techtron at all. My job was to be the wife and charity-lady, so I didn't know what was going on. But, I've got great instincts, and my instincts told me that something smelled. I tried to tell him. He pooh-poohed it. I let it go to avoid making him mad."

Ray asked, "Are the bad guys in jail?"

She thought about that for a minute and said, "Remember, I don't know the whole story myself, but, I think that the people who are in jail are guilty of the things they were convicted of doing. There was stock manipulation. There was bogus accounting. There was every manner of lying and conniving and screwing with numbers. The people who are in jail were involved in that stuff.

"I have always thought there was more to it. I have nothing to go on except the gut feeling I had when we went to some remote places where schools or government agencies were supposedly buying the computers we were selling. I always had the feeling that more was going on than selling computers, but I never could figure out what it was."

"Drugs?"

She made a face, "No, I don't think so. In fact, I'm pretty sure it wasn't drugs, but I think there was some kind of other deals going on. I just don't know what."

"Did you ever say anything to your husband?"

She paused for a long time and said, "I will answer that, but please don't use it. I did mention to him a couple of times that I had a creepy feeling about some of his customers. I never knew about the corruption within Techtron, because I had hardly any contact with the Techtron people. I had all kinds of bad feelings about Techtron's customers. They were bureaucrats in developing countries. Many of them had access to money (a lot of money!) for the first time in their lives and they were the only ones in their circle who did. I thought there was rampant and ubiquitous bribery and corruption. I was concerned and I mentioned it to Roland a couple of times. He told me not to worry about it.

"He thought that for one thing it was sort of the price of doing business in certain countries and, what was more, he saw himself as kind and generous and he felt that if we could help people out by putting a few extra dollars in the pockets of our clients' employees, well, what would be the harm. I assumed he knew more about it than I did, but I never liked the feeling that Techtron was involved in kickbacks and bribery. What is more, I never shook the feeling that there was more to it than the normal amount of palm greasing that is more or less a cost of doing business in some parts of the developing world.

"Today, I feel like an idiot that I never even suspected all the bad stuff that was going on right here under our noses at Techtron while I was worried about payoffs to small time bureaucrats in poor countries."

He thought about it, "But what if you are right? What if there was large scale corruption and bribery – or worse – going on. That would account for some of the hundreds of millions of dollars that are still missing and it would also explain a lot of the accounting irregularities."

She made a face, "It might explain the missing money, but it doesn't explain what they were doing behind the scenes that would have required them to spend so much in bribes. I mean, I can understand their paying kick-backs to bureaucrats in order to get contracts, but I can't imagine that would account for the millions upon millions of dollars that have never been found.

"In any case, for the first few years of our marriage, life was good. Roland and I were sort of the king and queen of Atlanta. We were America's do-good billionaires trying to educate the poor children of the world. It was swell for a while.

"But when it all came crashing down, Roland couldn't take it. There were people in the company who stood up and did the right thing, cooperating with the government and telling the truth. There were a few who checked out and headed for Argentina or somewhere with no extradition treaties with the U. S. The worst of them scurried around trying to cover up what they had done, and making things much worse. Ultimately, the company collapsed. Some of the people turned state's evidence. Some maintained their innocence. All of them were guilty of something. A bunch of people went to jail. Thousands upon thousands of Techtron's employees lost all their retirement savings, and its investors lost money, too.

"I swear to God I have never been so angry about anything in my life as I was when Roland killed himself to avoid going to jail. That may reflect poorly on me as a person. I'll admit to you that my anger has almost overwhelmed my grief. I loved him when he was alive, please understand that. I really did. And I supported him until the end. But, killing himself and letting me and his few remaining friends and supporters deal with the mess alone was, in my opinion, an act of cowardice that I will never be able to forgive." Her voice trembled with anger. Her eyes were hot and dry. She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap.

He drove for a while in silence and let her compose herself. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, "Forgive me, but I have to ask this question. I swear it will never go past me, but I have to know. Do you feel that you owe the employees of Techtron something? Do you feel the least bit bad about living in luxury when so many of Techtron's employees were left with nothing?"

She glared at him as if he were an idiot, "I would most certainly feel that way if I were living on money I got from Techtron or from Roland. I am not. I live on my own money. It did not come to me from Roland or Techtron or anyone connected with either of them. The liquidator took the houses and cars. I sold the yacht and turned in that money to the government. I feel bad about the people of Techtron who were screwed by their employer. I don't have any of that money. If I did, I would give it back to the Techtron employees. "

She chuckled, "Or, I would be in jail and the government would have it like they have the rest of the money they somehow managed to find."

He said, "I thought the government was giving that money to the Receiver to go back into the Techtron retirement plan."

She laughed, "Don't be naive! The Justice Department agreed to turn over to the retirement fund any money it recovered after taking out the government's expenses for prosecuting the case. They recovered about $50 million. So far the government has kept it all. I know this because Roland was enrolled in the Techtron retirement fund. As his beneficiary, I get legal notices from the Plan. The balance in the retirement fund is still zero." She made a noise in the back of her throat. "You want a story about how who is now taking a turn raping the former employees of Techtron? There's one."

She looked out the window for a few minutes and then said quietly, "I'd like to change the subject, if you don't mind."

Ray nodded and reached out to pat her hand.

After a few minutes he asked her if she had ever been on an air boat. She told him she hadn't. He made a sudden stop at a roadside gas station and mini-market. The young native American woman at the counter greeted him with a warm smile and a hug. He introduced her to Marcella and asked if her father was around. She shook her head and said he was in Tampa for a tribal meeting at the Hard Rock Hotel.

He laughed, "Do you appreciate as much as I do the delicious irony of a bunch of Indians getting filthy rich off white people losing their money in a gambling casino??"

The girl laughed. "I don't know about filthy rich, but at least we're not on welfare anymore. We laugh about it all the way to the bank. The board of directors has a running joke about how they have plans to put smallpox infested blankets on the beds of the hotel." She giggled and made what was supposed to be a sheepish face, "What do you need Dad for?"

Ray said, "My friend here has never explored the 'Glades and has never had the serene and peaceful pleasures of riding on an air boat with your father."

She laughed and said that she hoped they would come back soon in order to rectify that gap in his friend's life. They chatted for a while and then Ray and Marcella continued on their way, promising to come back soon for a tour.

Ray took a turn at story-telling, filling her in on his time in the Everglades while her life was coming unglued in Atlanta. She asked a lot of questions and made it clear she would love to explore the Everglades with him and his _Miccosukee_ friends. She told him that, given her background, she understood as well anyone how important the water and wildlife are to the life of the state. He smiled thinking that she really was something of a do-gooder at heart.

He dropped her off at her house and then headed home. He debated about checking his voice mail, but decided to do so just in case he had got lucky and the editorial meeting scheduled for Wednesday morning was canceled.

He had no such luck on that score, but among the messages on his voice mail was one from Karen Thompson in Atlanta. She said she had found out that the Wilsons were members of the Buckhead club and, as she suspected, they were much more active there than at church. Roland played golf, Marcella played tennis and visited the gym nearly every day. They were regular diners in the restaurant. There was nothing particularly unusual about their participation in the club.

Ray returned her call. They chatted for a couple of minutes and he asked her if she would be interested in doing some more research. He said, "This could cost a little money, because I want you to go as deep as you can go, even if it means paying for information. I'll send you a couple of hundred dollars to get started. Let me know if you need more.

"I want you to help me fill in the gaps in this story."

He told her the story Marcella had given him speculating as to the approximate date ranges. "I want to know whatever information you can dig up on her. There is no screaming rush on this. Let me know whatever you can come up with."

She chuckled on the other end of the phone. "I love being friends with reporters. I'm a sort of frustrated Jessica Fletcher; I love to solve mysteries. I'll get back to you."

Chapter 15

Ray and Marcella continued to see each other several times a week. They ran together. They went fishing in Ray's boat. Occasionally they had dinner at Cap'n Dick's or, occasionally, one of the nicer restaurants in town.

After their close call with intimacy in the Keys, Ray expected their relationship to progress. Marcella, however, pulled back from him. It was as though they were back where they started. Things seemed almost strained between them. Ray told himself that the traumatic way her marriage had ended would, of course, make her very nervous about embarking on a new relationship. He admitted to himself he was disappointed because he knew he was falling in love with her and he felt ready to move forward at the same time she was pulling away from him. He tried, with difficulty, not to let his impatience show. He was certain that if he rushed her, he would risk scaring her away altogether.

A couple of weeks after they came back from the Keys, she told him she had to go out of town. As usual she did not say where she was going or when she would be back. For some reason those trips bothered him. He tried to shake it off because he knew part of the reason it bothered him was because he was used to talking to her almost every day and she never called him when she was away. He tried calling her cell phone a few times when she was away and he always got her voice mail. She did not return his calls.

One afternoon the weekend before Thanksgiving she phoned to let him know she was back. They talked for a few minutes. She did not say where she had been or what she had done. Ray didn't ask. He was just glad to have her back.

Before they hung up, Ray asked, in a tone he hoped to hell sounded casual, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

She didn't answer immediately. She sounded a little surprised, "I don't know. I honestly hadn't even thought about it."

"What do you usually do on Thanksgiving?"

She laughed. "When I was a kid, we went fishing on Thanksgiving. We often got charters on the weekend after Thanksgiving but Thursday and Friday were almost always totally dead. On Thanksgiving Day Dad and I would go fishing if the weather was good; sometimes we would go with other captains, but usually it was just us. We could typically stock the freezer for the winter with our catch from the day. Friday was a heavy work day; we spent the whole day doing maintenance and repairs on the boat.

"Between my dad's death and my marriage, I tended to spend Thanksgiving as a guest of whoever invited me to share their holiday. Roland and I always spent Thanksgiving with his family. That ruined Thanksgiving for me forever, I fear."

"Do you still keep in touch with his family?"

She laughed out loud saying, with a tone of bitterness bordering on hatred, "Hell, no. They could scarcely manage to be civil to me when he was alive, and then they only bothered to so much as acknowledge my presence when he was in the room. They didn't know where I came from, but they could tell I wasn't 'one of them' if you know what I mean. His mother hated me from the minute we met, which meant the rest of the family was forbidden to accept me no matter what. No one from his family so much as spoke to me at his funeral nor have I seen or spoken to any of them since. I don't expect that to ever change."

She paused, and changed her tone, "What do you do on Thanksgiving?"

He laughed. "You're going to think I'm weird."

"Try me."

"Well, I usually go out on the water in the morning. There is hardly any boat traffic. In the afternoon, I watch hours and hours of football on TV."

"What do you eat for Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Not turkey. I don't like turkey. Usually I either grill some fish or, more often, I eat chips and salsa all day long while watching sports and I never actually eat a meal."

She laughed, "I don't like turkey either, but I don't think I could eat chips and salsa all day. If you would like, why don't you take me fishing in the morning. I'll catch us something to eat for dinner. I'll cook dinner while you watch football."

"Hot dog! A woman who fishes, cleans the fish and cooks it while I watch TV. I must be living right!"

She did not respond. He cleared his throat and changed the subject because evidently he had overstepped that damned line again.

On Thursday it did not take her long to pull in a very nice catch. They returned to Ray's house and decided to go for a run before the first football game started. Before they turned around to go back to his house, they ended up at the public beach which was nearly deserted. They slowed down and walked along the shore to the end of the beach. She was quiet. He felt awkward with her for some reason. He decided to ignore that feeling. He took her hand. He was encouraged by the fact that she did not pull away.

They walked in silence for a while, hand in hand. Finally, he got up the courage to say, "I'm sorry if I came on too strong in the Keys. I don't know what got into me. Since we've been back, I noticed you have been a bit distant. I hope you are not upset with me."

She was very tense. For just a fraction of a second it seemed to him she was about to recoil. He expected her to let go of his hand and pull away. She did, in fact, let go of his hand. He felt his whole body deflate. He had blown it!

But she surprised him. Instead of pulling back and telling him she wasn't ready for a relationship, she slid her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. He circled her waist with his arm. They slowed even more and walked along the shoreline, staying just far enough away from the water to avoid getting their feet wet, but close enough that their shoes squished in the wet sand. They walked to the end of the public beach, and then paused to rest on a bench near the jetty. She was very tense but she never let go of him. He put his hand on her hair and then it fall to her shoulder.

He whispered, "I know you are not ready for a relationship yet. I promise to try to be patient and give you all the time you need. I guess I would appreciate it if you would give me a chance when you're ready."

She rested her head on his shoulder and tightened her grip around his waist, "Oh, we are way too far down the road for that. I guess that's the problem. That night in the Keys when we sat outside and talked, I felt something I haven't ever felt with a man before."

"What was that?"

"Safe. I guess it scared me a little."

"Forgive me for pointing out an obvious fact: that makes no sense."

"Since when do matters of the heart make sense? Actually, it makes perfect sense to me. I am used to always being on guard. I am used to having to be on the defensive all the time. I have never had anyone in my life, at least not since my mother died, with whom I could completely relax and who I felt I could trust without reservation. After Mama died, I never felt that way again until that evening with you. The reason it scared me was because I didn't know what to do next. I still don't."

He leaned his head against hers and whispered, "When the time comes for us to do something different than what we are doing now, I think we'll both know."

She looked up into his eyes, "Did I not recently brag about being utterly fearless?"

He smiled back at her and said, "I believe you did."

She looked away and smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes, "I think I finally found something I am afraid of."

"What?"

"You."

"I thought you trust me and feel safe with me."

"I do feel safe and trust you. That's what scares me: What if I'm wrong?"

"You aren't wrong."

She chuckled, "Worse still: what if I'm right?"

He laughed too, "Then I guess we'll sort of be stuck with each other and we'll have to deal with that."

She sighed, but it didn't strike him as a contented sigh at all. It struck him much more as frustration. He didn't quite know what to make of that. She shook him out of his worry, though, by tilting her chin up and kissing him – softly and quickly – on the lips. Before he had a chance to kiss her back, she stood up and said, "Come on. Your football games await you and there's a stringer of fish waiting for me that isn't getting any fresher."

They walked for a short distance and then started running back in the direction of his house. When they arrived she suggested he take his shower first while she cleaned the fish. He usually did not catch fish, so he had no permanent cleaning station. When he bought whole fish from the market, he cleaned them outside on a piece of wood he laid across a couple of saw horses. He set her up under a tree and hooked up the hose so she would have water. Then he went inside to shower.

He was amazed at how quickly and efficiently she worked. By the time he came back outside, she was finished cleaning the fish and had the fillets bagged and on ice in a small cooler. The rest of the carcasses were bagged just as neatly and ready for the garbage. She was hosing down the cleaning station when he came outside. She looked up at him and laughed, "Maybe you should bring me some soap and just squirt me off here. It would avoid messing up your bathroom."

He smiled and said, "Hand me the hose!"

Instead she turned it on him and sprayed him. He jumped over the railing and wrestled it away from her, soaking them both as they struggled for control of the nozzle. Eventually, she managed to turn it off. She looked up at him and said, "Well, that was mature."

He pulled her close and pushed her wet and tangled hair from her face. "You will have to admit it was kind of fun."

She looked up at him and smiled. "I think you need another shower..... a cold one."

He said, "You want some company?"

She pulled away, "No thanks. I think I can manage."

She was back from her shower in a flash, bustling around the kitchen, making an unholy racket, in his opinion. He went into the kitchen to fetch a beer and said, "I take it your husband was not a football fan."

She thought about that for a minute and said, "I think he enjoyed the game, but he was not what you would call a fan. We went to a lot of games, but usually for business reasons. He watched games on TV, but I think mainly for the purpose of knowing what happened in order to talk about it at work the next day. He never yelled or hollered. And he never made those horrible faces if I made noise during the games. I will note here that we had kitchen help and the kitchen was very far from the TV room. I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'll try to be quiet."

He grinned at her and handed her a bottle of beer, "Why don't you do even better. Why don't you sit down and watch the game with me?"

"Really?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I don't know. I guess I always thought football was a guy thing. I was hauled along to Super Bowls with other spouses, but I was never invited to sit down and watch televised games."

"Well, this is Florida, honey. Florida gals, of which you are one whether you like it or not, are expected to paint up, tease their hair and holler and scream along with the menfolk. Football is a family event in my world."

She took the beer, looked around the kitchen and satisfied herself she was in good shape and then said, "Okay. Lead on. It's been ages since I sat actually watched a whole football game. You may have to explain things to me."

She didn't know the players or the current standings, but it quickly became apparent that she understood the the game well indeed. She always knew who had the ball. She spotted penalties before refs did and she understood all the intricacies of the rules. Ray said, "I thought you said you hadn't watched football before."

"I said I hadn't watched football in a long time. I didn't say I had never watched it. My dad was a big football fan. Unlike you, he didn't really want company when he watched games, but I had to be quiet and the only other thing to do on Sunday afternoons when we didn't have charters was homework, which was the bottom thing on my priority list. So I'd sit quietly in a corner of the room and watch the games, too."

They watched the Lions game until they got hungry. It wasn't much of a game, so they turned off the TV and Marcella finished up in the kitchen while Ray manned the grill. They finished eating about the time the Dallas game came on. They curled up on the couch together with coffee and enjoyed the game. At half-time she called her driver to pick her up when the game was over.

About mid-way through the fourth quarter Ray saw the headlights of her car pull in the driveway. Immediately the driver turned off the lights and the engine. He would wait until she came out, whenever that might be. Ray wondered what the driver did sitting out there in the dark. He thought it must be a hell of a boring life. He would have got up and invited the driver inside, but Marcella didn't appear to have even noticed. The driver was her employee so Ray did not butt in.

When the game was over, Ray walked her to the door. As she reached for the knob, he put his arms around her and drew her to him. Her arms went around him as well and they clung to each other for a long minute. She kissed him quickly and said, "Thank you for perhaps the best Thanksgiving I have ever had." He held her tightly for a moment, but she pulled away and murmured, "He's waited a long time already."

Chapter 16

As the high school football season reached its climax and the college bowl games loomed, Ray was working harder than ever. He decided he wasn't quite so thrilled with the life of a sportswriter after all. Attending so many sporting events soon got to be a drag, especially when it became obvious the paper wasn't going to let up on any of his other job requirements. The good news was that he was getting a lot of good feedback for his writing for the first time in a long time. He seemed to have rediscovered his voice, and writing was fun again.

He had received the invitation to Victoria's fund-raising event before Thanksgiving. He delayed mentioning it to Marcella until it was almost too late. The week after Thanksgiving, they ran on Longboat Key and then ordered pizza delivered to Marcella's house. While they were sitting on the lanai waiting for the pizza, he said, "I feel like a jerk for waiting so long to mention this; I have no excuse other than that I am an idiot. Anyway, Victoria Caruthers is hosting a charity event to raise money to expand the children's wing of the hospital. It won't be a Palm Beach ball, because Victoria a serious fund-raiser as opposed to a party-girl who uses charities as an excuse to throw a bash. Her fund raisers are all about raising money for the intended charity. It won't be opulent. It will be expensive. They will squeeze us for money at every turn all night long. I know that sounds like positively the most wonderful evening imaginable, but I want to go and I would love for you to be my date."

She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. She said, "Honestly, I have never heard such a delightful proposition, one I absolutely could not imagine rejecting. Let me guess. Victoria wanted to invite me directly but figured that if she invited you, you would invite me to be your guest. That way Victoria can hit us both up for donations."

He nodded, "That's pretty much the way it was presented to me."

She looked at him strangely, "You like that old battle-axe, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I really would appreciate it if you would give her a chance. She is different from most of the other old bats in her circle. She's tough and smart and direct. She calls it like she sees it. I am sure that she can employ plenty of cattiness when the situation calls for it but she strikes me as being more of an in-your-face kind of person as opposed to someone who would stab you in the back. When it comes to raising money for the community, she is without peer.

"I know I made it sound bad, but it really won't be all that awful. I know the caterer Victoria uses; the food will be fabulous. There will be music by the best big-band orchestra around." He leaned close and whispered in her ear, "Best of all, you'll get to see the unusual sight of me dressed up in a tux."

She laughed, "That would be worth a few hundred dollars all by itself."

He frowned and said, "Oh, yeah??"

She asked, "How much are the tickets?"

"I've already bought the tickets. That and the cash bar will be my contribution to the Cause. Should you wish to make a donation, it will go straight into the kitty."

She nodded, "Okay, since you asked so nicely and since it is for a good cause, I will play Cinderella to your Prince Charming and I will make a donation that will be large enough to make Victoria Caruthers happy but not so large as to attract any undue attention from people who think I should not have any money. If we can work it out, I would like to make my contribution anonymously. Maybe I can work that out with Ms. Caruthers or someone on her committee."

She cocked her head and looked at him with an appraising eye, "Do you own a tux?"

He shook his head and laughed, "Of course not. I already have reserved a rental."

It was her turn to shake her head, "Oh, no you don't. There is a big difference between a rented tux and a tux owned by and tailored to the wearer. I'm not going to a party with a man in rented clothes. Stand up."

"What?"

She hurried into the bedroom and was back in a flash with a tape measure. "I said, 'Stand up.'" He stood and she took his measurements like a professional tailor. She looked at the clock and said, "I can never figure this stuff out. What day and time is it in Hong Kong?"

He looked at the clock, "Yesterday afternoon."

She clicked open her cell phone and found a number in the contacts. A few minutes later she was giving someone his measurements and ordering a black tuxedo for rush delivery by the end of the following week, to allow time for local alterations if necessary. When she was finished, he asked, "How much is that going to set me back?"

She smiled, "Consider it an early Christmas present from me. You'll need it if I'm going to let myself be drawn into the social life of Sarasota."

He started to object, but she put up her hand. He knew he couldn't afford the suit anyway, so he'd let her pay for it. He wondered for a second just how much money she had. He let that thought go as soon as it broke the surface of his consciousness.

Later that week he stopped for tea at Victoria's and told her that he would be attending the event with Marcella. She looked at him through narrowed eyes and said, "Are you sure you are not getting too involved with her?"

He made a face, "What does 'too involved' mean?"

"I thought reporters tried not to get emotionally involved with their stories."

"I guess I've sort of given up the idea of making Marcella the subject of a story. If there is a story there, someone else will have to tell it. There is definitely a mystery about her, and I'd like to find out more about her, but I want to know for my own purposes and not for publication. I've promised her that much."

Victoria did not say anything, but Ray could feel her disapproval in the air.

A few days later, Marcella called to tell him the tux had arrived. She asked him to stop by to try it on. He drove to her house with some trepidation. She had ordered not only the suit and cumber bun but also two shirts and the requisite studs and other go-withs. The only thing he needed was patent leather shoes. She handed him the suit and motioned him toward the bedroom to try it on. He was absolutely amazed. It fit perfectly in every dimension and it was unbelievably comfortable. He felt as though he were wearing pajamas. He came out of the bedroom beaming, "This is fabulous!"

"Did I not tell you there is no comparison – absolutely none – between a rented tux and one made for you. There is nothing better a man can do for himself than to spend the money on a perfectly tailored and fitted suit. You look very handsome. A nice pair of shoes and a haircut, and I think Victoria will be very pleased."

"Victoria? What about you?"

She smiled, "Personally I prefer you in shorts and a sweatshirt, at the helm of your boat steering me around from one school of fish to another. I will say, however, that if you have to dress up, that does look just mighty fine."

He grinned. "I have never worn anything so comfortable."

She laughed, "My guess is you have never looked so fabulous."

He asked, "What are you wearing?"

She shook her head. "Oh no you don't. My outfit will be a surprise. You'll see it for the first time the night of the party. No peeks in advance. By the way, we shall go in style. My driver will pick you up."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. They usually serve really nice wine and liquor at those affairs, the better to break down the inhibitions of the would-be donors. Since you're already in for a few hundred dollars, you might as well enjoy the evening without worrying about getting a ticket on the way home."

He chuckled, "I never thought of that, but you're right. Thanks. That will be swell."

The evening of the party arrived. Ray had gotten a haircut and had purchased exactly the shoes Marcella suggested, even though he thought they were a bit effeminate. This was a whole new experience for him, but it was the world Marcella had inhabited for a number of years. He assumed she knew what she was doing, and he trusted himself to her care. He dressed early and then paced the house until Marcella's car pulled into the driveway. He slid into the back seat beside Marcella, and caught his breath. She was wearing a champagne satin dress that was completely unadorned. What made the dress so stunning was the cut. It clung to her body's curves without revealing too much but showing her figure off to its best. Her only jewelry were diamond stud earrings. Her makeup was very subtle. Her hair was done in a very elegant classic French twist. By the standards of Sarasota's society ladies, she was seriously under-dressed. At one glance, he knew she was going to be the star of the evening.

She smiled at him and winked, "For a boater-reporter you clean up mighty fine, Mr. Bailey."

He looked at her, then made a very exaggerated tour from top to bottom and back. He grinned, "You look like the goddess Aphrodite, as opposed to your usual Diana the Huntress."

She laughed until she had to wipe her eyes. "Didn't anybody ever tell you never to make a lady cry before a party. It smears the paint."

Just before they got out of the car, she took his hand and whispered rather frantically, "Don't leave me alone tonight, please."

He put his hand on her waist, and whispered in return, "I'm like glue."

They alighted from the car and swept into the hotel. He knew without meeting anyone's gaze they were getting more attention than almost any other couple in attendance.

Victoria Caruthers stood at the door, greeting the guests as though they were coming into her parlor for tea. She gave Ray a quick hug and bussed his cheek. Then she turned to Marcella, and said, "Mrs. Wilson, how kind of you to come to our dinner. I know this must seem like such small-potatoes stuff to you, but I assure you the children of Sarasota and their parents will appreciate what we are up to tonight."

Marcella shook her hand with just the right amount of warmth and deference, but not too much of the latter. "It's a privilege to be involved. Perhaps we can discuss what I need to do in order to make an anonymous contribution."

Victoria smiled and said quietly, "Should you wish to do that, please give me your check privately. I'll make sure the donation is recorded and that you receive appropriate tax documents without your name being listed among the donors."

Ray could feel an undercurrent of understanding begin to flow between the women.

Marcella said, "Excellent. Perhaps we could have lunch one day later in the week."

Victoria inclined her head and said, "I'm at your disposal. Mr. Bailey can give you my private number. Please call me."

They smiled at each other. Ray thought that he would give about anything to attend that lunch. He was pretty sure he would not be invited or even know about it until after it was over.

Ray and Marcella made their way through the crowd, toward their assigned table. Ray bought them each a glass of wine. He considered changing his order to a double bourbon when he learned he would be seated next to the new editor-in-chief of the paper. That old dragon was a holy terror. He decided to take it easy and maintain all his faculties.

He needn't have worried. Nobody in the room so much as looked at him all evening. Marcella dominated everyone's attention as she moved through the crowd with a practiced calm and intensity that helped calm Ray, but also amazed him. Did she really learned all that from an actress playing a part? How could anyone who had grown up the way she had become so at-home in this kind of setting? He couldn't quite figure it out. In a way it didn't matter. However she had come by her sophistication, Marcella seemed perfectly at home. Her serenity helped Ray feel less nervous as well.

They ate their dinner, which was superb. They even danced a couple of dances. Ray was no Fred Astaire but he liked to dance and found he really liked dancing with Marcella, who was, a very good partner.

Too soon for Ray, Marcella pulled the plug and announced that it was time to go. He looked around and realized the party was just starting to get into gear. He started to protest, but then he saw the look on her face which left no room for argument. Marcella headed for the door, and Ray followed like a puppy, trying to keep up. Once they were in the car, she sat back, closed her eyes and breathed deeply a few times. He took her hand and asked, "Are you okay?"

She squeezed his hand and leaned against him, "I'm sorry. I know you were having a good time, but all of a sudden, I just couldn't take it for one more minute. That happens to me every so often at events like this. At some point, I look around and have this moment of panic feeling as though everyone in the room knows I'm faking it. When I first met Roland, I had such an inferiority complex I would be all but overcome by paralysis in social settings. Roland had no patience for that. He made me stay at parties until I learned to tough it through the moments of panic. Now that he's gone, I find the panic returning for the first time in years and he isn't there to force me to hang tough when the I start to freak out."

Soon they pulled into Ray's driveway. She leaned against him and put her arms around him. She looked up into his face and whispered, "I would really prefer not to be alone tonight."

He pulled her toward him and whispered into her hair, "Do you want to come in?"

She paused for a minute and said softly, "Why don't you grab a toothbrush and a change of clothes, maybe your running clothes for in the morning. Please, come home with me."

Chapter 17

For a second he couldn't breathe. He knew he had lost his objectivity. He thought he might have lost his mind. He was certain he had lost his heart. He said, "I'll be right back." He went inside and tossed a few toiletries and a change of clothes in a backpack.

Less than five minutes later, he slid into the back seat with her and said, "Have you changed your mind?"

She shook her head, and leaned forward toward the driver, "Please take us home." The car slid into reverse instantly. The driver never looked at either of them in the mirror. Ray appreciated that. Somehow he did not want to see the look in the man's eyes.

They arrived at her condo twenty minutes later. Ray took the keys from Marcella and opened the door. Before they were inside, the car was gone. He was stranded for the night. Somehow he didn't feel upset about that.

She said, "It is still very early. Would you like coffee or a drink?"

He thought about that for a minute and blurted, "After that wonderful meal, I would love a glass of brandy if you have some."

She smiled. "I have Armangnac for brandy-snobs. I also have a bottle of the cheap blackberry brandy my father used to drink."

He put his head in his hands and laughed until he almost cried, "My mom and dad both loved blackberry brandy."

"Did they give it to you as a kid for diarrhea?"

"Yup."

"I don't use it for that purpose any more, but I do occasionally have a nip of it when I find myself missing my dad so much I can't stand it."

"I don't know that I want all our parents present with us tonight, but I sure as hell would love a taste of that blackberry brandy. My parents loved it."

She dug around in the back of the bar and came up with a dusty bottle of deKuyper, the same brand his parents used to buy. She poured them each a short glass and led the way to the lanai. Before he took a sip he said, "Oh, by the way, I've heard of Armagnac but never tasted it. I like cognac. Maybe sometime we could try that."

She smiled. "Perhaps another night. Somehow I don't think you would get the full effect if you drink it after you get a snoot-full of this stuff."

"Is it really that much better?"

She looked at him and drawled slowly, "Ooooooh, yeah."

He sipped the sweet liquid which tasted a lot like cough medicine and laughed, "God, how could my parents drink this stuff?"

She giggled, "Keep sipping. It's kind of like beer. The first sip tastes really bad, but it gets better and better the more you drink."

Her lanai faced the intracoastal waterway. Most boat traffic on the intracoastal stopped at night. They watched a couple of dinner-cruise tour boats go by. The lights of Sarasota twinkled in the distance. Frogs sang in the retention pond on the side of the house. They sat in a two-seated glider with their arms around one another. There didn't seem to be much to say. It occurred to Ray that he probably should have felt awkward, but he didn't. They had a comfort level with one another that surprised him. He thought perhaps the many hours they had spent fishing together had something to do with that. They were comfortable spending long periods of time together in silence and in close quarters. He pulled her closer, resting his chin on the top of her head, and realized he already knew a lot about her body. He had watched her carefully while she fished. They had worked together, shoulder to shoulder, to bring in large fish. His head told him he should be nervous. His heart said otherwise. Soon, she looked up at him with an invitation in her eyes, and his hormones took over.

As usual, he awoke at daylight. He stretched and reached for Marcella, but she was not in bed. He put on his underwear and went looking for her. He stopped at the door to the kitchen and watched her. She was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. She had showered and was still wearing a robe and a towel twisted around her hair. It took her a few minutes to notice his presence, but when she saw him she looked up and smiled, "Good-morning, sleepy-head, want some coffee?"

He walked over to her and kissed her, "I'll get it. You want a refill?" She looked at her cup and nodded. He picked it up and continued, "And what's this sleepy-head stuff, it's barely daylight."

She laughed. "You wake up by the sun, whatever time it happens. I wake up by habit at 4:00 or 4:30."

"That's what time you had to get up in order to have the boat ready for an early charter?"

"Yes. And Dad always woke me up when he got up, even on school days, in order to assure himself I was up and would not oversleep. I always got up, dressed, and then slept on the couch until time to leave for school. That was another thing that added to my reputation as a slob, I suppose."

He put down her cup and sat down beside her. "What do you want to do today?"

"The weather is supposed to be wonderful and the tides are good. If you've got nothing else planned, can we go fishing?"

He laughed. "Okay, but we have to go early so we can get back early. I have to watch at least some of the football games in order to add a little color to my recap of scores. We should spend the afternoon at my house because I have the satellite dish with all the sports channels."

"That sounds positively wonderful!"

"Is that sarcasm I hear?"

She gave him an innocent look, "No, it's enthusiasm."

He laughed. "I think that will wear off pretty quickly. I am already getting tired of it. I can't wait until things get back to normal at the paper and I no longer have to double as a sportswriter. It's just too damned much work."

She finished her coffee and said, "I've already packed the cooler. Let me get dressed."

He said, "What are we going to use for transportation?"

"I called for the car. It's in the driveway. I sent the driver home." She smiled, "Sometimes you've looked at that car with more lust in your eyes than you have when you look at me. I thought you might like to drive it."

He laughed and said softly, "I really tried not to let you catch me coveting your car!" He stood up and poured more coffee. "Go ahead and get dressed. I would like to stop somewhere to get some sweats. All I brought was running clothes, and I think that will be too cool this morning."

"Perfect because we need some more bottled water. I'll be ready in a flash."

While she was dressing in the bathroom, he pulled on his running clothes and hung up the tux. He put it in her closet, on the assumption he would only wear it for events he attended with her. Then he went outside to load the car. She came out of the bedroom just as he finished. He stood in the doorway and watched her walk across the room towards him. He found it remarkable that there was still no awkwardness between them. Being together seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He was blocking the door and she looked at him with a quizzical expression.

That made him laugh. He knew she was already thinking about fishing, and had all but forgotten the night before. He hadn't. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She kissed him back, but he could feel the impatience in her body. She was not one to linger and dwell on events that were in the past, even wonderful evenings like the night they had shared. There were fish out there, and she was ready for them.

He ruffled her hair and laughed. She passed him and headed for the car, but she did ask, "What's so funny?"

"You. You are so transparent."

She laughed. "You think so, huh?"

"Yeah."

She simply raised her eyebrows and didn't say a word until they got to Wal-Mart where they split up to do their separate errands, meeting at the checkout counter. By the time they cast off the lines and headed out into the channel, he could tell she was annoyed with him. He could not figure out why. He sensed her bad mood pass once she started catching fish. She hauled in the maximum catch in only a couple of hours. It was still early. He pulled out the thermos of coffee and scooted down in the bottom of the boat, patting the floor by his side, "Come over here and sit by me. Let's drift for a while." He poured her a cup of coffee and held it out by way of inducement in case cuddling with him was insufficient.

She laughed and moved over next to him. They stretched out in the bottom of the boat reclining against a couple of life jackets. He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his chest. He took off her hat and laid it across his stomach, putting a hand on it so it wouldn't blow away. She put her other hand on top of his. They drifted in silence, each lost in thought. Ray caught himself half dozing a couple of times. He reached over his head and tossed out the anchor just in case they fell asleep.

Ray was more relaxed and happier than he had been in years. He was, therefore, worried when he noticed she was tense and nervous. He pulled her closer and whispered, "What's wrong?"

"I told you. I'm scared."

"Why?"

"I can't explain it, exactly. As I told you, I have always been guarded with men. Whether it was in bed or anyplace else, Roland never expected me to be really open to him. Roland was totally consumed by his own internal fire and visions. Other people were merely the worker-bees who made his dreams become reality. He never got too close to any of us, not even me. I loved him, at least I thought what I felt for him was love. I don't know that he ever really loved anybody. I certainly never had to put myself out for him because he never expected me to. All I had to do was put up the public appearance of a society wife and have sex with him whenever he wanted, which, frankly, was very seldom. The rest of the time I was on my own.

"You, on the contrary, make emotional demands on me that scare me. You expect me to spend time with you, one-on-one. You want to know things about me that I have never shared with anybody, and am a little afraid to share. You want to talk with me. Not to me or at me, but with me. As in conversation. Back and forth. Two people sharing stuff. I've never done that.

"My dad was the boss; he told me what to do. I bitched and complained, but I did it. My benefactor gave me money and advice. I followed his advice almost to the letter because I was so grateful for what he had done for me. After that one time on the boat, he never once asked me what I wanted. He made it clear he thought I was too much of an idiot to have opinions that were worth considering; he told me what to do and I did it. Between his death and when I met Roland, I was on my own. I did not have very many personal relationships at all. I fell in love with Roland almost immediately. He was smart, charming, handsome. He fit into the world he inhabited naturally and comfortably. I wanted to learn to be that comfortable somewhere besides on the water with a fishing pole in my hand. I attached myself to him like a barnacle. He needed a wife, so it worked out well for both of us. Once again, I did as I was told. Nobody asked my opinion or my desires.

"You have made me realize I never really learned to have opinions or desires.

"Maybe that's what scares me the most about you. You ask me what I want. You ask me what I like, what I dream, what I think. Those questions make me think about what I want, like, dream and think. I have never expended any energy on those things. What scares me is what I may find if I were to let myself think about them."

He held her tight. Those were indeed frightening things to ponder. He had spent many nights lying in the dark in fear and trembling contemplating those issues. He said the first thing that popped into his mind, "Believe me, I know what you mean. Two things you need to know. First, if I put any kind of pressure on you that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me and I will stop. I swear it. Secondly, whatever happens between us in the future will in no way negate the wonderful time we've shared. Whatever you want to do or to be or where ever your life may take you, I will be here – and I will be your friend, at the very least."

She suddenly relaxed against him and then she hugged him tightly, "You know, I believe that."

It occurred to him that he'd lost one good woman by letting her walk away to pursue her dreams without fighting for her. He wondered if he was stupid enough to do it again, and realized he absolutely was.

They drifted and dozed for a little while. Too soon she murmured, "I'm getting hungry and those fish aren't getting any fresher."

"I hear you."

He started the motor and headed toward the marina.

She cleaned the fish while he cleaned the boat. They were back at his house in time for the beginning of the first round of football games. Marcella shooed him into the living room. She took a shower and then started making the lunch preparations. He did not make a move to start the grill, so she fried the fish and made Reuben fish sandwiches, with a side of hush puppies. She carried trays of sandwiches and lemonade into the living room.

Ray looked up at her and smiled. He looked away when he saw her reaction. He knew his smile must have conveyed the complete and naked adoration he felt for her at that moment. He could see from the sudden fear in her eyes, it was too much, too soon. He wanted to kick himself. Instead he forced himself to put on a more neutral expression. He grinned and patted the couch, "Oh, boy. I am starved and that looks fantastic!"

She set the tray on the coffee table. After they ate, they spent the afternoon curled up together like puppies on his over-sized couch, watching football. As his deadline approached for the morning paper, he excused himself and went out to his screen porch to file his story. By the time he came back in the house, she had cleaned the kitchen and living room, which both now were returned to their previous "show house" appearance. She looked up and said, "I'm kind of stiff from sitting around all afternoon, let's go for a run."

"You don't have clothes with you."

"Let's go to my house. I'll change. We can run there."

"Okay. We need to get your car back over there, anyway. You drive your car. I'll drive mine."

She shook her head. "I don't have a driver's license. I had a driver's license when I was a kid. After I moved to Chicago, I didn't need one. I have always lived in places where the public transportation was good enough I didn't need a license, or I had a driver."

"Ok. I guess you can have your driver bring me home later."

She looked at him for a minute and said softly, " ... Or not."

He smiled and said, "... or not."

He put his running clothes on and packed a change of regular clothes, his toothbrush and shaving gear in his backpack. Neither of them said anything all the way to Longboat Key. He dumped his bag in the kitchen while she changed into running togs. They ran for as long as the light held out, then they headed back to her house where they stopped in the kitchen and drank a couple of bottles of water each. She stood in front of the open fridge, "The pickings are slim here. Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"Nah. We had a big lunch. I'd be happy with a sandwich or cheese and crackers."

"How about an omelet."

"That sounds good."

She showered first and then fixed dinner while he showered and changed. They ate on the lanai, but did not linger because it was very chilly. They flipped through the newspaper. Neither moved to turn on the TV.

She yawned. "I know it's early. I am sorry. I get up really early, but that means I poop out early, too. I am going to bed. Please, feel free to stay up as late as you like. Watch TV. Carry on all you want. You won't disturb me."

She stood up and made to leave the room. He followed her. "I'm tired too. It's been a busy and emotionally difficult weekend."

She leaned against him, "I am sorry. I didn't even think about the fact that this was probably a big deal for you, too."

They curled up together and she fell asleep instantly. Ray held her for a long time, listening to her even breathing and feeling her chest rise and fall. She never moved once she fell asleep. He felt very protective of her for some reason. She seemed so strong on the outside, but he had seen a glimpse of the frightened and lost little girl on the inside. He compared her with Victoria and wondered what one should call the opposite of a 'steel magnolia'.

When he got up in the morning, she was not in bed. He went in search of her, and found her on the lanai drinking coffee, watching the fishing boats headed for the channel. He stood in the doorway and laughed, "Do you sit here every morning watching them."

She looked up at him and he could tell she had been crying, "Yes."

"And every morning you cry because you wish you were on one of them?"

"That, and because I miss my dad, and because I feel sorry for the kids who are working on those boats because so many of them have stories like mine. Sometimes that leads into crying because I'm sad or lonely." She paused as if considering whether to continue, and she added with a rush as though trying to say it quickly before she chickened out, "Today, I think I was crying because I feel so wonderful."

He smiled and said, "I hope so. That would make two of us." He made a face, and said, "I have to go to work. Do you think you could have your driver take me home?"

"He'll be here in about twenty minutes. You want some breakfast?"

"Just coffee." He fetched the pot and a cup for himself. He refilled her cup and sat on the glider next to her. He had much more to say than he could manage in twenty minutes, so he did not say anything. She rested her head on his shoulder and said nothing.

Way too soon, he heard a car pull in the driveway and a car door slam. Then the garage door opened and the Mercedes backed out into the driveway. The garage door closed. He chuckled, "I think my pumpkin-carriage awaits."

She laughed out loud and walked him to the door, still without saying a word. It occurred to him on the way home that it could be a bit difficult to try to have a relationship with such a taciturn angler. The angler part was key, however. He knew that if he needed her to completely relax and open up, all he had to do was take her out on the water. On land she was awkward and out of her element. On water, she was .... well, "magnificent" was the word that came to his mind.

The car pulled into his driveway. He got out, feeling awkward. Marcella had always dealt with her driver. Ray had never even spoken to the man and did not know what to say. He simply paused by the driver's door and said, "Thank you."

The driver's window slid down half way and he looked at Ray for a long minute. It was the first time Ray had ever see his face. He was perhaps a few years younger than Ray. He looked like a cop, all muscle and bone. Somehow Ray knew that he must double as a body-guard and that nobody would mess with Marcella when this guy was around. That comforted him somehow. Perhaps the fact that his thoughts were drifting along that trajectory was the reason the driver's words shocked him so. He said, "Mr. Bailey, I know I am way out of line to say this. I have been doing this kind of work for a long time. I have only worked for Mrs. Wilson for a short while, but I've been a driver and body-guard for rich people for more than thirty years. I know their ways. You seem like a very nice person and you are in way over your head. Please be careful."

Chapter 18

He headed for work where he attended an editorial meeting, answered a slew of email and returned a few calls. He was delighted to learn that the sports writer for whom he had been filling in was back at work. The guy came to his office with a twelve pack of beer and thank you notes from his wife and children. Ray said, "I'm just glad your wife is feeling better. I was happy to do it. I always thought it would be cool to be a sportswriter. I guess that was a case of the grass looking greener in the other pasture. Actually I thought it was kind of a drag. Although I would love to get tickets to a playoff game or something if you're ever tied up and can't go."

"Not a problem. Trust me, you'll get first pick of any big games for which I may score tickets."

He called Marcella in the afternoon to ask if she wanted to run. She begged off saying she had a hair appointment and then she intended to get a massage. She paused and said rather awkwardly, "Would you mind if we didn't see each other today? I am tired and a little overwrought."

He found himself nodding, "I agree. I think we should not move too fast here. I think slowing down and taking our time might be a good thing." He paused and chuckled, "Difficult, but good."

She giggled. He could feel the relief in her voice through the phone. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

After work, he went for a run and stopped at Dick's for dinner. Then he headed home, alone. He walked into the house, which seemed silent, cold and empty. He shook his head and told himself he needed to slow down as much as she did – for opposite reasons.

He wasn't ready for bed, so he took his laptop out onto the porch to check his email and then to work on polishing one of the feature articles he had been storing up.

He momentarily perked up when he saw an email from Karen Thompson. He began to read with eagerness which turned to something like horror as he scrolled through the text.

Ray,

I apologize for taking so long to send this information to you. I ended up finding a lot more information than I expected which actually complicated the process because it has been a lot to sort through. I'll bet this is more than you expected as well. None of this makes very much sense to me. Hopefully it will make more sense to you.

The easiest part is the man whose identity you wanted to find. I think the person you are looking for is a man named Antonio Collonia. He was something of a tycoon who owned a chain of self-service laundries and dry-cleaners throughout the upper Midwest. He was originally from Sicily. Came to the U. S. shortly after WWII. Went to work in a laundry in Chicago that was reputed to be a front for a book run by one of the Chicago Mafia families. Eventually Antonio (Tonio to his friends) ended up owning the laundry, and adding many more stores in a whole bunch of states.

He became very, very wealthy in a very short amount of time, such a short time as to draw the interest of the Feds. He was reputed to be involved in money laundering in addition to regular laundry service, but they never were able to get enough evidence to bring charges.

He was married four times, each time to a wife who was younger than the last one. He had only one child, Aurelio, who moved to Miami Beach when he was in his twenties. There he worked for a temporary employment agency (which was reputed to make most of its money trafficking illegal migrant workers). Aurelio eventually purchased the agency. After his father died, he took over the laundry empire as well. Today he divides his time between Miami Beach and his father's estate in Chicago (significantly, given your initial assignment, the house is located in The Loop and was one of the first homes in its neighborhood to have central air conditioning). It seems that in addition to inheriting his father's businesses, Aurelio inherited his father's last wife as well.

Tonio loved to fish and went fishing in the Great Lakes, Mexico, the Bahamas and in Florida every chance he got. As far as I can learn he went out with Captain Pappas at least six times over a period of five years just prior to the late summer of 1969, his last trip.

He died in the summer of 1974. His death was ruled a homicide, unsolved. (Single small caliber gunshot wound to the back of the head.)

Of note is the fact that Tonio seemed to have a penchant for helping young people whose lives were difficult. He told people it was because of his experiences of being left homeless and without a family at a young age during WWII. That is no doubt true, but it is interesting to note that he seemed to have mainly helped young women who had fallen on hard times. A few of him he married. A few of them he introduced to his friends or colleagues, who married them. A few of them he sort of "adopted".

In his will he left most of his money to his widow, Brenda, and his son Aurelio. He also left money to Trust Funds for three people: Andra Corteza of San Diego, California; Rosalia Carrerea of Corpus Christi, Texas; and Marcella Pappias of Chicago, Illinois. The will is expressed in percentages of the total value of the estate, the dollar figure of which is, of course, not in the will, but it appears he left them each a lot of money.

_According to the person who looked into this for me, the Trusts themselves had been funded at different times over five or six years prior to his death. Marcella Pappias' was the last trust established. He set that up in the summer of 1970. His will added extra principal to all three trusts upon his death. Apparently, a whole lot of principal. In addition to a rich widow and son, he left behind three wealthy "wards"_.

Moving on to the girl, things are more complicated. What follows is a chronological account of events which may or may not be related.

_May 15, 1947_ _\- Christopher Pappas registers a fishing boat in Destin, Florida. Name: F/V Mirabella_

_June 1, 1950_ _\- Ft. Walton Beach, Florida, Mirabella Pappas gives birth to a daughter, Marcia Victoria Pappas._

_June 15, 1950_ _\- Marcia Pappas is baptized in St. Mary's Catholic Church, Ft. Walton Beach._

_September 1955_ _\- Marcia Pappas is registered for kindergarten at Ft. Walton Beach Elementary School_

_May 1, 1960_ _\- Mirabella Pappas dies. Obituary lists survivors as "beloved husband Christopher and Marcia, the light of her life."_

_June 4, 1966_ _\- Marcia Pappas applies for a Florida drivers license_

_June 15, 1966_ _\- Christopher Pappas adds Marcia as co-owner of his bank accounts (with check signing privileges on the checking account)._

_September 1969_ _\- Christopher Pappas sells his home in Ft. Walton Beach._

For the purpose of registration at Choctawhatchee High School in her senior year, Marcia lists her home address as the same address where Christopher docks the Mirabella III.

_January 1970_ _\- Christopher Pappas sells the Mirabella III. He and Marcia move into an apartment near Eglin Air Force Base._

_June 1970_ _\- Marcia Pappas graduates from high school, with perfect grades and perfect attendance for the entire four years of high school. A newspaper article indicates she was technically eligible to be valedictorian, but she declined the honor due to a serious illness in her family, so another classmate was designated to make the valedictory address._

_June 20, 1970_ _\- Christopher Pappas dies of lung cancer._

_July 1970_ _\- Marcia Pappas closes Christopher's checking account and savings account._

Here's where I start making assumptions. Bear with me.

_September 1970_ _\- Marcella Victoria Pappias enrolls at Northwestern University, Chicago._

She gives a birth date of June 1, 1950. Place of birth is a small town outside Cleveland, Ohio, in a part of town where many immigrants lived. Conveniently the hospital had a fire in 1953, and many birth records were destroyed. I have learned that this hospital is frequently listed as the location for the birth of a lot of people with somewhat questionable credentials.

Since her birth certificate was a facsimile, the university asked for other proof of birth. She provided a baptismal record from a Roman Catholic Church in Cleveland; I checked it out. No such baptism was recorded in that church.

Her address was listed as an apartment near the Northwestern campus.

Next of kin: Antonio Collonia, uncle.

_October 1970_ _\- Marcella Pappias applies for a passport._

June 1974 - Marcella Pappias graduates from Northwestern with a B.S. in Marine Biology. She got straight A's. She declined to participate in the Commencement, even though she was eligible to serve as valedictorian.

_July 1974_ _\- Antonio Colonnia dies. Survivors listed: Wife, Brenda (35 years his junior), address in The Loop, and a son, Aurelio, of Miami, Florida._

_September 1974_ _\- M. V. Papillon enrolls in the graduate school at U.S.C. in Los Angeles. She presents Marcella Pappias' diploma from Northwestern, and indicates her next of kin is a husband, Aurelio Papillon. [Can't find any marriage record for this marriage in L.A., Chicago, Miami, Vegas or_

Reno. Can't find any record of an Aurelio Papillon.]

Date of Birth: June 1, 1950

Address: apartment near U.S.C.

She opens a checking account at a local bank. That checking account has remained active continuously from then until now in the same name.

_November 1974_ _\- M. V. Papillon applies for a passport_

Address: apartment near U.S.C.

Next of kin: Aurelio Papillon, cousin

She finishes the semester with perfect marks in all her classes.

_January 1975_ _\- M. V. Papillon registers for second semester at U. S. C._

Same address.

Next of kin: Betty Bledsoe, aunt. [Betty Bledsoe was a semi-successful character actress who appeared in many movies and TV shoes from the late 1930's until she died in 1980. Her address was in the same building where M. V. Papillon lived.]

MVP finishes the semester again with perfect marks. GPA, 4.0

_September 1975_ _\- M. V. Papillon registers for a third (and final) semester at U.S.C. She takes all of her midterm exams and earns A's in all of them. She does not show up for any of her finals and receives Incompletes in all her classes. She never returns to complete here degree._

October 1975 - Marcella Pappias buys a condominium on the beach in Galveston, Texas. Pays $175,000, cash.

She opens a checking and savings account at the local bank and takes out an American Express Credit Card.

_October 1980_ _\- Marcella Pappias renews her passport._

Address: the condo in Galveston

Next of kin: No living relatives

_April 1982_ _\- M. V. Papillon applies for a replacement passport, claiming her previous passport was lost._

Address: Miami Beach, Florida [Address is the same as a residence belonging to Aurelio Colonnia.]

Next of kind: Aurelio Colonnia, cousin

_September 1990_ _\- Marcella Pappias renews her passport_

Address: Condo in Galveston

Next of kin: No living relatives

_November 1991_ _\- M. V. Papillon renews her passport. Same Miami Beach address. Same next of kin._

_January 1992_ _\- (From news sources) Marcella Pappias meets Roland Wilson at a charity ball in Palm Beach, Florida_

_December 1992_ _\- Marcella Pappias and Roland Wilson marry in Atlanta, Georgia._

She changes her name on all documents, including her passport, to Marcella Wilson.

Address: Same as Wilson's in Atlanta, GA.

Next of kin: Roland Wilson, husband

She sells the condo in Galveston and closes the savings account.

The Galveston checking account and the American Express card are still active in the name of Marcella V. Pappias. Mail goes to a Post Office Box in Galveston. Someone picks up the mail every few weeks.

_May 1997_ _\- Roland Wilson opens a mobile phone account with AT &T and gets a second phone in Marcella Wilson's name._

_May 2000_ _\- Marcia Pappas buys a home in The Villages in Central Florida. The sale is handled remotely; she does not attend the closing. Selling price is $375,000. She pays cash._

She still owns the home, and taxes are current. She pays a management company (one payment, annually, paid by check) for maintenance and cleaning. No one at the management company has ever met her, nor do their records indicate she has ever visited the home.

Marcia Pappas opens an interest bearing checking account at a local bank in The Villages and takes out an American Express card. Both of those accounts are still active in the name of Marcia Pappas. She pays the management company from this checking account. Mailing address is a Post Office Box in The Villages. Someone picks up the mail every few weeks.

_June 2000_ _\- Marcia Pappas opens a cell phone account with AT &T. That phone is still active._

_July 2000_ _\- Marcia Pappas applies for a passport._

Address: the condo in The Villages

Next of kind: No living relatives.

_May 2001_ _\- M. V. Papillon renews her passport. Address, next of kin are the same._

_June 2001_ _\- Techtron collapses_

_July 2002_ _\- Marcella Wilson renews her passport. Same address and next of kin._

[Note: Roland Wilson's criminal trial had begun in June and continued through September.]

_September 2003_ _\- Roland Wilson is convicted of fraud and securities violations and sentenced to 20 years in federal prison._

_October 2003_ _\- Roland Wilson commits suicide in a hotel room in Miami._

April 2004 - M. V. Papillon opens a cell phone account with Verizon Wireless in Miami Beach. The plan includes both a high number of domestic minutes but also international calling and wireless Internet access.

Billing address is the same address as Aurelio Colonnia.

I have no idea what any of that means or even if those people are actually the same person, although I believe them to be the same person based on the common birth date and other coincidental features.

I was unable to get information on international travel using any of the passports referred to. According to my sources the FBI might have records if they thought there was anything suspicious. Interpol keeps records on international travel also, but I have no idea how to go about accessing it. I would think you would need some kind of warrant.

I was able to find out that there are active bank accounts. I was unable to find out how much money is in the accounts or what transactions have taken place.

I am working on a source who may be able to find out about cell phone activity on the Verizon account issued to M. V. Papillon. It's a total long shot, but I'll let you know if I come up with anything. I don't have any contacts at AT&T.

In the meantime, I'm going to let you scratch your head on this. I'm going bald and I still haven't had one idea that can explain what any of this may mean.

Let me know if there is anything else I can help you with.

Karen Thompson

P. S. Just because I'm nuts or something, I checked out the two other women who inherited money from Colonnia besides his wife. They each have two identities. Both women have two passports, one in each name. One of them has cell phones with Verizon in both of her names. Each woman has a different address for her "main identity" and what I think of as the "backup identity". One alias uses as her home address Colonnia's house on the Loop; the other one uses Colonnia's Miami address. Both list Aurelio Colonnia as their 'cousin'. I thought I'd throw that in for the sake of completeness – and complexity.

Ray scanned the email very quickly the first time. Next, he forced himself to slow down and read it a second time, carefully. The third time, he printed it out and read it, with pen in hand, making notes. He had no idea what it meant, but he was pretty sure about one thing: it wasn't good.

After reading the message for the third time, he turned off the computer and sat in the dark. The singing of the frogs seemed to mock him. It was so quiet he could hear music in the distance -- salsa music from some tiki bar at the beach. It seemed that, while everything else in the world went on as it had been twenty minutes before, his world had just imploded. He put his head in his hands and succumbed to the combined feelings of confusion and something like despair.

Eventually he could stand it no more. He conducted his nightly locking-up ritual and went to bed, seeking the solace of unconsciousness. Not surprisingly, sleep was slow in coming. All he could do was lie there and watch images in his mind's eye: images of Marcella getting on and off planes in unknown locations ... doing what? .... and for whom?

He tossed and turned for a very long time. Eventually, he curled up into a ball and cried. After his tears ran out, and the confusion threatened to overwhelm him, sleep came to the rescue.

His sleep was not restful, and he woke feeling more tired than when he went to bed. He was cranky and irritable all day at work. By mid-afternoon he gave up and decided to leave early. He thought about calling Victoria, but felt he was not prepared to deal with her, or anyone.

He decided to go out on the water. He didn't bother to take his poles. His purpose was to drift, to think and to try to figure out what to do next. While he was drifting, Marcella called him. He considered not answering, but he wanted to see how he would react to talking to her. He picked up the phone and said, "Hello."

She said, "Hi. What are you doing?"

"I decided to take the boat out for a little while before dark."

"Without inviting me?"

"There wasn't time, and besides, I sort of wanted to be alone."

She was quiet for a few minutes, "Okay. I was going to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner, but if you're not in the mood, we can do it another time."

"That would be good. I had a really bad night's sleep last night. I'm in a crappy mood, and I wouldn't be fit company for man nor beast, much less a lovely woman."

"Well, since you put it that way, thanks for sparing me your company." The tone of her voice told him she did not entirely believe him, but wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. "If you feel up to it, call me later. Otherwise, I'll talk to you tomorrow. If you have no plans, please consider coming over here after work for a run and dinner."

"Thanks. I'll let you know. 'Bye." He hung up without waiting for her to reply. He could imagine her standing there with the phone in her hand looking confused and hurt. He considered calling her back, but couldn't think of what he might say that could possibly make it any better. What could he say? _Hey, I've been checking up on your background, since you're so private and have left so many holes in your story, and I've found out a bunch of stuff that I'll bet the feds would love to know about......_ He didn't think that would help.

When darkness threatened, he headed for the marina, arriving about ten minutes before sunset. He sat in the boat at the dock and watched the day's finale without his usual sense of awe; he felt drained and miserable. When it was dark, he got up, cleaned the boat and headed for home. He took his computer, a notebook and his cell phone charger out on the lanai, and dialed Karen Thompson's number.

She laughed when she heard his voice. "I expected you to call last night."

"I was too overwhelmed. I had to think about it for a while."

"What do you think?"

"I am as confused as you. I have some questions. Number One: does Aurelio Colonnia still run the family businesses?"

"Yes. He has a virtual army of people working for him – probably bad choice of words there – but he is the Man in Charge of both the laundry chain in the Midwest and the employment agency in Florida. I found out a couple of things about him that are interesting. Apparently the Colonnia family has some standards. The rumors are that they are into money laundering, smuggling of illegal workers into and out of various countries (including but by no means limited to the U.S.), they are also into smuggling. Big time smuggling. Supposedly jewels and art. But, the interesting thing is that one of the first things each of the people I spoke to about both Collonias was that they draw the line at drugs. Supposedly, Aurelio personally shot one of his mules who was smuggling drugs on the side. It doesn't make them them any less criminals, but they apparently have some standards. They are the kind of old-world criminals who are about running their businesses their way without interference by the legal authorities. They do not traffic in prostitution, drugs or slaves."

Ray said, "I'm not sure what to make of that, or even if it matters. For one thing, it seems to me that dealing in the importation and transportation of illegal migrant workers basically amounts to slave-trading, so I'm not prepared to give them a medal for nobility. Refraining from drug smuggling is just smart. They're obviously doing well smuggling traditional goods. Why risk getting involved in the really, really dangerous stuff?"

Ray paused, "It is interesting that you referred to one of Aurelio's 'mules'. If I had to make a guess based on the little bit we know now, my guess is that Tonio was picking up young women who were down on their luck but smart and brave. He provided them with what they needed; in Marcella's case, that would have been an education, money and a new identity. In return, they provided an in-house courier service. What did they carry? Where did they go? You obviously have a source at the state department to find out about the passports, is there any way to find out where she went?"

She answered, "Not through the State Department. They don't keep track of where people go. Interpol has fabulous databases that would help, but only cops have access to it. The best way to find out would be to somehow get access to her credit card activity. She's used American Express with all three identities. So far I have not come up with any way to gain access to someone else's AmEx usage. On the one hand, as a Card Member myself that gives me some confidence in their security systems. On the other hand, there's always a way to find out information. You have to keep asking the question until eventually you find someone willing to answer it. I'll keep on that one.

"The other way would be through the airlines themselves. Again, I've run up against some security issues, but I'm guessing that she would have had frequent flier accounts. The airlines track that kind of thing carefully. If I can tap into that information, we could find out a lot."

He nodded and made a note on this pad, "Next question. I understand the first change in identity. She leaves Florida, goes to Chicago and assumes a new identity, which sounds more Italian than Greek. That would make sense with 'Uncle Tonio' paying the freight."

"I agree."

He continued, "Then 'uncle Tonio' is killed, and she goes to L. A. I don't think a new identity is totally necessary at that point, but it's kind of understandable. Another big change in her life. A new identity. I like how she transfers her credits and establishes the new name as a married name, but then very quickly reverts to 'single'. The use of initials instead of the name makes sense. It's kind of gender neutral. She's alone in the world again, except for 'cousin' Aurelio. That all makes sense. But why does Marcia Pappas all of a sudden re-appear in 2000 after having disappeared from the planet in 1970? What was she doing?"

"I wondered the same thing myself, so I looked at the Techtron time line. A very interesting event occurred in April 2000. Hold on a minute. I need to get my notes." She was gone a long time. Ray could hear her rummaging around on her desk. He vaguely recalled some testimony in the Techtron case that caused his heart to pound furiously. Karen came back on the line. Ray breathed deeply and tried to concentrate.

Karen said, "Okay, here it is. Jason Sanderson was a staff accountant at Techtron, reporting to the Comptroller, who you will recall seems to have been the key person in the accounting scams they were running. Sanderson testified in several of the trials. His testimony was absolutely consistent in every case. He said that in February of 2000 he figured out that something was not right with the books. Recall that Sanderson was in charge of things like amortization of corporate assets, so he was not involved in the investment side of the accounting department. He did, however, have access to the entire accounting system. He said he noticed something that didn't look right when they were running the annual numbers for the year 1999. He said he looked further, and the more he looked the less sense it made. He did not ask anyone about it because, as virtually everybody testified, the Comptroller and CFO ran the department in such a way that each employee had his/her area of responsibility and nobody was supposed to nose around in anyone else's 'area'. The only people who saw the 'big picture' were the people at the top.

Sanderson, therefore, dug around in the accounting system on his own, without authorization, and developed some ideas about what was going on that alarmed him. He did not mention it to Susan Steinholtz, the Comptroller, or the CFO. When asked why, he said it was because he believed they were the ones responsible for the questionable entries. The government investigation came to the same conclusion which is why those two are now doing time in Club Fed in North Florida.

"Sanderson testified that by early March he had developed a general picture of the accounting manipulation they were doing in order to make Techtron's revenue look better. He said he called Roland Wilson at home and told Wilson what he thought was going on. His testimony was that Wilson's response was something to the effect that Sanderson must be mistaken. Wilson apparently blew him off and ignored the warning. Sanderson continued to dig into the accounting system, and found more and more data that worried him.

"Evidently while Sanderson was digging through the system, someone – probably Susan Steinholtz – was monitoring his computer activity. In the second week of March 2000 Techtron fired Sanderson for violations of the company policy regarding computer access. He had apparently gone into areas of the accounting system where he did not have the authority to go. Note: he was not blocked from accessing the information; he simply had no reason to be nosing around in that data. Anyway, Techtron sacked him.

He did two things the very same day. First, he cashed out his retirement plan, sold all his Techtron stock and opened a mutual fund account with Charles Schwab and diversified his investments. It should be noted that Sanderson is a multi-millionaire today thanks to his timely departure from Techtron at the point its stock was at its all time high, while the folks who stayed with the company not knowing about the impending catastrophe ended up broke. To his credit, it wasn't because he didn't try to issue a warning. He just chose to warn the wrong people.

"The second thing he did was call Marcella Wilson at home. He testified that he did that because Roland Wilson had ignored his initial warnings. Techtron employees had the general opinion that Marcella Wilson had her husband's ear. He thought she might be able to persuade Roland to look into the situation.

"Recall that by the end of the second quarter of 2000, the true data showed that Techtron was basically a sham company. It had virtually no income. It's financial statements were, even at that early date, essentially fiction. The company itself didn't collapse for another year; the accounting department managed to keep all the fictional balls in the air that long, but the real figures showed that the revenue had dried up a long time before that. Sanderson was right to fear the company was headed for the big rocks.

"He told Marcella Wilson about his concerns in March 2000."

Ray closed his eyes and swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. "Whereupon she resurrected her original identity to resume a life she had abandoned thirty years before."

Karen interjected, "Yes, but consider the timing. Sanderson gave her the information in March. She didn't buy the house until May. What did she do in the meantime? Did she try to stop it? Did she look into it first?"

Ray cleared his throat , "Maybe it took her that long to find a place to buy and make the arrangements, or," he paused for a long time, swallowed hard, and spoke the unspeakable, "...Or was she in on it and finally realized the jig was about to be up, so she dug a bolt hole for herself. I would love to know where else she owns homes in one or the other of her aliases."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm betting she owns a little house somewhere in a country with no extradition treaty with the United States. Does Aurelio Colonnia have a private plane?"

"A bunch."

"Where does he keep them?"

"One is in Miami, one in Chicago, one is in Orlando and a few other places."

He interrupted, "Orlando is not far from The Villages where her condo is located."

"That is interesting. He also keeps one in Southern California and another one in Brownsville, Texas."

"What?"

"Remember the other two women who inherited money from Antonio Colonnia. One lived in San Diego. The other was in south Texas."

"I have to tell you this is freaking me out. What I can't get my head around is whether or not there is any relationship between what I would guess is or was some kind of smuggling operation run by the Colonnia family and the Techtron business."

Karen said softly, "At this point, I think we have to leave all options open, but my gut tells me there is no connection. I think she did whatever she did for Colonnia from the time she was in college, but she had her own life apart from that. Roland Wilson and his society folks were a great cover if nothing else. The whole Techtron thing came later; I don't think she was involved. But she did see the end coming and opened an escape hatch for herself. That's what I think."

Ray said, "It doesn't matter what we think. What matters is what we can prove."

"This isn't a grand jury investigation. Why don't you just ask her?"

"How can I believe anything she says?"

Karen paused for a very long time, "I think you know the answer to that. I think she has told you the truth. She just left out some things."

He grumbled, "Some really significant things, if you're right. And if you're wrong and her entire relationship with me is an act, then what can I believe?"

"I think you're getting carried away here. Why would she carry on a bogus relationship with you? What would she have to gain?"

"I don't know. But, you've asked the right question. What does she have to gain? Who else benefits? This is about money and security."

"Are you sure?"

"It's about the only thing I am sure about. Her father left her alone in the world with only a little money. Colonnia left her alone in the world with plenty of money. One thing about people who grow up in situations where they are deprived is that when they grow up they never seem to get enough. Poor children need money and security. Unloved and abused children need love and approval. ...."

She interjected, "The orphan needs to belong to someone or something."

"Exactly. Marcella didn't grow up poor exactly but she had little in the way of material comforts. She was loved, but her dad was not a demonstrative person. She missed her mother. When she was left alone, she was determined to do anything to survive. And she has done so, admirably, but there is a deep need in her that was never fulfilled. A need for belonging and security. Money can buy a lot of both."

"Are you suggesting she was involved in the Techtron business?"

"I don't know. On the one hand, I don't think she was at the outset. She indicated to me that she had concerns about shady dealings with the foreign clients. I can't help but wonder if she didn't see a way to make some money, or maybe even a way to tie Techtron's operations with Collonia's. If she was a mule in an international smuggling ring and she suddenly found herself with access to lots of new markets and/or new smugglers, would that not give her a leg up in the Collonia operation?"

He could almost hear Karen's head shaking, "I think we're getting way ahead of the facts we know. We need to be careful. All we have are a bunch of facts which may or may not be related."

He answered somewhat impatiently, "Yeah, you're right, but I think we need to be open to a lot of different possibilities."

"And, we need to also be careful not to jump to conclusions. It's very likely that not everything is connected. I'll continue to try to see what I can come up with her the travel. Do you think I should contact the other two women."

"I would prefer to know first if they all know about each other. I don't want to tip her off."

"I think you should tell her what you know. If you don't tell her and she finds out, your relationship is over. She'll never trust you again."

"You're right. The question is: can I trust her?"

"I think you have to until you have some credible evidence that she has lied to you. Yes, she has left out a lot, but she's in the habit of playing things close to the chest. Quite honestly, I think her life has depended on doing that; it's become a habit. She might open up if you ask her to. You'll never know unless you try."

"I'll think about it. You keep digging and keep me posted. Do you need any more money?"

"Nope. So far I haven't spent a dime."

"Lord, Girl, you are good."

She laughed, "Oh, you have no idea."

He hung up the phone and stretched out on the couch feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach.

Chapter 19

His phone rang. He considered not answering it, but noticed on the Caller ID pad that it was Victoria. He had been neglecting her. She was calling to express her concern. She had not heard from him in a while. He gave her the excuse that he had been doing double duty as a feature writer and a sportswriter, so he had been very busy.

She said, "Yes. Actually, your sports work was excellent. I usually don't read the sports pages, but I did read the articles under your by-line. You do a good job with the sports articles, too." She paused. "Perhaps I feel a little jealous. It seems you've had plenty of time to spend with Marcella."

He didn't respond.

She went on, "I am not suggesting that is a bad thing. Actually that is the purpose of my call. I had lunch with her today. She is truly a delightful person." She paused for a long time as if considering whether or not to continue, "I think she may be falling in love with you."

He felt as though he might burst into tears, but he tried to control his voice when he said, "It's early in our relationship. Time will tell."

Victoria was quiet for a minute, "What's happened? The last time I saw you, you were floating on air like a teenager in love. Today Marcella came off the same way. You sound as though you have had a change of heart. What's up?"

"God I hate it when women can read my mind. Victoria, some of my inquiries into Marcella's early life finally paid off with some information. Information that makes very little sense, but is nonetheless troubling. I don't know what to make of it, on the one hand. On the other hand, I don't think I can ask her because I'm sure that if I tell her I was nosing around in her private life, she will freak out and that will be the end of our relationship. I, frankly, don't know what to do."

"Can you probe a bit without letting her know you have information?"

"I probably could but it may surprise you to know that I have a bit of a conscience. I realize that is a rare commodity among reporters. That seems dishonest to me. I started making inquiries into her life before I knew her. After we met, I promised her I wouldn't print anything she told me about herself in the paper, and I stopped doing research on my own. I closed that book. I did, however, tell Karen Thompson to keep digging. I don't know how I can tell that to Marcella without freaking her out. She doesn't trust anybody. She's terribly scared. She has flat out told me that she is more afraid of me than of anyone she's ever met. I think that may be because she has been more honest with me than she has ever been before. If she finds out that I'm a rat bastard, like all the other men she's ever known, simply using her for my own purposes, .... well, I am pretty sure that will be the end of our relationship. And, worse, it will hurt her terribly."

He paused. "Here's the thing, Victoria. Whatever I do, I don't want to hurt her. She's been through enough."

Victoria didn't respond for a long time. Finally she said, "Ray, I think that you have to tell her. Tell her what you just told me. It's the truth. If you tell her now, there's a chance she'll understand. If you wait too long, she will have reason to suspect your motives."

He thought about that. "My heart tells me you're right. If she were a normal person, I think that would be the appropriate thing to do. But, she is so damaged and so afraid, I'm not sure it will work."

He stopped for a while, and then said, "But, the only other time in my life I was not honest in a relationship, it caused me to lose my wife. It's possible that being honest with Marcella may scare her off. It's a certainty that if I'm not honest with her and she finds out, then it will be over."

Victoria said quietly, "If it helps, I think she's very motivated to give you the benefit of the doubt."

After a good night's sleep, he called Marcella on his way to work. She answered on the second ring, "Good morning."

"Good morning. I want to apologize for my rudeness yesterday. I'm usually not that much of a moody bastard, but when I get in a bad mood, I try to avoid people for everybody's sake."

She chuckled but said in a gentle tone, "I have to admit I was a little put off by the chill in your voice, but I suppose I have to say I appreciate your not wishing to inflict yourself on me if you were in a bad mood. Are you feeling better today?"

"Much. It's amazing what a difference a good night's sleep makes. I'm wondering if your invitation to dinner tonight is still open?"

"Absolutely. Would you like to go out?"

"No. Let's eat in. We could do take-out if you don't feel like cooking."

She laughed, "I love to cook. What time can I expect you?"

"What time do you want me there?"

"If you get here by 5:30 or so we can run for a while before it gets dark. I'll make something that can be warmed in the oven and ready when we get back."

"That sounds great. I'll see you then."

He more or less frittered the day away, doing very little of anything other than avoiding his editor who had somehow heard he attended Victoria's party with Marcella and was on the warpath because he had not filed a story about it.

He knew the editor got meaner as the day wore on. Some of the people in the city room thought she was a drinker and she got mean in the afternoon because she needed a nip. Ray knew she was a health freak who was a total vegan and never drank anything but water or vegetable juice that she made herself from organic vegetables. It was Ray's opinion that it was worse that she did not even have the excuse of needing a drink to behave like a wicked witch. The problem with her was she was just a bitch -- a bitch who had a job for which she was untrained and unsuited, working for a miserable company that put unbelievable pressure on its middle management to beat on the employees to produce more while cutting costs to a ridiculous degree. He almost felt sorry for her sometimes. But, not enough to deal with her at that moment. So, when he heard she was headed for the city room, he left the building by the back stairs.

He went to the beach and killed time until 5:00. He got tired of doing nothing, so he called Marcella. "Hey, I'm running early. Will it mess you up if I come now. I figure that would give us a few more minutes on the road before dark."

"I'm already dressed and waiting for you."

They ran until it got dark. Ray showered first while Marcella finished preparing dinner. When he came out of the bathroom, she handed him a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. "Open this and pour use each a glass. I'll be back in a flash."

He laughed. He knew that was true. She could shower and change faster than any person, male or female, he had ever met.

He considered talking to her before dinner, but he was very hungry and he suspected the conversation would be long. He decided to eat first and then talk. He poured very short glasses of wine.

After dinner they sat on the lanai, in their usual spot on the love seat. He put his arm out and Marcella rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and cleared his throat. "I have to tell you something. I think this will be difficult for both of us, but I promised that I would be totally truthful with you, and I intend to keep that promise.

"I told you that when you first came to Sarasota, I knew little about you, so I Googled your name and I read a little of the stories about the Techtron fiasco. I'm a reporter. Nosing around for stories is what I do. I wanted to know if there was a story that someone had missed. When a newsworthy person moves to a small news market, the press takes notice. You have to have known that.

"Before I met you, I did a little digging of my own and a I put out some feelers among some of my sources seeking information about you. Not about Techtron or your husband, but about you.

"I came up with nothing. I didn't receive any information back from any of my sources.

"Then I met you. Once our relationship became 'personal' I stopped my research into your past because I figured if there was something I needed to know about you, you would tell me. I promised you I would not write about your story and I have kept my word. I promise I will not now or in the future write about any of the things you have told me.

"Unfortunately, I am a curious person. Curiosity is a good trait for a reporter to have. It is not so good for a man in a relationship with a woman like you. I wanted to know more, so I asked one of my best sources to follow up on some of the information you gave me, not for use in the paper but for my own personal information." He stopped, swallowed and cleared his throat again. "That was wrong of me. I am sorry."

He could feel her body go rigid. It seemed to him she was holding her breath; she was absolutely still. He hugged her and stroked her hair. That did not seem to help. He had gone this far, he had to continue, "The day before yesterday, when I got home in the evening, I found an email from my source. She is a librarian in Atlanta, and one of the best researchers I've ever known. She had previously given me some information about you when you lived in Atlanta. Nothing particularly significant; nothing that had not been in the papers. She told me where you lived, where you went to church and that you were a member of the Buckhead Club.

"It turns out she is apparently a hell of an investigator. The email she sent me the other night contains a lot of information. I don't know how much of it is accurate. Some of it may not have anything to do with you at all." She started to tremble. "Most of it doesn't make any sense, which is typical for preliminary investigative data. That's why checking out every detail is important in investigating anything. That is an important detail that escapes a lot of today's so-called investigative reporters.

"Ordinarily, my next step would be to dig further, and to check and double check each of these supposed 'facts'.

"But, instead, I'm telling you about this because ... Well, I'm telling you for two reasons. First and foremost, I don't want you to think I'm spying on you behind your back. I know that sounds ridiculous because that is exactly what I was doing. I'm telling you this because I want you to know that I have this information. I think that it would be dishonest for me not to disclose what I have done and the information I now possess, however inaccurate it may be. I may be a nosy reporter and a rat bastard for poking into your personal life, but I am not dishonest."

He paused for a long time. She did not look at him but she asked through what sounded to him like gritted teeth, "And the second reason is?"

"The second reason is because I would really like to know what the information means." His voice cracked.

She sat up and looked at him for the first time since he had begun speaking. Her eyes reflected a mixture of anger, hurt, betrayal and fear that broke his heart. He was determined to take it because he felt he deserved it. He didn't flinch or look away. She whispered, "I want to see the email."

He had the printed version with his notes folded in his wallet. He handed it to her. It was his turn to hold his breath as she scanned the document. When she finished, she started over and read it again.

She said, "It appears from your notes that after you received this information, you spoke to your researcher and discussed the content. Did you ask her to stop or is she still digging?"

He looked at his hands and then he looked into her eyes, "She is still digging, but I can and will make her stop."

"Why would you do that? Looks like a potential bombshell of a story to me," she said with a dry expression.

"I can't write this story at all. I promised you I wouldn't, and I won't. You have to understand that thirty plus years of checking out everything people tell me is a hard habit to break. I have no intention of using this information in the paper. I swear to you. I want to know everything there is to know about you for my own reasons."

He looked into her eyes, and was surprised to see that she appeared to be more annoyed than anything. He thought that was odd.

She sighed and glanced at the paper again. "She did a thorough job. I would be very interested to know where she got some of her information, but I am sure that is something she would not discuss." She stared off into space for a minute and then handed the paper back to him, saying, "First of all, I think you should tell her to keep digging. She has found out this much. I'd like to know what else she can find. I would like to know what tracks I may need to cover now." Her voice trailed off. She seemed to have momentarily forgotten he was there.

Suddenly, she turned to him and asked, "So what do you want to know?"

"As a preliminary matter, I would like to know if the investigator has made an error in linking the three identities to the same person."

She was quiet for a while, then she said very softly, "No, she's not wrong. I have at times used all three of those names. Marcia Pappas was the name I was given at birth. When I moved to Chicago, I changed my name to Marcella Pappias. Since Tonio Collonia was my benefactor, posing as my uncle, it seemed natural I should have an Italian-sounding name. After I graduated from Northwestern and went to graduate school in L.A., I changed my identity again. Tonio was dead at that point. I planned to start over with a new life and a new identity. I expected to have nothing further to do with his family.

"If your investigator had been able to find information on travel, she would learn that virtually all of my foreign travel was done under the name of Marcella Pappias and, later, Marcella Wilson. M. V. Papillon was always just a backup in case I got into difficulty. I rarely used it."

He couldn't help it. He asked, "What did you do for Collonia?"

"What do you think?"

"If I had to guess based on the little information I have, I'd guess smuggling. Probably smuggling of money for laundering."

She nodded. "You are pretty good. In terms of what I did in this country, it was mostly moving cash from Florida where it came into the country to the upper Midwest where he passed the money through his network of laundries." She chuckled, "Tonio thought it was hysterical that his money-laundering operation was conducted through actual, and otherwise legitimate laundromats in small towns.

"Overseas, I generally moved merchandise from one place to another and brought the payment back to the United States or someplace close. If it was a large amount of money I put it in banks in the Cayman Islands, the Bahamas or Switzerland. If it was a relatively small amount of money, I brought it back with me.

"In short, you are correct. I was involved in a very large scale smuggling operation."

"What kinds of things did you smuggle?"

She smiled, "My specialty was jewels and art. I think the Collonia's also smuggled weapons and ammunition, but the only things I ever carried were gemstones and paintings. Interestingly, most of the items I smuggled were legitimately purchased and paid for. The service the Collonias provided was essentially a delivery service to by-pass tax laws. We were sort of like an underground Federal Express service. Some rich guy in Asia would buy a painting by an old master in Europe for seven figures, but wanted to limit his tax liability. Collonia delivered the merchandise for a negotiated price that was never more than half the amount of the taxes."

Ray observed, "Which, on a multi-million dollar purchase could be a lot of money."

She nodded and said, "A whole lot of money.

"Tonio Collonia was an interesting guy. Aurelio continued the smuggling business for a few years, but as far as I know now he's gone almost completely legit. He had the feds breathing down his neck for a while, so I was given to understand that he stopped most of his criminal activities and now lives like a laird on the income from the laundry chain, the employment agency and the enormous fortune he inherited from his father. He arranges a delivery now and then for an old client, but it is my understanding he's basically stopped his illegal operations.

"You should know a couple of things about the Collonias. Other than working for a mob-owned business when he first came to the States, Tonio was never connected with the Chicago Mob or any other criminal organization except perhaps for a family in his native Sicily. He was always very careful not to step on the turf of the American Mafia. The feds always thought he was working with the Chicago Mob and I think that's one reason they never caught him. He was smart. Oh, God, he was smart. He knew that what he did was illegal, but he was an old-world mobster. He was in the business of evading taxes and getting around government red tape. Tonio dealt only in gems and art. Smuggling weapons was strictly Aurelio's operation, and Tonio never knew about it, I don't think. Tonio hated the mobsters that dealt in prostitution, gambling, drugs, and guns. He did not approve of making money off things that hurt people. He didn't think that what he did hurt anyone. He was the odd criminal with an actual conscience.

"I appreciated that, frankly. I did not then and do not now see myself as a criminal. I worked for Tonio because he had paid for my education and I felt I owed it to him. I was not aware until tonight that he had done the same for other girls. My guess is that the two other girls he left money to were doing much the same thing as me. I would bet their backgrounds were similar to mine. Tonio had lost his entire family in the Second World War and ended up alone in the world at the age of fourteen or fifteen. He had a soft spot for kids in similar circumstances. We were not his only couriers. He had a lot of people working for him."

She stood up and said, "I'm thirsty. Do you want some lemonade?"

"Yes, please."

Ray waited in the dark for her to return. She put two glasses on the table and sat down, "Next question."

"Did you continue to work for Collonia after you married Wilson?"

She nodded, "Yes. Roland never knew. It was a huge bone of contention between me and Aurelio. I wanted out of the business after I married Roland. Aurelio thought (correctly it turned out) that my new-found social prominence would make it easier for me to move merchandise and money, especially since Roland owned both a yacht that moved around the Caribbean and a private plane that went all over the world. Aurelio really got into that and eventually he started using his own planes a lot of the time. That was risky because drug smugglers use private planes and boats, and the feds watch their movements carefully. Anyway, Aurelio and I never did get along, and the fact that he wouldn't let me out of the business after I married Roland made our relationship even worse."

"Do you still work for him?"

She paused, "Aurelio and I have a deal. When the Techtron thing started to unravel, I stopped altogether for a while because we expected the feds to dig through my history along with Roland's. They must not have looked at me too hard if they didn't come up with any of this stuff, especially since they could have subpoenaed my bank records and phone records. They never did, but I laid low for a while. Once we realized I was apparently not a target in their investigations, Aurelio started making demands on me again.

"As I said, he's gone legit for the most part but he still has a few clients for whom he continues to make deliveries. A couple of his very regular clients liked me and they often asked specifically for me to move their really large purchases. One is a Portuguese man who is an art collector. The man has more paintings than the Louvre I think, and virtually all of them are masterpieces of some sort. He has been trying to talk me into marrying him for years." She smiled with a look of genuine affection. "Even when I was already married.

"Anyway, yes, I still make an occasional delivery for Aurelio. I think those special jobs are about the only remnant Aurelio has of his former art smuggling empire."

"Is that where you go when you disappear?"

"Sometimes, although more often when I go away it is to a getaway house in the Bahamas. I'll take you there sometime. It's my special retreat when I need to go somewhere I can breathe. It actually belongs to Aurelio, but he rarely uses it."

They were both quiet for a long time. Ray knew that as difficult as the conversation had been, they were now moving into even more treacherous waters, "Why did you resurrect Marcia Pappas in 2000? You already had a backup identity."

"Yes and no. M. V. Papillon was never really separate from Marcella Pappias. At least not in my mind. Papillon was a backup identity. I only used it a couple of times, but it kept me out of jail both times." She shuddered. "Once was in Venezuela and once was in Greece. Believe me, I don't want to be in jail anywhere, but certainly not in either of those two countries!

"Given what was happening in 2000, I didn't see the Papillon identity as a 'safe' identity for the purposes I had in mind."

She paused. "This is tricky. You told me not to tell you anything about Techtron. I can't explain what I was doing in 2000 without telling you some behind-the-scenes information about Techtron. What do you want me to do?"

He thought about it for a minute. "I want you to tell me. I'll consider it deep background. I won't publish any thing unless I can corroborate it from someone else."

She sipped her lemonade, "God, I hate talking about my personal life." She looked at him and continued, "But, since you pretty much are my personal life now, I guess I owe it to you to come clean. I'm not completely over being hurt and shocked that you went behind my back, but I guess I understand.

"Do you remember I told you that I had concerns about Techtron. I thought there was something not right about the network of clients. As a person in the smuggling business myself I saw things that I know Roland couldn't see. He didn't know about my 'other life'. I could never get him to look closer at the his clients and his sales force. Today as I sit here I don't know what they were up to, but I swear to you it was nothing good. Feel free to look into that. I'd love to know what you come up with.

"As I told you, Roland kept me away from Techtron. I had no involvement with the business. I was simply the wife of the CEO. I traveled with him. I went to ceremonies with him. He and his cronies did not engage in business conversations in my presence. What is more, I know almost nothing about accounting, at least not legitimate accounting." She smiled, "I do know quite a bit about money laundering and how to hide money.

"That is an important point. In my work for the Collonias the whole focus was on hiding huge sums of money and assets we and our clients actually had.

"What Techtron was doing was cooking the books to show money and assets that were not there.

"I had for years inhabited a world where there was too much money and it was important to be extremely discrete and to hide the origin of the cash. Roland was all about showing off his money and living a jet set lifestyle. Problem was, for the last couple of years of his life, he had no money. The accountants at Techtron were creating financial statements that were almost entirely fictitious.

"For a long time I had no knowledge about that.

"Once, my work for Aurelio intersected with the impending disaster at Techtron. It had to do with the Portuguese businessman I mentioned before. I delivered a painting to him in early 2000. Unlike the FedX delivery guy, I did not just drop off the merchandise and leave. My deliveries were always couched as 'visits'. Sometimes the client was supposedly a 'friend' or a 'relative'. Most of the time, Aurelio had women make deliveries to men and vice versa so it could appear to be a romantic relationship. This man always took that too literally.

"Anyway, I was scheduled to spend the weekend with him. The first night at dinner he asked me what was up with Techtron. I told him I had no involvement with my husband's business, so I didn't know. He recommended that I start paying attention. He told me he had already sold his stock in Techtron and was advising his friends to do the same. He said there was something 'not right' with the company, but he didn't know what it was. He said it just didn't pass the 'smell test'. The guy is a self-made multi-billionaire, so I assumed he had a pretty good nose for that kind of thing.

"I knew better than to ask Roland. He always treated me like the village idiot and blew me off when I asked about anything business-related. The fact is that I did then and do now have a better head for business and money than Roland ever did." She sighed, "I took a careful look at Techtron's annual reports for the prior years. They were beautiful. They were also full of errors and holes. Of course, I couldn't see the out-and-out fabrications. This part was in the trial testimony, so it's no secret. Jason Sanderson tried to tip off Roland in early 2000 about what was going on. Roland blew him off. A few weeks later, he came to me, thinking that I could somehow prevail upon Roland to look into the finances.

"Sanderson was mistaken about my potential influence over Roland.

"I was, however, curious, so I called a retired accountant who had worked for Tonio's money-laundering operation. He was a master at cooking books. I thought perhaps he would be able to figure out what was going on. Sanderson provided me with certain data which, together with the public financial statements, I asked my accountant friend to look into.

"Sometime in April of 2000, he called me on the phone and asked for an in-person meeting. That meant bad shit, as you probably know. I met him in a restaurant in a crummy neighborhood in Atlanta. It was all very cloak and dagger. He had pretty much figured it all out. Parenthetically, I will note that this guy figured out the scam in only a couple of weeks based on only a little information, most of which was already in the public domain. It took the feds years and millions upon millions of dollars to figure it out, and I still don't think they ever really understood the true magnitude of the corruption. As I said before, if you want a real bombshell of a story, look into the incompetence of the government investigation.

"In any case, by mid-spring 2000, I knew what was going to happen. I was sure the company would collapse, and I was sure that most of the top executives who didn't immediately flee the country would go to jail. Even today as I sit here, I don't think Roland was involved in the scam. I think they did it behind his back. They knew he wouldn't look too closely. And he didn't. Sanderson warned him. Roland blew Sanderson off.

"I sat down with Roland and with the books and tried to show him what was happening. He waved his hands in my face and told me I didn't know what I was talking about. He said I wasn't an accountant. How could I know that stuff? He told me to mind my own business. He was so arrogant and high-handed, I couldn't believe it. He had always been aloof and distant. That day, I could tell he knew the sharks were circling. He pushed me away. I looked into his eyes and saw both fear and the kind of single-minded determination to survive that made me certain he would throw me under the bus if he thought it would help him. He had never been a particularly loving or tender person. But, as long as I had something to offer him, he treated me fairly well. From that point forward, however, our personal relationship was essentially over.

"Tonio had left me a lot of money which I had invested well. Aurelio paid me well for my services, infrequent as they were. I kept that money offshore, in Bermuda and Switzerland. Most of Aurelio's clients also 'tipped' me for my services. Some tipped me in money. Some tipped me in jewels or art. Some gave me insider information on investments. I had never merged any of my money with Roland's. All of my investments were still in the name of Marcella Pappias. By early 2000, my personal worth was something on the order of $50 million. Roland was broke, although he continued to live like a king. Techtron was headed for collapse. I knew that if Roland got his hands on any of my money, it would go down with Techtron. So, I decided to leave him.

"The first thing I did was, as you put it, to resurrect Marcia Pappas. I bought a condo, opened a bank account, applied for a passport. I also moved the pary of Marcella Pappias' investment accounts that was in American banks to Swiss banks and then moved that money into other accounts, mostly in Bermuda and the Cayman Islands, in Marcia Pappas's name." She laughed. "I was doing some pretty tricky laundering of my own money. I left enough money in Marcella's accounts to live on if I had to, which turned out to be a good thing. But I moved the bulk of my fortune from Marcella's accounts to offshore accounts in Marcia's name so neither Roland, Techtron nor the U. S. Government could get at it. My plan was to simply move out of the United States and resume my life as Marcia Pappas."

He nodded. "Why didn't you do it?"

She thought about that for a while. "I guess there were several reasons. It would be difficult to say which one was most important. I think for one thing, I had been Marcella Pappias for so many years and I had buried Marcia Pappas so deeply, I hesitated to make that identity switch for sort of psycho-emotional reasons. I delayed for a while, considering whether or not there might be a way to avoid doing that. I talked to a divorce lawyer. That delay cost me. By the time the lawyer came back to me with advice regarding a divorce, the feds had launched their investigation. I was afraid that if I bolted, it would appear I was guilty of something. And, let's face it, while I wasn't guilty of anything in connection with Techtron, I was in fact guilty of a lot of other activity that could have put me in jail for a long time.

"I had a meeting with Aurelio and some of his biggest clients. My being so close to Roland endangered not only me, but Aurelio and his clients as well. They wanted me to bolt, change my identity and disappear... forever. Aurelio has a palatial estate in Tahiti. He offered to give it to me if I would go there and stay put.

"I don't know why but some kind of inertia took over. I was so afraid, I couldn't move. I waited too long. By then Roland was under investigation. I guess they never looked too closely at me because they found so much dirt under everybody else's rugs.

"Do you have any more questions?"

"Only one."

She waited, but he didn't say anything for a long time. She asked, "And what is that?"

"How on earth have you functioned, after being so used and manipulated by virtually everyone in your life?"

She buried her face in his chest and did not answer him. He held her tight while she trembled and clung to him. Interestingly, she did not cry. He did that on her behalf.

Ray got up shortly after Marcella the next morning. He had not intended to spend the night, so he did not have a change of clothing or his shaving gear. He had a quick cup of coffee and then said he had to go home to shower and get ready for work. She walked him to the door and kissed him goodbye. She looked awkward.

He put his arms around her, "Is something wrong?"

"On the contrary. I was just thinking. Maybe you should leave some toiletries and a change of clothes or two here. I hate to see you have to get up so early."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing drastic. I just want you to feel as though you are comfortable when you stay here. I'm not suggesting we make any changes in our current arrangement, but ... well, I guess I want you to have the option of staying when it seems appropriate."

He hugged her and said, "I might take you up on that offer. At least as far as bringing over a toothbrush." He made a face.

She grinned. "I think I'll give you a kiss on the cheek and a rain-check until after you have rectified that situation."

He laughed, "That's smart. Call me later and let me know your plans for the day."

"I can tell you that now. I am having my hair done and then going for a massage. That means I will be way too relaxed to cook tonight. We haven't been out to dinner lately. Want to go someplace nice?"

He made a face. "Frankly, I'm not crazy about eating out, but I know you like it. I guess I could make an exception, as long as it isn't anyplace too fancy."

"How about The Columbia?"

"You are the only person I know who would suggest a place in St. Armands Circle as a 'not too fancy' place."

"It is expensive, but it isn't that fancy. I guess I'm just in the mood for some Spanish cuisine."

He muttered, "I know a couple of joints that serve great arroz con pollo and plantains for a fraction of the price." Then he smiled, "Okay. But, you can pay, since you're so damned rich and I'm just a lowly reporter."

She laughed, "That's fine by me. I know it's a stretch for you, but I really enjoy going out to places like that. I'd love for you to learn to enjoy it, too, if only once in a while. The agenda for tonight is to discuss Christmas, which, in case you haven't noticed, is right around the corner."

On top of the business of going out for dinner, that pushed Ray all the way into another bad mood. At least since his divorce, Ray had tried as much as possible to ignore and avoid the holiday madness altogether. Suddenly he feared he was about to be trotted out to a series of holiday parties (probably in that new tux), and he was not happy about it.

He managed to put it aside when he got caught up in a couple of new stories that made his fingers tingle to get at the keyboard and write them down. Ray dictated the first draft of both articles using voice-activated software on his laptop in the car on the way back to the office. When he got to his desk, he revised each article carefully, and then filed both of them well before his deadline. Having more than fulfilled his quota for the day, he knocked off early and went home for a quick run. Then he showered and changed into slacks and a sport coat.

He called the restaurant to ask if he had to wear a tie. He was gratified to learn that jackets were recommended but ties were not required. He packed a bag with shaving gear, an extra toothbrush a couple of changes of underwear, and a pair of sweats. He tossed the backpack into his trunk and drove to Marcella's house.

She greeted him at the door, and asked if he wanted a cocktail. He declined. He liked Spanish red wine and planned to have some with dinner, so he passed on pre-dinner cocktails. She poured glasses of mint tea instead and they sat on the lanai, watching the fishing boats returning at the end of the day. When the last of the charter boats had gone by, Marcella stood up and stretched, "Time to go."

Ray stood up and took her into his arms, "Can you name every charter boat that goes by here nearly every day?"

She leaned against him and put her arms around him. She whispered into his chest, "Yes."

He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head in the hope she would be comforted by his acknowledgment of her situation. He wasn't sure if she obsessively watched the fishing fleet out of sadness or melancholy or fear of 'there but for the Grace of God', but he knew it was a big deal to her that as the boats passed by on the intracoastal waterway she was watching. He suspected that one reason she got up so early was so she could sit there and keep her vigil, watching them going out in the morning as well. She was sort of the unseen and unknown madonna of the fleet. Knowing how intuitive fishing captains often were, he suspected some of the captains felt her presence as they passed by.

Her car was waiting in the driveway. The driver dropped them in front of the restaurant and then pulled around the circle to find a parking space. The maitre d'hotel would call him when Marcella and Ray were ready to leave. Ray avoided the driver's gaze, which wasn't difficult, because the driver did not so much as glance at him.

Ray was uncomfortable from the moment they walked into the restaurant. They were seated at a "good" table right in the middle of the room. Ray preferred the quieter tables off to the side. This table was visible from virtually every other table in the restaurant. Everybody who was anybody in Sarasota would know he and Marcella had dined at the Columbia that evening. He didn't like feeling so exposed. He wondered how Marcella felt, being exposed and pursued almost constantly. He didn't like it, and he didn't have anything to hide. He couldn't imagine how awful it must feel to someone with so many secrets.

_Then why are we here?_ He did not have time to think about it. Marcella had drawn him into describing the events of his day, and he lost himself in the telling of his stories about some of the amazing and wonderful residents of Sarasota. She leaned forward and locked eyes with him, fascinated. That only encouraged him to elaborate.

He didn't really want to spend the night at Marcella's again, but she appeared to expect him to and he didn't argue. After her driver left, Ray retrieved his backpack from the trunk of his car. Marcella commented on the fact that he had not brought a change of work clothes. He said he would probably want to go home first before going to work in any case. He had toothbrush and shaving gear, the two most important things. He also had running clothes for impromptu after work runs. For some reason Ray could not understand, that seemed to irritate her.

From Ray's perspective, the only good thing to come out of the evening was the plan for Christmas. Marcella invited him to spend the holiday with her in the Bahamas. They would be alone on an island: no parties, no commotion. That struck him as the most wonderful Christmas imaginable. Marcella suggested they fly to the Bahamas on Christmas Eve, and return on New Year's Day.

Ray turned in enough filler pieces to fulfill his quota for the week he would be gone. His editor bitched, but there was nothing she could do about it. Ray had so much unused vacation time built up he had lost dozens of hours of vacation because the new company had a "use it or lose it" policy for vacation. He was determined to start using his accrued vacation, and there wasn't much his editor could do to stop him.

There were many things he loved about the idea of spending Christmas in the Bahamas, the best of which was the fact that Marcella had told him her house was on a private island. (Ray chose to ignore the fact that the island was owned by Aurelio Collonia.) That was reason enough to look forward to going there. Another reason was that he simply loved the Island lifestyle. He was excited about the holidays for the first time in years. He tried not to be too thrilled by the fact that Marcella had invited him to her private retreat, but he was nonetheless. In some way he felt it was a kind of breakthrough for them as a couple.

Chapter 20

During the flight from Sarasota to Nassau, Marcella told him that the only way to the island was by boat. They would have to take a yacht from Paradise Island to Collonia's private island. He chuckled. It occurred to him that he could possibly get into this "lifestyles of the rich and famous" business to the extent it included private yachts and isolated Bahamian islands.

When the plane landed in Nassau, a car was waiting for them on the tarmac. They walked down the stairs and climbed into the back seat while porters unloaded their luggage. The chauffeur was waiting to load it into the trunk. Ray wondered for a moment if the porters could tell that his suitcase was purchased on sale from Target instead of custom made by Louis Vuitton in Paris like Marcella's. Ray noticed the expression on the chauffeur's face when he picked up Ray's suitcase and was pretty sure it was the first time the chauffeur had ever touched a suitcase from Target. He had the feeling the chauffeur hoped it was the last time. It was all he could do not to burst out laughing. Marcella did not seem to notice.

The car took them to a marina on Paradise Island where the yacht was docked. He had expected it to be a nice boat. The reality of it blew him away. The captain and the staff waited at the top of the gangplank to meet them. The yacht was an 80' monster carrying a crew of five: a captain, mate, mechanic, cook, and a chambermaid (who doubled as a waitress). Ray and Marcella went directly to the aft deck where snacks and drinks were laid out for them. The captain went to the bridge and prepared the vessel for departure.

Ray said, "You didn't tell me you owned a cruise ship."

She shrugged, "Actually, this is not mine. It belongs to Aurelio. I sold Roland's yacht and turned over the proceeds to the Techtron receiver. I plan to buy a boat for myself, but haven't gotten around to it. Aurelio's family is spending the holidays in the south of France, so he didn't need the boat."

"What kind of boat are you going to buy?"

"I haven't decided as to the type, but I know I want a boat I can use for fishing and for cruising. Something in the 30-40' range, probably." She smiled at him, "Perhaps we can while away some hours over the winter looking at boats on the Internet."

They munched on cheese and crackers and sipped lemonade while the boat cut through the glassy seas. The day was so clear, beautiful and still it was hard to tell the sky from the water. It was as though they were somehow suspended in a netherworld that was not-liquid and not-air. Ray felt that experience mirrored how he felt about his life at that point. He hung sort of suspended between two worlds, not feeling very much at home in either of them.

Sooner than Ray expected, the yacht slowed and approached a small island. It entered a lagoon through a pass that was perhaps 30 yards wide. The island was in the shape of a horseshoe, with a large lagoon in the middle. The boat pulled up to a dock jutting far out into the lagoon from a white-sand beach which ran along the entire inside perimeter of the island. Beyond the beach was a thicket of banyan and mangrove trees. Near the end of the dock was a structure Ray initially took for a boathouse. When the yacht pulled alongside the dock and he got a closer look, he realized the structure was actually the house. The mate unloaded their luggage and placed it on the dock. Then the yacht pulled away and headed out to sea.

Marcella picked up her suitcase and said, by way of explanation, "We rough it here. Aurelio has a caretaker who minds the house when no one is here, but there are no servants present when anyone is using the house. I have always liked that: I can come here an be totally by myself, if I want."

Ray picked up his suitcase and followed her inside. It was a relatively simple house. One large room made up the kitchen, dining and living area. She led him to the master bedroom where they stowed their gear. Then she showed him the combination exercise room and "media center" which was a combination high tech office and entertainment center boasting the latest technology for Internet, satellite telephone and TV access and a killer big-screen TV, which Marcella said he could use if he could figure out how to turn it on. She made a face and said, "When I am here I never turn on the TV and I only check my email and phone messages once a day."

Ray knew he wouldn't be spending too much time watching football on that big-screen TV that season. He smiled to himself at the thought of such a waste of a perfectly marvelous TV.

She read his mind and laughed, "You can watch football on it if you want!"

There were also two very small guest bedrooms, with a shared bathroom. It was small but well laid out so it did not feel cramped. All in all, Ray thought it was the most perfect place he had ever seen in his life...... and that was even before he saw the coolest thing about it.

They unpacked, which did not take long, since each of them had brought only a couple of changes of clothes and several bathing suits. After that, they went for a swim. Ray was enchanted by the fact that the dock and the house were built over a coral reef. The place teemed with life. Swimming from the dock was an experience in close-up encounters with marine life.

They swam for a while, until the sun began to hang low over the island. Marcella suggested they get out of the water because the sharks tended to move in over the reef late in the day. She said that she was not particularly fond of swimming with sharks. Ray seconded that without a moment's hesitation. They rinsed off first in the outside shower and then took turns with the fresh-water shower in the bathroom.

By the time they had dressed, it was dark. Ray came into the main room after his shower and was greeted by the wonderful smell of blackened fish and a cold bottle of Kalik waiting for him on the counter. They ate fish sandwiches for dinner and then cleaned up the kitchen together.

When they finished the dishes, Marcella dug out a bottle of the finest Jamaican rum and poured them each a glass. She took his hand and beckoned him to follow her. The "sitting area" was recessed, three steps down from the rest of the structure. Ray realized that put the floor of that area of the room right at or below the water level, depending on the tide. He sat next to her on the couch and waited to see what she had up her sleeve, never imagining the amazing thing that was about to happen. She flipped a switch which caused the floor to open up. Ray instinctively lifted his feet. Then he realized that a screen of some sort underneath a plexiglass floor had been rolled back.

They had a bird's eye view from directly on top of the reef. Soft lights illuminated the reef with its rainbow of colors, teeming with fish and other marine critters. Marcella snuggled up beside him and said, "Is that cool, or what?"

His only response was to put his arm around her and concentrate even more intently on the activity below.

They sipped their drinks in silence. Way too soon for Ray, she turned off the lights, "We're not supposed to leave the lights on very long at night." She flipped the switch to close the sub-floor. "Too much light at night interferes with the natural activity of the reef. We can watch as much as we want in the daytime. Sometimes I sit here for hours and hours doing nothing but watching the fish. At night, we have to give them a break, .... hard as that is, I know."

Ray wanted to beg her to turn the lights back on, but he knew she was right. Far be it from him to disrupt the life of a coral reef, there were so few remaining.

Since the curtain had fallen on the main stage and Marcella had put the kibosh on the idea of watching TV, they went to bed early. Just before he drifted off to sleep, Ray realized it was the first time he and Marcella had spent the night together when he didn't have to leave early for work. He wondered if that would prove awkward.

He needn't have worried about that. When he got up the next morning, coffee was ready in the kitchen and croissants and fruit were on the counter. He wandered outside and found Marcella preparing a small runabout for a day on the water. The boat was a 23' open bough outboard filled with fishing gear. He laughed, "If I had to guess, I'd say the yacht and the house may belong to Aurelio Collonia, but that boat has your name all over it."

She laughed, "Yes, this was a present I bought for myself when I turned 50. My world was crashing around me. My husband was about to go to prison. I needed to fish – a lot – so I bought this boat and asked Aurelio to let me keep it here. He and his kids use it for a ski boat."

She looked at the coffee cup in his hand, "Let's make another pot of coffee to take with us and then when you're all set we'll go."

He dressed while she finished readying the boat. He brought a thermos of coffee with him when he came back outside. She sat at the bow, dangling her feet over the edge, resting her chin on the railing. Her fishing hat hid her face, but he knew she was studying the horizon for any signs of weather they might need to be concerned about before venturing out into the ocean. Just before she started the engine, she pulled out her Blackberry and checked the weather radar. She looked up and grinned, "What on earth did people do before Weather.com?"

He laughed, "Too many of them got caught in a lot of storms they didn't know were out there."

"Yup, and wrecked ships and dead sailors litter bottom of the ocean all along these islands. I'm determined not to join them."

They fished and then talked while they drifted, then they fished some more. There being no limits on fish in those waters, she pulled in an amazing haul of every kind of fish imaginable. If it was edible, she kept it. If it was not, she threw it back. By early afternoon, he said, "What on earth are you going to do with all that fish?"

She smiled, "You'll see. Bag up what you want for dinner and maybe breakfast tomorrow."

He bagged some grouper and a very nice sea bass. The rest he left loose in the cooler. She nodded her approval and said, "We can get some shellfish to go with that in the lagoon."

She changed course and soon pulled the boat up to a dock on a small island. He did not see a town, but there were lots of boats, both commercial fishing vessels and recreational boats. A large black man greeted Marcella by name. She motioned toward the cooler. He boarded the boat and muscled the brimming cooler onto the dock. He smiled, "Mrs. Wilson, you haven't lost your touch, I see."

She smiled, "It's a gift, for sure."

He carried the cooler (by himself) to the end of the dock and dumped the fish into an even larger receptacle. He rinsed the cooler and then returned it to its place at the back of Marcella's boat. He said cheerfully, "Babies will be eatin' fine tonight. How long are you here for, Mrs. Wilson?"

"Only a few days, but I plan to fish a lot."

"Excellent! We'll see you tomorrow."

She laughed and raised her hat, "Lord, I hope so."

As she pulled away from the dock, Ray asked her what that was about. She said that was a sort of drop off point for people who had caught more fish than they needed; the local fishermen collected it and distributed the fish among poor families in the nearby islands who might have gone hungry otherwise. He thought that was a wonderful idea. Ray was impressed that Marcella would know about such a place.

When they got back to the lagoon, they dove for lobsters, and came up with a couple of nice ones. They threw one back when they realized there was no way they could eat two lobsters plus all the fish Ray had kept. Then they returned to the house for lunch. The grouper made great sandwiches for lunch. They saved the sea bass and lobster for dinner.

Ray grilled the fish. Marcella made daiquiris. They ate on the dock. After lunch, they lazed in the shade, alternately dozing and talking. She filled in some details to her life's story which were totally consistent with what she had previously told him but which also explained some of the confusing parts of the story Karen had pieced together.

Marcella was relaxed and peaceful as he had never seen her before. It was as though in the Bahamas she were able to shed some of the rich society lady persona she assumed in the United States. In this house on the water she seemed more at peace and content than he had seen her anywhere else. He couldn't figure it out. She was so natural and at-home here, and she clearly loved it. Why didn't she just move to the Islands, or even the Keys? What was she doing in Sarasota, where she obviously did not fit in or have any connections at all?

She brought him another drink, laughing, "I think we forgot something."

She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, "Merry Christmas."

"Oh, my gosh, I totally forgot today is Christmas. I have a present for you." He hurried into the house and came back with a package he had obviously wrapped himself. He made a sheepish face and said, "It's been a long, long time since I wrapped a present for anybody. It looks like hell on the outside and it's not much on the inside, but the minute I saw it and I had to get it for you."

She looked up at him and smiled, "Thank you. I am sorry but I didn't buy you a gift."

He waved his arms and turned around, beaming, "This is gift enough. A few days in paradise! I will treasure this gift forever."

He saw tears in her eyes, but she looked away. When she turned back toward him, her eyes were dry.

She said, "Ok, let's see what this is." As soon as she glimpsed the contents of the package, she threw back her head and laughed out loud. She put on the hat, which was just a tiny bit too big. Fortunately it had a chin strap to keep it from blowing off. It had all the usual feathers and fishhooks you usually see on a floppy fishing hat, but it was pink and it had embroidered letters on the front that read: Women Anglers Rock!

"I hereby retire my old hat...."

He said, "Not so fast. Don't retire it just yet. Try this one out first and make sure that it doesn't have any negative effect on your fishing mojo. Then and only the should you consider retiring the old one."

She made a face. "Actually, I found that old hat; I fell in love with it because it was so hideous. This one is even uglier, and it is special because you picked it out. This will be my new fishing hat. Thank you so much!" She stood up and kissed him.

They went for a swim, then they went for a walk on the beach. She explained that the island was not high enough for a permanent house. "The island is not under water during a normal high tide, but it is usually inundated during tropical storms. That's why Aurelio got it so cheap. The prior owner essentially thought he was unloading it on some stupid Yankee who didn't know what he was getting. In reality, Aurelio knew exactly what he was buying. The island is close to Nassau, so it's an easy weekend retreat for someone from Miami."

Ray looked puzzled, "So what happens to the house in a storm?"

She grinned, "Thanks to a combination of genius, money and a geeky college student who wanted to get laid, the house is safe."

"Explain that."

They had returned to the dock. She sat down and propped her feet on the railing and said, "Well, when Aurelio went looking to buy an island all of the ones that filled the bill were under water part of the year. Initially that was fine. He decided he would just buy a big yacht and park it in the lagoon during the times in the year when it was safe to do so. During hurricane season, he moved it to Costa Rica or Venezuela. But, he soon realized he loved the island and wanted a permanent structure here so he could pop over in the summertime whenever the weather was okay. He made some inquiries among the architecture students at the University of Miami school of architecture. He sort of offered to fund a design contest involving how to deal with the problem.

"Only one student was interested so, instead of having a contest, the school simply put the student in contact with Aurelio. Turns out the kid mainly wanted to get married and wanted a cheap place to take his wife on a honeymoon. Significantly, she was an architecture student as well, but her interest was residential architecture, whereas his was commercial. Aurelio agreed to let them use the island if they'd spend some time considering his problem and present him with a proposal. He even gave them the use of a boat. (Not the one we came over here on. He chartered a smaller one for them.) They spent their honeymoon here alternately swimming, making love and making drawings. When they returned to Miami, they were bummed out because they said the only solution they came up with would be very expensive, although they thought it might work. It turned out not to be as expensive as they feared, especially since the house Aurelio ultimately built was to be a lot smaller and less elaborate than they envisioned.

"The solution was a sort of two-parter. First, when the water rises, the dock raises with it. The pilings can extend 25 feet. In a big storm, if the water goes higher than that, the dock will break loose of the pilings and be held by anchor chains that are 65 feet long. When the water goes back down, the dock lowers too. So far it has never raised up high enough to come off the pilings; that would entail major repairs to the understructure, but as long as the water doesn't raise more than 25 feet, the dock goes up and comes down like an elevator. The house is very low and has safety features that will withstand 145 mile-an-hour winds. It has taken direct hits from hurricanes on more than one occasion and has never suffered any significant damage."

"Wow!"

She nodded. "It's amazing. Aurelio spent a lot of money on this place, but not as much as he probably would have if the island had been high and dry. He'd have put a palace on a dry island! His tastes run a bit on the opulent side."

"Why do I think you had something to do with the design of the house?"

"Because I did. Once Aurelio was reconciled to building a very small house that had to be able to float, he decided it actually should be something like a houseboat, making maximum use of all space. He asked for my input since I had spent more time on boats than anyone he knew. I laid out the interior according to my own tastes."

He laughed and asked, "I'm guessing the glass floor was your idea?"

She nodded, "Every place I have ever traveled where they have tours with glass bottomed boats, I have taken them. I love watching the life under water but I do not enjoy diving. This is the perfect alternative. The floor was a significant additional expense, but after Aurelio – and especially his kids – saw it, they all agreed it was worth it."

Ray and Marcella spent the rest of the week exactly as they had spent Christmas day. They fished. They swam. They whiled away hours every day watching the reef through the glass floor. They talked for hours. They each checked email and voice messages only once a day, and returned no calls or messages. The day before New Year's Eve when she checked her email, she grinned and said, "We have a special New Year's treat courtesy of Aurelio. He's sending the yacht over a day early so we can have a special dinner and move in closer to Nassau. They have awesome fireworks at midnight to ring in the new year. We can spend the night on the boat and then leave on the 1st whenever we are ready."

"That sounds great. I thought you said you and Aurelio don't get along."

She chuckled, "That's true. We can't stand each when we're together. I guess in many ways we are too much alike. We are both control freaks and when we're together we clash. As I told you, I don't work for him regularly any more, but I do occasional special jobs. It is in his best interests to stay on my good side. It is in my best interest to let him."

He shook his head, "I am not sure that follows. It would seem to be in your best interest to sever ties with him. With your high profile and the feds always watching, it seems smuggling jewels places you at enormous risk."

She made a face, "That may be. If the feds catch me, they'll put me in jail. If I tried to bail on Aurelio completely, he'd put me in Davy Jones' Locker, and I am neither kidding nor exaggerating."

Ray was astonished, and it must have showed.

She shrugged and said, "You must know what gangsters do to people who, to their way of thinking, double cross them."

"But you are more like a member of the family than an employee."

"All the more reason for me to stay in the business. What's the matter with you, haven't you ever seen _The Godfather_?"

"That's a movie."

"It may be a movie, but there are some very true things about it. First and foremost is the theme that members of the family are supposed to work in the family business whether its a laundry or a world-wide smuggling ring. Tonio was from Sicily. He did things according to the old ways. In his world there was honor among thieves in a sense. They operated according to their own rules, but there were rules and limits. Tonio was a smuggler and a money launderer. That was what he did. He did both of those things the way he learned in the Old Country

"Aurelio was born in the U. S. and has lived in South Florida for way, way too long. He is a big fan of the American Mafia. The Chicago families have never let him into the fold but they have occasionally undertaken joint ventures, particularly when it allowed the Chicago families to operate in the territory of the thugs that run the drug trade in Florida. On occasion, when needed, Aurelio could hire some of Mafia muscle when he needed to get rid of someone."

"Is it true he killed one of his employees for smuggling drugs?"

A black look passed over her face, then she smiled. "Actually, whether or not he killed the person or someone else did is something I do not know, nor do I want to know. This much I do know. One day when I was maybe 23 or 24, he brought all of us together in Miami. It was the only time I saw any of his other employees. He made certain that none of us spoke to each other. We were each flown in with an escort, marched into the enormous living room of his house where we were lined up, with our escorts behind us. Aurelio lectured us for about ten minutes on the rules of our organization. He spelled out what we were allowed to do (which basically amounted to doing exactly what we were told) and what we were not allowed to do (which basically amounted to be anything else). He warned us about compromising his operations by free-lancing.

"I wanted to laugh, thinking that no one in their right mind would even think of free-lancing. We made so much money as it was, why would anybody try to do side-jobs? For a minute, I thought the whole thing was a joke.

"Then, he took out a photo of a girl, who had been shot in the head, and passed it around. He told us that was what happened to people who double-crossed him. He never said he did it. He never accused anybody else of doing it. He said, 'Consider yourselves warned.' After that, our escorts took us back to the airport and we were sent home. It was intended to intimidate and scare us. It sure as hell worked on me.

"Tonio had recently died and Aurelio was the closest thing I had to family. I was scared to death, but I felt I did not have any choice other than to continue to work for him. I have no illusions that he takes me for anything other than a long-time employee even now. The same rules apply."

"How many people were there?"

She thought about it for a minute. "I think six. One of them was Brenda, Tonio's widow who married Aurelio after Tonio died. I didn't know any of the others."

"You listened to that lecture and saw those photos and didn't do anything about it?"

"You mean like call the cops?" She laughed, "What was I supposed to say, 'Hello, Mr. Policeman, I am a diamond and art smuggler. I think my boss may have offed an employee who double-crossed him, and I think you should arrest him.'

"I'm not that crazy."

Ray shook his head, "They would have probably given you immunity or at least a very lenient sentence."

"First of all, I have no intention of going to jail at all, ever. Secondly, that happened a long time ago. The kid was just some stupid brat who didn't know what a good opportunity she had working for Aurelio. What is more, she was smuggling drugs. There is a hierarchy among smugglers; drug dealers are the bottom feeders of the profession. The legal process takes too long and it isn't effective when it comes to drug dealers. Aurelio deals with drug traffickers in his own way."

"You mean he has killed others."

She laughed. "I think Aurelio sees himself as a sort of modern day Robin Hood, although he's such an ignorant bastard, I doubt he's ever heard of Robin Hood. He sees himself as a sort of anti-drug vigilante. If he catches a drug runner, which happens occasionally because this island is a perfect place for smugglers to hide, the crew ends up missing and the Coast Guard tends to 'find' the boat adrift off Key Biscayne. He has also been known to have his people shoot down planes he knows to be carrying drugs in from South America. He has lots of connections. He often knows when the planes are coming. The ATF agents are so overwhelmed, they are totally ineffective. Aurelio sort of helps them out from time to time."

"Are you suggesting he has a deal with the ATF?"

She waved her hand and shook her head, "Oh, there is no 'deal'. Neither Aurelio nor any of his employees has never spoken to an ATF agent or any other law enforcement officer. Aurelio sees law enforcement in America as being too far beneath him to bother with actually discussing deals. It is interesting, however, to note that after he started 'helping' in the drug war, the intensity of the scrutiny the FBI and the IRS had been leveling at his employment agency seemed to lessen somewhat. It isn't a 'deal', but I think it is something of an unspoken understanding. The ATF or the FBI always takes credit for 'capturing' the contraband; the stories never say that they just 'found' it.

"The other thing that helps Aurelio is that we never bring smuggled jewels or art into the U.S. We bring in only money. We take the goods from one foreign country to another. We bring back money, which we put into the American economy. Money laundering is a crime, of course, but in the big scheme of things, it's the sort of crime the government can choose to ignore, especially since the government knows it isn't drug money. They care a lot about drug money."

Ray sat down and shook his head, "You are talking about some kind of alternate reality."

She made a face and a rude noise, "What the hell do you think is going on out there in the big bad world? You mosey around in South Florida writing heart-warming stories about nice people or funny stories about Florida's collection of odd-balls. You obsess over saving the Everglades, not that that isn't important. But, out in The Big World there's a lot of other shit going on! You play by one set of rules, the rules of the laws of the United States of America and of Southern society. There are a lot of other rulebooks, Ray. There are a lot of other ways to see the world."

"So you think that smuggling is okay?"

"It depends on who's asking the questions and which rules you apply. According to the laws of most countries, smuggling is a crime mostly because it cheats the government out of taxes. To those people who are already paying zillions in taxes and or bribes and payoffs to said governments, what's the harm in delivering some jewels or art without adding a tax bill."

"Do you ask where the stuff comes from?"

"Of course not. Although most of the artworks I have ever moved come with provenance."

"How do they do that? What do they put down for your transaction?"

"There are written receipts, usually including forged tax documents. For provenance the important thing is the information on the seller and the buyer, not the taxes. Aurelio's clients are sophisticated buyers and sellers. We never got into the forgery part of it; that was always handled by European specialists. We just made the deliveries. I have to confess, I almost always checked the documentation to assure myself the forgeries were good enough to pass a quick inspection if I got caught. Most of them were excellent."

Ray put his hands on his head and said, "This is giving me a headache. Can we stop?"

"Sure. Remember, you're the one who wanted more information. So, do you want to take Aurelio up on his offer or not?"

"Since you have waxed so eloquent on the dangers of getting on his bad side, I feel as though I have little choice."

"Especially since that yacht is the only way for us to get back to Nassau to go home, unless you're prepared to swim. The runabout can't go that far with out extra gas."

He sighed. "I need to go for a run. I hate a treadmill. How long is that beach?"

"It's a mile and a half from one point to the other."

"Will I look silly running back and forth?"

She laughed, "I do it all the time. Do you want some company?"

He answered, just a little to quickly and a tad too loud, "No!"

She shrugged and said, "Suit yourself." She turned around and walked out to the end of the dock where the kayaks were tied up. She took off in a kayak, fast and smooth, headed straight for the pass to the ocean. She didn't look back.

Ray ran hard for a couple of hours and then went back to the house where he showered and drank a beer. He was troubled by their conversation, but after a couple of hours of thinking about it, he concluded she was probably right about the fact that in her world different rules applied and he would be wrong to apply his standards to her behavior. As soon as that thought occurred to him, he stopped himself, realizing that line of thinking put him on a terribly slippery slope. He wasn't sure what to do about that.

Soon his thoughts turned to worry about Marcella. She had been gone for more than three hours. The weather was clear and the seas were glassy, but he began to worry nevertheless. He sat there with his eyes fixed on the pass. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he saw her. He noticed that after three hours of paddling, she her stroke was as smooth and as fast as when she left. She tied up her kyak and walked toward him. She was sweaty and her skin glistened in the sun. She knelt down in front of him and said softly, "I am sorry to upset you. I know you don't understand. Sometimes I don't either. It's a fine line I feel I need to walk with you. If I tell you the whole truth, I'm afraid it will drive you away. If I keep secrets, I'm afraid that will drive you off because you won't trust me."

He took her hands and did not respond for a long time, "I guess I sort of feel the same way. When I am with you, especially on the water, it feels so wonderful I can't even begin to describe it. But when we are together on land, sometimes you make me feel like a dweeb. My head tells me you are wrong. My heart wants to believe you. So, I am just confused."

She said softly, "What do you think we should do?"

He answered, "Right now, I think we should go fishing. We can deal with the serious issues that keep us apart when we're back home in Sarasota next week. While we're here, let's just fish and have fun."

She reached up and put her arms around him, "You don't have to ask me twice. Now, where did I put my new hat?"

They fished for a while and then drifted until late in the afternoon. Marcella insisted on being back at the dock before dark because she said the pass was tricky in the daylight; she wouldn't risk it at night in a boat without sonar. They watched the sun go down and then ducked inside before the insects swarmed. They watched the reef for a while and then they went to bed early, but neither was in the mood to make love. There was a large question mark between them. It had always been there. Now, it had grown to the point they needed to address it. There would be time for that after they returned to Sarasota.

They rang in the New Year with French champagne under Bahamian fireworks. It could have been magical, but Ray felt a cold, hard knot of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

They flew back to Sarasota mid-day on January 1. He started the year fearing what the coming months would bring.

Chapter 21

Ray was surprised to learn when he arrived at work the next day that it was very well known around the newsroom where he had been and with whom. He didn't understand how that happened. He had not told anyone where he was going. He found it hard to believe Marcella might have spread the word. He couldn't figure it out, but he was annoyed and irritated with the comments from his colleagues and flat out pissed off when the feature editor suggested he do a "what I did on my vacation" story. He told her to go to hell and said he had calls to make.

He called Victoria from his cell phone and suggested an early lunch. He offered to bring sandwiches from Dick's. She told him to skip the sandwiches and come straight over. She said she would make them something whenever they got hungry.

He waited until after she poured his coffee, and took a small package out of his pocket. He said, "I bought these from the guy who sells carved stuff out of that boat shack on Siesta Key. He actually gave me a really good deal because he said the publicity he got from a feature I wrote about him dramatically increased his local business. He told me that what he liked even better was that the cops had stopped hassling him once they learned he was a crazy artist and not merely a bum. Anyway, you're the only person I know who might actually use something like this. I thought they were beautiful."

She opened the package and found eight napkin rings, hand carved from drift wood and polished to perfection. Each one was different. There was a circle of dolphins following one another. Another was sea turtles marching behind one another. Victoria gasped and then said, "These are exquisite. Thank you so much!"

He grinned, "And thank you for not adding that lame 'you didn't have to do this' statement."

She kissed his cheek. "I do appreciate your thoughtfulness." She paused again and said, "In all the years we've been acquainted we had never met. Now we have become friends. I bought you something also."

She left the room and was gone for quite some time. She came back with a small box, wrapped simply in red foil with a green ribbon. Inside he found six of the kind of lures used for tarpon fishing. He grinned, "Oh my gosh! Thanks. I love tarpon fishing. I will use these... Knowing the way I fish I'll probably lose every one of them in the mangroves. I get snagged all the time. But, I'll have a great time doing it!"

They chatted for a while, then she asked with an unsuccessful attempt to sound casual, "How was your holiday?"

He raised his eyebrows, "I take it you know where I went, and with whom?"

"Yes."

"Who told you? I didn't tell a soul but when I got back to the paper, everybody knew about it. I can't imagine that Marcella told anyone. First of all, who would she tell? And secondly, why?"

"Actually she did tell people. Quite a number of people as a matter of fact."

"What?"

"I heard it from her hairdresser, who is very good by the way. I'm sticking with him. My next door neighbor heard it from the masseuse at the country club. Apparently Mrs. Wilson was so excited to be jetting off with you for Christmas, she mentioned it to virtually every one she talked to the week before you left."

"Why would she do that?"

"I have no idea! I was hoping you would have some sort of explanation. Marcella had always been very discreet, according to the people who knew her in Atlanta. She was a member of the Buckhead Club and never once expressed a confidence to a masseuse. I know because I checked it out."

"I can't imagine why she would want people to know we were going away together."

"What about if she thought you were about to spill some information about her and she could damage your credibility by letting people know you were intimate. If you wrote something negative about her in the paper, the next thing we would hear is how she jilted you and you are getting even."

"That is very unkind."

"I think you are not objective where she is concerned. Intentional or not, it's a nice ace for her to have in the hole."

He chuckled, "Don't tell me you play poker."

She nodded. "I am actually a very, very good poker player. You, my friend, would stink at it. You have the most expressive face. I can tell what you are thinking before you say a word. I would bet Marcella can do so as well."

She poured more coffee and brought out some cookies. "In any case, we shall probably never know why she told people. If her motives were less than honorable, I doubt she would admit it. My question to you is, did you have a good time?"

He pondered that question for a while, munching on a cookie for something to do, "Yes, I had a wonderful time. We fished. We swam. The house we stayed in was spectacular. We were on an island all alone. It was great."

"You're not very convincing."

"I mean it. We did have fun. Especially the first few days. Towards the end we had a conversation that left me troubled."

"You argued?"

"Sort of. It wasn't an argument as much as it was an impasse. I think we each reached the farthest edge of the worlds we inhabit."

"Did those worlds meet?"

"Not quite."

"I am so very sorry."

He smiled and shrugged, "Maybe we can build a bridge."

She did not respond. Ray tried not to notice the dubious look in her eyes.

After lunch, he stopped in some of his usual spots. He was amazed to find that everybody knew what he had been up to. He put up with all the razzing he could stand and then he headed home. He called Marcella on the way and invited her to come to his house for a run and dinner at Dick's. She agreed to meet him in half an hour.

They were not in the habit of talking while they ran. They both liked to run a little too hard for that. Over a pitcher of beer at Dick's he asked casually, "Did you tell anybody where we were going?"

"No, why?"

He shook his head and said, "It's the weirdest thing. Everybody I talked to today knew where I had been for the holiday. They also knew who I was with."

She looked shocked, "How on earth did they find out?"

"I dunno. Who, besides us, knew?"

"As far as I know, only the pilot and the chauffeur. The pilot has been with me for years. He lives in Orlando. I doubt he even knows anybody here to tell the story to. The chauffeur's a local. I've always thought he was cheeky. I will fire him tomorrow."

"You don't know it was him."

"Who else could it be?"

He wanted to cry.

She invited him back to her place, but he begged off. He said he had a ton of personal email to read and bills to pay, which was true, but not the whole story. She called for her car. They alternately chatted and necked on the couch until the car came.

At the door, he promised to call her the next day. She shook her head, "I have to go away for a few days." She ran her hand across his eyes, "Wipe that look off your face! I'm not going off on a job. Actually, I am going to New York for a few days. I ordered some clothes before Christmas. I need to go for a fitting."

"You go all the way to New York to buy your clothes?"

"Personally, I prefer to shop in Rome, but I haven't found myself in Italy recently, so I ordered some things from a couple of New York designers."

He shook his head and grinned, "I guess I'll accept that. Given that I sort of went to the Jimmy Buffet school of fashion, I don't get it."

"Thank you for being kind and not bitching me out for my extravagance."

He shrugged, "It's your money. Who am I to tell you how to spend it?"

After she left he sat in the dark for a very long time wondering why in the hell she lied to him.

Chapter 22

One afternoon he received an email from Karen Thompson. The subject line read: "Important." The message read: "Call me tonight after 8."

He worried about that the rest of the day. Well before eight o'clock, he had his phone plugged into its charger to allow for a long conversation. He had a notebook out with pens ready. He sat in the dark, waiting for time to make the call.

At two minutes past eight, he called Karen's home number. She answered on the second ring, saying, "I just love a punctual man."

He ignored that and said, "What's up?"

She paused. "This is another one of those I-have-no-idea-what-the-hell-this-means situations, although a picture is emerging. I have found some information that seems very interesting.

"Item One: I found out that Marcella Pappias did not exactly meet Roland Wilson by accident. She specifically asked to meet him. She knew he would be in Palm Beach that season, so she asked an acquaintance to get her a ticket to a ball because she wanted to meet him. Ms. Pappias apparently all but stalked him at the party until she could maneuver herself into a position to 'accidentally' run into him.

"Item Two: There were four key employees at Techtron who had previously worked for Aurelio Collonia."

"What??!!"

"When Roland Wilson set up Techtron, his development team interviewed accountants and marketing people. In particular, they were looking for people who were familiar with international operations. Two accountants and two marketing people who worked for Aurelio Collonia interviewed for jobs and were hired. All four of them worked at Techtron for only a couple of years. They started at the beginning. They all four resigned after a couple of years, and well prior to any of the problems. By itself that means little, but it gets more interesting.

"Item three: Susan Steinholz, Techtron's comptroller, had an affair with a staff accountant, who happened to be one of the Collonia employees. Since Steinholz is generally considered to be the mastermind behind the accounting scam, I think that is significant. I wonder what kind of pillow talk was going on between those two bean counters!"

"Do you know what that employee did for Collonia?"

"He worked in the laundry business...the money laundering business."

"Where did those employees go after they resigned from Techtron."

"Where do you think?"

"Back to Collonia?"

"Yep."

"Item four: The Ft. Lauderdale police debated about whether to classify Roland Wilson's death as a suicide or a homicide. The detective who was first on the scene still believes it was not a suicide.

"Last item: Apparently, in addition to the accounting scam at Techtron, there was something else going on. Techtron wasn't selling many computers, which was why the accountants were so busy creating fictitious revenue. Techtron was apparently really in the business of selling weapons. I'm not talking about Saturday Night Specials or sawed off shotguns. They were selling military matériel: artillery, tanks, helicopters and even planes."

"Marcella mentioned she thought there was something fishy. She said she thought somebody was up to no good. She seemed to think there was smuggling going on."

"So she knew about it?"

"She told me she suspected something was wrong. She said she did not like the looks of some of the clients. She said she mentioned it to Roland and he blew her off."

Karen started out softly, tentatively, "I am guessing that Collonia set up Wilson. Wilson was going around talking about his plans to sell these cheap computers around the world. He was a high-society, do-gooder. An idealist. He made his money investing in other people's companies. He had very little experience running a business of his own. Collonia somehow maneuvered his way into Techtron, which he then used as a front for his own arms dealing business. Wilson and Techtron crashed and burned, but Collonia's operations went chugging right along. Techtron provided the initial cover Collonia needed to set up his network, but once the connections were made, Collonia did not need Techtron any more and let it collapse. I'd bet you Collonia is still dealing arms to the network established by Techtron."

Ray asked, more to himself than to Karen, "Was Marcella a tool Aurelio manipulated also? Or, was she in on it?"

Karen added, "There's another question: Is she a murderess or is she in grave danger?"

"What do you mean?"

"If Roland Wilson was murdered, did she do it? He was killed by a .22 caliber pistol. That is generally considered a woman's weapon because it's small enough to fit in a purse. Did she kill him?

"Or, did Collonia kill him and try to make it look like Marcella did it?

"Haven't you ever wondered why she didn't just carry out her plan to go back to her former identity of Marcia Pappas and disappear? Why is she keeping such a high profile? And, I mean no offense by this, why did she take up with a reporter, of all people?"

Ray muttered, "I have, indeed, wondered about all of that, and more. Do you have a hypothesis?"

"I think she may be in terrible danger. I think she's keeping a high profile because Collonia may be after her. If she stays visible he may have a harder time getting to her."

"Do you think she was part of the plot?"

"I don't think it matters whether she was set up as much as Wilson and then figured it out later, or whether she was in on the whole plot to begin with. She knows about Collonia's operations and his involvement. She's in a position to bring his whole operation down. She may have motive to do just that if she feels he used her and betrayed her. If he thinks for a minute that is what she has in mind, she's toast."

"You think Collonia would kill her?"

"Ray, where have you been? Collonia is a smuggler, an arms dealer, an international mobster. He may not pull the trigger – although I have heard from more than one person that he has indeed pulled the trigger on more than one occasion – but, he has the wherewithal and connections to cause people to disappear under strange circumstances."

They were both quiet for a while. Ray was torn between being furious at the possibility that Marcella was a liar and potentially a murderer who was manipulating him for some purpose he couldn't figure out, and being terrified that she was in mortal danger. His thoughts were interrupted when Karen dropped another bomb, "There is one other thing. It has bothered me from the beginning that I was able to find out all of this information on Marcella Wilson and nobody else had. I don't have any special sources. All of this information was a matter of record. Anybody could have found it. Why didn't the feds find it when they were investigating Techtron? I can't believe they investigated everybody else involved with Techtron and did not investigate her. Why didn't somebody else come up with this before?"

Ray sat up and said softly, "What if they did?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if the feds did uncover Marcella's secret? What if they're using her to get to Aurelio? What if they figured it all out early in the game and decided to use her as bait to get the Big Fish?"

He went on more to himself than to Karen, "If that is true then she was telling me the truth when she told me that every man she has ever met has manipulated and used her."

He paused for a long time. Karen did not say anything. They both seemed to know the ultimate question. He eventually articulated it, his voice choked, "Which means do I turn her in to the cops as a potential murderess, smuggler and God knows what else, or do I keep her out in the public eye as much as possible to protect her from Collonia and hope to hell the feds get enough information to get to him before he kills her."

She added, "Ray, this time I think you can't tell her what you suspect. If she was a part of it, it will cause her to disappear. If she is innocent and you imply you suspect she is not, she will be hurt and leave you anyway. I think we have reached the limit of what we can do with this by ourselves. I think it's time you tell what you know to the FBI. If they already know it, then at least you've done your civic duty. If they have not figured it out, they're idiots, but again you will have done the right thing, and they can finish their job, hopefully before Collonia moves in on Mrs. Wilson."

"You may be right, but that means I'll be turning on her, too, just like every other man she's ever known."

"That is one possibility. The other possibility is that she has been the one pulling the strings. She has been a part of the Collonia operation for decades. Was Techtron her piece of the family business? Maybe she's been manipulating you with her sob stories about being manipulated and used by men. You could be her public cover."

"How can I tell?"

"I don't think you can."

They ended the conversation quickly. He sat up most of the night, staring off into the blackness outside the windows with a horrified look on his face . Around 3:00 a. m. he left a message on his editor's voice mail saying he had a stomach flu and would not be in to work that day. He went to bed shortly before dawn, but slept little.

Chapter 23

Ray dug out a couple of his reserved stories for the week and stayed out of the office as much as possible. Mostly he stayed home, obsessing over what to do next. He knew it would be easiest to go to the FBI now, while she was gone, but he knew he wouldn't do that. He couldn't risk losing her forever without seeing her once more.

She called him when she got back into town asking if he would be willing to take her fishing. They met at the marina early on Saturday morning. She wore her Christmas hat. He took her to the fishing spots where she had had success before. Too soon, she had caught her limit and she was ready to go home.

Ray wasn't. He suggested they drift for a while. He propped up a couple of life jackets and beckoned her to join him in the bottom of the boat. She snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest. He touched her with his free hand, exploring her body for what may have been the last time. It was all he could do not to cry.

She whispered very sadly, "You have received some more information from your librarian in Atlanta, haven't you?"

He buried his face in her hair and said, "Yes."

"Is it bad?"

"What do you think?"

She laughed. "Good one. Since I have no idea what you know, or think you know, how can I answer that?"

"What I would prefer, if you don't mind, is for you to tell me anything you haven't previously mentioned."

"So you can see if it matches what you have discovered? No. I'm not going to play that game. If you have something you want to ask me about, ask. I'm not going to play guessing games with you."

"Okay. Here goes. Question 1: I understand you all but stalked Roland Wilson. Why? From what I have learned of him, he really doesn't seem like your type."

"Yes, I sought him out. Aurelio wanted me to get married. I wasn't really interested in men (my track record on that score was abysmal), but I did rather want to have kids. Aurelio convinced me some rich society person would be great husband material. Aurelio knew I liked to get involved in charity work and he thought I'd make a good society wife. He suggested Roland, who was marketing himself as a sort of altruist.

"I had never heard of Roland, but I checked him out, and he sounded like a good prospect. It's quite possible Aurelio was manipulating me into moving in on Roland for his purposes, but I assure you my motives were entirely personal. And for the record, we never had kids because Roland was almost totally uninterested in sex or in me for that matter. He had some all-consuming Utopian Vision that eclipsed everything else." She sighed, "I guess that's for the best, after all that has happened. I'd hate to have put kids through the ordeal I've endured."

Ray paused to let both of them compose themselves.

Then he said, "Question 2: did you know there were people from the Collonia organization in key positions at Techtron."

She thought about that for a while before she answered. Eventually, she said, "Yes. In fact, I recruited one of them. Roland wanted Techtron to hire good people with international experience. Aurelio had about the best staff you could imagine. A couple of them, for different reasons, wanted out of Aurelio's organization. I tried to help them. Aurelio was agreeable. In retrospect, it appears he was too agreeable."

"Did Collonia maintain contact with them after they joined Techtron?"

"I was unaware of it at the time, but in hindsight, I'd bet on it. I would also be willing to bet they all continued to receive pay checks from Aurelio. He put people in key positions at Techtron to get the ball rolling on whatever operation he had in mind. I always thought there was something weird about the Techtron business. Looking back, I think it was all a front for a Aurelio's smuggling operation. If I had to guess, I'd say it was weapons.

"I am sure you are going to ask me about the accountant who had an affair with Susan Steinholz. That was the first hint I had that something was not right. He moved in on her like a vulture. She was such a troll I doubt she had ever had a date in her life. He was kind of a dish. It was such an unlikely pair, it caused a lot of talk in the company. Even I heard the gossip. Since I knew him when he worked for Aurelio, it freaked me out. It didn't add up. But, I did not want to explore it in any depth at the time, so I ignored it. I guess that could be used against me, but it's true.

"I think that what may have happened is that the Collonia plant put the bug in Susan's ear to undertake the accounting scam. Despite the high level of interest in the product, Techtron was not selling any computers for supposedly because of all the problems with the manufacturing plants around the world. Susan apparently fell for some kind of, 'Give us time to get this going' line, which prompted her to start cooking the books. Aurelio took the opportunity to set up a smuggling network using Techtron for cover. Once his network was established, the Techtron cover was unnecessary, and he let it collapse."

They were both quiet for a long time. Ray held her tightly. It was all he could do not to burst into sobs, but he forced himself to ask, "Who was in the hotel room when Roland died?" He was surprised at the way that question came out.

"I have always assumed it was Aurelio."

He was shocked, "You knew it wasn't suicide?"

She made a face, "First of all, Roland was terrified of guns. If he were going to commit suicide, he would have taken an overdose of pills or something like that. He would not have shot himself. Aurelio always carries a 0.22 handgun. Always. Everywhere he goes. It is his security blanket just as my blade is mine. Everybody who knows about it teases him about his 'sissy' pistol, but he never goes anywhere without it. He sleeps with it by his bed. When the police told me that Roland was killed by a 0.22, I knew that Aurelio killed him."

"And you said nothing?"

She shook her head, and he could tell she was angry, "No! I didn't say anything. I believe Roland went to that hotel with the intention of committing suicide. I am positive as sure as I am sitting here Roland had never used drugs. I never saw him finish so much as one drink. He did not use drugs, ever. Aurelio found a sandwich bag full of heroine in his room. There is no doubt in my mind, Roland went there to commit suicide. The fact that Aurelio stepped in and made sure he didn't fuck it up, does not change that fact. So, no. I didn't say anything to anybody."

"You and Collonia discussed it?"

"I confronted him after the fact and accused him of murdering my husband. He told me about the heroine."

"Did you believe him?"

She shrugged, "I decided it was in my best interest to believe him."

"What does that mean?"

"It means Roland was dead. He would not be going to jail. I could move on with my life, without having to have conjugal visits in the penitentiary for the next thirty years. I decided to accept Aurelio's story. Aurelio's version at least gave me the luxury of being angry with Roland for being a coward, which he was. It also gave me the 'out' of being the grieving widow instead of a convict's wife. I was angry with Roland for being an ass and for deciding to take the coward's way out. I confess, I was also relieved that the whole thing was over. Aurelio never actually admitted anything, but I have always assumed Roland's death was something of an 'assisted suicide'."

They were quiet for a while. It was getting late. They should have headed back to the marina, but Ray was not quite finished. He took a deep breath and said, "You told me at Christmas that if you double-crossed Aurelio, he would kill you. I take it you believe that."

"Ray, that is one absolute certainty."

"Do you feel you are in danger?"

"From Aurelio?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely. I have never for one moment allowed myself to lose sight of the possibility that Aurelio could turn on me at any time. Recall that Tonio was killed under mysterious (and unsolved) circumstances by a 0.22 caliber gun, and Aurelio thereupon inherited his father's fortune, his business and his wife. That has always seemed too pat and convenient to be a coincidence. If Aurelio could murder his father and then marry his step-mother, I have never doubted for a second I was completely expendable."

She paused for a long time, and then she said softly, "I guess the answer to the question as to whether or not I am in grave danger from Aurelio depends on whether or not I was involved in setting up Roland from the beginning."

Ray let that statement hang in the air without any comment.

Eventually, just about the time Ray thought he would lose his mind, she said, "I did not set up my husband and I did not know what Aurelio was up to at the time. Recall that I thought Aurelio had gone legit for the most part. It appears from what we know now that Aurelio set up Roland, used his company as an entrée for Aurelio to make new connections for his arms dealing operation. Then, when everything fell apart at Techtron, Aurelio killed Roland, probably to keep him from talking to the feds. Roland didn't know about Aurelio or the smuggling operation, but he knew the customers. If he had cooperated with the feds, they might have been able to put to good use some of the information Roland had. For good measure, Aurelio apparently scattered about enough incriminating evidence to make me look as though I was part of the whole scheme. I am telling you I was being used as much as Roland was, but I know I can't prove it. What is more, I'm quite sure Aurelio has planted a plenty of evidence to incriminate me."

She paused for a long time, and rested her hand on his chest, over his heart. She whispered, "And so, it appears we are close to where we started. You possess some information that could be very damaging to me. The question is, what do you intend to do with it?"

Ray pulled her closer and held her to him. He managed to croak, "I have no idea."

He cleared his throat and whispered, "Are you already working with the feds to get to Aurelio?"

She chuckled, "You know that if I were, I couldn't answer that question, and if I'm not, it would not be in my best interest to tell you that either."

She put her arms around him, held him for a long moment and then kissed him, "It's time for us to go now."

He pulled in the anchor and started the motor. He couldn't look at her. She didn't look at him either. She stared straight ahead, dry-eyed. He could not read the look on her face.

They pulled up to the dock only moments before dark and Ray started to prepare the boat for storage. Marcella made no move to clean the catch. Instead, she called to one of the fishermen nearby and offered to give him the entire catch if he would take it away. He accepted gratefully.

After he walked away, Ray and Marcella were alone. She sat down beside him in the bow and put her arms around him, "Ray, you are such a fucking Boy Scout, I know you feel duty bound to call the cops and tell them what you think you know. I want to say a couple of things. Please don't interrupt until I am finished.

"First, I don't hold it against you. I really don't. It's the way you are made; you're a stand-up kind of guy. You believe the cops are good and the robbers are bad. You believe it is your civic duty to rid your community, which you value very highly, of unsavory characters wherever they my lurk, even if that happens to be in your heart. I admire you for that. I really do. I wish I had your sense of moral certainty. I wish I could believe that the police will always evaluate evidence in the correct way. I will confess to you that I do not believe that. Perhaps I have been scarred by too many years of living in a morally ambiguous world. I've seen too many guilty people get off and too may innocent people (or at least not-terribly-guilty people) go to jail, or worse.

"I want you to know that our time together been very special for me -- life-alteringly special. Whatever you choose to do, I know it will be done with a pure heart and I forgive you completely."

He started to cry, and turned away from her. She patted him on the shoulder and kissed the back of his neck. Then she stepped up onto the dock and walked away from him without looking back.

Chapter 24

Once he felt he could trust his voice, he put in a call to Steve Johnson's work number from his cell phone. "This is Ray Bailey. I would like to talk to you as a follow-up to the conversation we had at Walt's a few months ago. Please call me at this number as soon as possible."

Next he called Victoria. He had never called her in the evening before. He regretted it as soon as the phone rang, and hung up. A minute later, she called him back. "Damn caller ID!"

He picked up the phone and said, "Hello, Victoria."

She said, "What's up that you should call me and then hang up?"

He didn't know what to say. His voice cracked and he tried, for the most part unsuccessfully, not to cry as he said, "I'm sorry. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone, and you were the only person I could think of to call."

"Why not call Marcella?"

"It's about Marcella."

She paused and then asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm at home."

"What is your address? I'll come to you."

"No. Please don't. I don't want to be a bother."

She made a sound in her throat, "It is not a bother when a friend is in trouble. Where do you live?"

He gave her directions and she hung up. He felt like such an unbelievable dork. What was the matter with him? He had a good thing for the first time in years; why did he have to go screw it up by having some kind of moral qualms about the woman?"

He paced the floor. He wanted to call Victoria and tell her not to come over, but he knew that would do no good. He wanted to prepare himself, to steel himself so he didn't cry and go all hysterical when she arrived; that would be a waste of time because he knew he was going to go to pieces the minute she walked in the door.

He was still pacing when he heard her car pull in the driveway. Victoria did not have a driver. She drove her own 10-year-old Cadillac. He opened the front door before she rang the bell. She came into the room, and took over. She hugged him tight and said, "Have you eaten?"

He shook his head. She went to the kitchen and rummaged around in the fridge. In an astonishingly short time, she had prepared a plate of sandwiches and crudités. She had the plate in one hand and two beers in the other. She asked him where he wanted to sit while they talked. He motioned to the screened porch. She handed him the plate and waited politely while he ate, sipping her beer and listening to the night sounds.

When he had finished, she said, "I didn't press you for information before, but now I think I would like for you to tell me what you know. I won't tell anyone. But, if it is a contributing factor to making you into such a basket case, I feel as though I need to know in order to give you any kind of reasonable advice."

Ray filled her in generally on Marcella's history as she had explained it, along with the additional details he had just learned.

Victoria put her arm around him and tried to comfort him, but there was little comfort to be had. The woman he had fallen in love with after so many years of being alone was definitely an international jewel smuggler, possibly a participant in a massive corporate fraud that left tens of thousands of employees broke and cost stockholders millions upon millions of dollars. She was potentially even a murderer. Victoria agreed with Ray that he had to go to the authorities, but she knew him well enough to understand that would be the hardest thing he had ever done.

Somewhat to Ray's amazement, he did not cry and fall apart. He had done that earlier with Marcella. Now he felt drained and tired. He was afraid. He was afraid that (if he was wrong about Marcella's involvement in the Techtron scandal or in Roland Wilson's death) he had just thrown away the best opportunity he might ever have for love. He was afraid that (if he was right about Marcella's involvement in all that crap) he would have to spend the next months or years watching her life collapse again in public, and he would have to deal with the quizzical looks of his friends and colleagues who, thanks to Marcella's blabbing, all knew he was involved with her. He couldn't quite decide which was worse.

He sat with his head on Victoria's shoulder for a while. Then he leaned back in the love seat and stared at the ceiling. "First, tell me what you make of the information I gave you about Marcella."

She pursed her lips and studied her hands, "I guess there is a sort of spectrum of possibilities. On the one extreme, Marcella may have been in on the Techtron scam from the very beginning. She seduced Roland, helped place Collonia's people in key places at Techtron. They planted the seeds for everything that followed, then they pulled out, but the groundwork was laid. Marcella at that point was the model corporate wife, but she may also have been placed there in order to keep Roland Wilson in line. When it all started to unravel, she opened an escape hatch for herself, which she failed to use. Did she fail to use it for the reason she gave you? Did she fail to use it because Collonia found out about it and stopped her? Or, did she fail to use it because the time had not yet come for her to need it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the escape was not to get away from the Techtron collapse as much as it was to get away from Collonia if she ever needed to do that? That's a wild guess....

"Anyway, then somebody killed Wilson. I think it was suicide, with or without assistance. I think Roland Wilson would never have gone to jail. Did Marcella have a hand in his death? Somehow I don't think she did, although I feel certain that if she suspected what he intended to do when he left for Miami, she did nothing to stop him. She certainly benefited from his death. That's motive enough for murder and I could imagine a prosecutor scoring some points with that information. I'd also bet that if Collonia killed Wilson he also planted some evidence against Marcella."

She got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a pitcher of tea and two glasses. She poured them each a glass and continued, "Somewhere in the middle is the point Marcella would have you believe she occupied. She was a more or less unwitting recruit into Collonia's smuggling operation, but she continued to work for him until now. She knew about Collonia's operations, but closed her eyes to the parts that did not involve her. She was not involved with the Techtron scam but she suspected something was wrong; again, she did not look too closely. If we are to believe her, she is a sort of tool who was manipulated by Collonia for his purposes. I think that if she was more or less in the dark about most of the bad stuff, it was more due to her failure to look than due to anyone actively trying to hide things from her. That's certainly a possibility. People do that all the time."

She sipped her tea and closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead, and pinching her brow. "There is one other possibility. You have alluded to it. There is the possibility she could be working with the authorities to get to Collonia." She smiled, "One could go crazy thinking up opportunities at which point that could have happened. Looking at the time line, there are a whole lot of places where the FBI could have recruited her. It sounds crazy, but it's the only thing that really explains why she wasn't arrested or at least investigated more closely. If that is true, then she is in terrible danger from Collonia."

He put his face in his hands, "If that is true, then I just threw her away for no reason."

She shook her head, "I wouldn't say it is for no reason. Even if you were willing to blink at the smuggling -- which I am not sure I think you should do because who's to say what she was really smuggling -- if there is any possibility she was involved with the Techtron business or, God forbid, murder, you have to go to the cops. She's right it is your civic duty to report crimes you know to have been committed. As a law-abiding citizen, I think you have to do it. I know you've turned people in before when you ran across evidence during your research on stories."

He nodded. "What do you think?"

"I think whoever planted all that evidence for us to find did a great job of muddying the waters."

"What?"

"Whether it was Collonia, the feds or Marcella herself, somebody has laid down a trail of evidence that is pretty amazing. It is damning enough to make me think Collonia did it in order to keep her from bailing out on his operations. It is ambiguous enough to allow for the possibility she is working both sides of the street. Most of all, it is impossible to draw any real conclusions from it."

"God, I've got a headache."

She stood up. "You need to go to bed. I am going home. When are you meeting with your FBI friend?"

"I left a message on his work machine. I assume he'll call me tomorrow."

"Come to my house when you are finished. I'll only need fifteen minutes notice."

He stood up and walked her to the door. She patted his arm and stood on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. He said, "Thank you for being here."

She smiled and said, "It's what friends do."

He glanced at his watch. It was still early enough to call Karen. He wanted to let her know what was happening. He also hoped against all hope that she had uncovered something new which would clarify the situation. When she answered, he blurted out an abbreviated version of his conversation with Marcella and told her he had contacted the FBI. There was a long pause. She said softly, "Ray, I can only imagine how hard this must be for you. I want you to know I am really sorry for you. If I can help in any way, please, you have only to ask."

He smiled into the phone and answered, "You know, I think the one good thing about this whole situation is that I am finding out who my real friends are. It's good to know who's got your back, and I have to tell you I feel good knowing that I have you and Victoria in my corner." He laughed, perhaps a little hysterically, "Lord knows I'd be scared as hell to have the two of you on my bad side."

She laughed too, but not with any real amusement. She told him she had come up with nothing else. He told her to stop looking. The FBI could take over. They would just have to read about it in the newspapers. He said, "One thing for sure, you won't see my byline on any of those articles."

She said, "Let me know how your conversation goes with the agent." Then she added with a slight catch in her voice, "Call me if you need me."

Chapter 25

The next morning Ray sat at his desk reading the newspaper, or pretending to. Mainly he was staring off into space listening for his phone to ring. He dreaded meeting with the FBI, but he also wanted to get it over with. Even though he was expecting it, when his cell phone rang, he jumped. He picked it up and tried to keep his voice calm. Steve Johnston suggested Ray come to his office, and bring with him whatever information or notes he had. It was a ten minute walk from Ray's office. He had all his notes and printouts of the emails from Karen in his briefcase. He had known Steve would want to keep the originals, so he had made scanned copies of them which he saved on his computer at home.

Steve met Ray at the reception desk and ushered him into a conference room. Ray was pretty sure there were cameras in the room. He tried not to think about that. Steve offered coffee. Ray told him he'd take a glass of water. The agent left him there alone for a few minutes while he went to get the water. Ray noticed there was a person standing outside the door the whole time Steve was gone. He sighed, wondering for the first time, what kind of evidence might have been planted to implicate him in Marcella's criminal activity. For a minute he felt as if he might panic. He wanted to leave, but knew the officer, now leaning casually against the wall outside the door, would make sure he stayed put.

Steve returned with a pitcher of water and some glasses. He also had a woman with him who was carrying stenographic equipment. Steve sat down and said, "Ray, I want to make this as easy as possible for you. We'd like to transcribe your statement. We'll go through this very carefully once. If we are careful and thorough, we will not have to trouble you again."

Ray nodded. "How do you want to do this?"

Steve said, "You're a writer. You tell me the story from the beginning. Take as long as you need. When you're finished, we'll go back and I'll ask questions. I have all day. I hope you do, too."

Ray took a sip of water and began, "I don't know how to separate out what I know about Marcella Wilson from the relationship I had with her at the time the information became available to me. It also just occurred to me that if someone is trying to frame her, they could also have put out some incriminating evidence about me. Therefore, I am going to include the parts about my personal relationship with her. I sure as hell would love it if you did not need to use the personal parts in any reports you write.

"Anyway, I managed to get an invitation to the Yacht Club fund raiser, where I met Marcella....."

He went through the story in chronological order, referring to his notes. When he finished with a page of notes, he slid it face down across the table to Steve, like a poker dealer. Steve placed the notes, face down in the growing pile in front of him. The keys of the stenographer's transcribing machine clicked softly. Johnston took copious notes, written in pencil on a yellow legal pad. Ray found the scratching of the pencil on the pad irritating; he tried to drown it out with his words.

When Ray finished his narrative, Steve referred to his notes and led Ray back through the story, asking a lot of questions about certain events. Ray found it especially interesting that Steve asked very few questions about Marcella's involvement with Techtron. He asked a lot of questions about Collonia.

They went through the story three times in all. By then Ray was sick of talking about it, and he felt the agent had every bit of information he had. On top of that the agent had managed to solicit every opinion or theory Ray had come up with to explain the craziness.

Mercifully by early afternoon, they were finished. Johnston asked Ray if he wanted to go out for lunch. Ray shook his head and said, "No, thanks. I have lunch plans."

He walked out to his car and called Victoria to let her know he was on his way. Then, on a hunch, he called Marcella's home number. The number was disconnected. He called her cell number. It, too, was disconnected. He called Karen Thompson's cell. He knew she didn't answer her cell phone at work but he left a message asking her to recheck her sources on Marcella's various identities, and to call him as soon as she had done so.

He drove to Victoria's house on automatic pilot. They talked little about the events of the morning. Mostly they chatted about the kinds of local news and gossip they ordinarily discussed. Ray knew he needed to get back to normal. Now was as good a time as any to start that. Victoria seemed to understand that as well, so she chattered on about a variety of subjects.

Too soon, he found he had had enough. He was preparing to leave when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number and flipped open the phone. "Hello, Karen. What's up?"

"You caught me on a day off. I did what you asked. Your hunch was correct. I can't find any record of a Marcia Pappas or M. V. Papillon. Even Marcella Pappias is gone. Once again Marcella Wilson seems to have not existed before she married Roland. It's kind of creepy. Those records are just gone."

Ray said, "So is she."

"Where'd she go?"

"What does it matter? She's gone."

In the next few days, he waited for news of her arrest. There was nothing. He called Steve Johnston's office and learned that Johnston had been transferred to another post.

One day on a hunch he called the Captain of the fishing vessel he had chartered in Marathon. The guy did not remember him at all. He had no record of the charter. Ray gave him the date and the name of the boat. He laughed and said, "Nah, you must be confused. At that time that boat was chartered out for a week to a guy from New York. He took it to the Bahamas. I took advantage of the opportunity to go on vacation."

Ray put down the phone. It had all been a lie. That fishing trip was a set up for the purpose of corroborating the tale Marcella had told him about her background, to convince him she was telling the truth.

Why?

He wondered and worried and wracked his brain about that, and most of all he wondered why on earth she had picked him, of all people, for whatever it was she was up to. He could come up with no possible explanation for that.

The days and weeks rolled by with no news about Marcella Wilson at all. He couldn't understand it. He had been certain the FBI would arrest her soon, but nothing appeared in the press.

Chapter 26

One morning, Victoria called Ray at work and left a message asking him, in a strained voice, to come to her house just as soon as he could. He returned her call to make sure she was okay and, once he was sure she was alright, he told her he would be there by mid-afternoon.

When he arrived, Victoria escorted him into the parlor and introduced him to her son, the newspaperman from Chicago, and another man, who by his accent, appeared to be British. They engaged in small talk for a few minutes while Victoria laid out tea. Ray noticed with amusement the Brit seemed very impressed that she took the time and made the effort to put out a "proper tea". Ray knew that was simply the way Victoria did it. Ray wondered for a second where Victoria had learned the art of British tea-time. He knew he was allowing himself to be distracted because he had a really bad feeling about where this encounter was headed.

He became even more concerned about what was coming when Victoria chose a seat next to him on the sofa and put her hand over his. That seemed to be some sort of signal for the ordeal to commence. Ray found himself holding his breath. Victoria must have noticed because she patted his hand and then held it very tight.

Victoria's son, Hank, began, "Ray, I'm not going to waste time pussy-footing around. We are here today to give you some information about the woman you knew as Marcella Wilson. I don't know that what we have to tell you will make you feel any better, but you deserve to hear it.

"This is Peter MacNeil. He is with British law enforcement. He contacted me the other day requesting me to put him in touch with you. This entire conversation, as you might already suspect, is not just deep-background, it has not happened at all. Do you understand?"

Ray nodded.

MacNeil said softly, "Please acknowledge that out loud."

Ray raised his eyebrows, "You are recording a conversation that is not supposed to be happening?"

MacNeil nodded, "Yes, sir, we are."

Ray sighed, "Yes, I acknowledge that what is said in this room stays here."

MacNeil took over, "First of all, I am here today because the woman in question insisted we have this conversation. It is very irregular and, from the standpoint of normal procedure, it is highly improper. The only reason we are doing it is because she made it clear that if we didn't do it through channels she would do it herself, in person. Naturally, you will come to understand why that would probably not be a good idea. I will add here that the reason I am recording the conversation is not for any purposes of police business. The woman insisted we record the conversation so we could prove to her we have made all of the disclosures she wants us to make. For reasons you probably already can surmise, and which will become excruciatingly clear as the story progresses, the woman is not a particularly trusting sort," he paused and sighed, "with excellent reason."

"I have actually two stories to tell you. The first is a sort of general outline of the events that were going on in the world that are pertinent. Then I will tell you how the woman fit in, and your role in the story.

"As you are aware, Tonio Collonia ran a smuggling operation from the United States. He started small in the early 1950's but by the mid-1970's he had a worldwide operation moving jewels, art and small arms that would impress the people who run Federal Express. Every law enforcement operation in the world knew about the operation, but Collonia was so good, nobody could catch him. At a meeting in Paris in 1972 law enforcement from several countries decided that they would continue to try to catch Collonia, but they wanted to do it by finding out who his contacts were and trying to break up the whole operation instead of just arresting a mule now and then. The participants in that meeting decided to plant an operative inside Collonia's organization. They were in no hurry. It had to be the right person at the right time. All agents working on the case were urged to focus on finding a person who could be planted on the inside, or a person who was already on the inside whom law enforcement could enlist.

"In 1975 they found the perfect person. More on that later.

"In 1989, when the Soviet Union collapsed, several nuclear warheads disappeared. Military and law enforcement personnel around the world have been looking for those warheads ever since. We put intense focus on the Collonia operation because we believed, rightly it turned out, that Aurelio Collonia, who had inherited his father's business (after murdering his father), had the only arms dealing operation sophisticated enough to move nukes. Collonia took his time and laid his groundwork perfectly.

"Collonia decided to use his dad's technique of running his crime business out of the back rooms of legitimate businesses. He looked around for an international company he could take over, but he could not find one. Instead, he decided to essentially create on from scratch after hearing Roland Wilson make a speech at a Palm Beach party they both attended sometime in the late 1980's. Essentially, Collonia decided to use Roland Wilson as a front for his arms dealing operation and an entrée into the developing countries where there were private militias, terrorist organizations or rogue governments who might be interested in buying nuclear weapons.

"The next part was just an unholy disaster. Because we had people on the inside of Techtron, not just our deep plant in the Collonia organization, but a significant number of employees were plants as well. We knew in advance that Techtron would collapse. I can't tell you how many meetings were held between American authorities, the FBI, SEC, IRS and international law enforcement in the years immediately prior to Techtron's collapse. The Americans, rightly, wanted to move in, shut down Techtron and salvage the personal fortunes of its employees, who were virtually all American citizens. International law enforcement insisted that, as unfortunate as the personal financial fate of the Techtron employees was, the key thing was not to lose sight of the nukes. We knew by then that Collonia was offering nuclear warheads for sale to every manner of nefarious bastard in the developing world. A number of them had expressed serious interest. We believed he was very close to making a couple of deals.

"One of the groups Collonia was negotiating with – that he thought was a terrorist organization – was actually a sting orchestrated on by an international team under the aegis of Interpol. By 2003, a deal was immanent and we were very close to recovering the warheads, but Techtron collapsed before we had a chance to complete the deal. We needed to buy a little more time. By then Collonia was very suspicious. He knew there was someone inside his operation, and he was nervous. The only way we had managed to keep our operative relatively safe was to keep her out in the open, in public. After Collonia murdered Roland Wilson, it became even more important to keep Mrs. Wilson out in the public eye until we could wrap up our operations.

"I can tell you that recently all of the nuclear warheads have been secured. They are under UN control, and are now in Europe where they will be dismantled. You will not read that story in the press, and if either of you," he looked pointedly at both Caruthers and Ray, "print it, there will be serious and dire consequences."

He continued, "The story you will read in the papers tomorrow is that Aurelio Collonia is dead. He was killed yesterday in his sleep while he was vacationing in Belize." He chuckled. "Actually what you will read is that an 'American businessman with suspected mob ties' was murdered in an apparent robbery. The crime will be unsolved. What you will not read," he looked at Victoria, "Mrs. Caruthers, I apologize. What you will not read is that his throat slit from behind one ear to the other by a small knife." He paused. Ray thought he might vomit, but he managed to keep still and swallow furiously. Victoria gripped his hand like a vise; he was not sure if it was for his benefit, or hers.

MacNeil leaned back and changed his tone. "That's the framework and background. Now I'm going to back up and fill in the details you really want to know.

"The woman you knew as Marcella Wilson nee Marcia Pappas was almost a complete fiction. She was created for the purpose of making you fall in love with her. There is a whole area of intelligence that works on stuff like that, roping people into helping us. It is sort of like Fantasy Island meets James Bond. They picked you to be the person who could keep Marcella Wilson in the public eye and away from Collonia on a daily basis while at the same time allowing her to continue the final stages of her assignment. She was so close after thirty years under cover she wanted to finish it. She was in grave danger every minute of every day and her handlers begged and pleaded with her to let them pull her out, but she insisted on finishing what she had started. With serious misgivings they agreed to allow her to do that, but she needed a new cover. She needed someone who would be able to keep her in the public eye but who would also at some point turn her in to the authorities. That was key. It had to be someone who would give her time to operate, but who would ultimately be willing to let her go.

"How a team made up almost entirely of Europeans operating out of London and Paris came up with you, I don't know, but you were perfect. You were a prominent person in your field even though you lived in a small market. I won't go into detail with the factors they looked at. The key things were that you would investigate her background but not jump to conclusions too quickly, which would give us time to finish our operation, and you would, in the end, turn her in and be willing to let her go. That was key, of course."

Ray interrupted, "Did those people have anything to do with Deborah's visit?"

He paused. "We knew she was sick. Someone who knew someone who knew her husband gently suggested that closure in your relationship might be a good thing. That may have been somewhat manipulative, but I have to tell you that the result of that appeared to have been beneficial on both sides. It served its purpose of priming you for an encounter with another woman, but I think it also had the added side benefit of accomplishing something for you and Mrs. Bashears that was necessary." He shrugged, "Or perhaps I am simply rationalizing to avoid feeling guilty for the way we manipulated you both."

Ray nodded and said impatiently, "Go on."

"They completely invented Marcia Pappas for your benefit. She was the bait they used to hook you. No such person ever existed, I am sorry to tell you." Ray sighed. Victoria took his hand in both of hers.

MacNeil continued, "Her real name was Brenda Neiser. Her mother did in fact die when she was very young and her father was a fishing boat captain operating out of Galveston, Texas. She grew up on the boat and learned to fish in the manner you witnessed. I have never seen her fish, but those who have seen it tell me it is incredible."

Ray nodded and murmured, "Incredible is hardly the word for it."

MacNeil continued, "Her father was nothing like the sort of benevolently clueless Christopher Pappas. In fact from the time she was about twelve or so, her father actually rented her out along with the boat to clients who were interested in that kind of thing." Ray felt his gorge rise again, but he forced himself to listen. He had wanted to know the whole story. Here it was. She had lived through it; the least he could do was listen to the story.

"When she was sixteen or seventeen, Tonio Collonia chartered her father's boat. Her father threw Brenda in with the deal. Collonia apparently liked her, or saw something in her, anyway. He offered her father $10,000 to keep her. Her father demanded twice that and Collonia wrote him a check. Brenda was present when that deal was made." Victoria and Ray both started to cry.

"Collonia took her to Chicago and apparently availed himself of her body for a while. At some point he realized how smart she was and he decided she had some potential uses in his organization, so he sent her off to boarding school, first to a convent school in Chicago where she learned the rudiments of manners and deportment. Prior to that, she had apparently hardly ever gone to school. She had taught herself to read using the newspaper, but she could barely write her name. The nuns at the boarding school worked with her and in less than a year they had brought her up to the level of a senior in high school. One of the nuns who was her teacher told one of our people that Brenda was the most brilliant student she had ever seen.

"Collonia next sent her to finishing school in Switzerland. She went as his niece. It was one of those boarding schools where the super rich send their daughters mainly to get them out of the way. Brenda took full advantage of the opportunity. She tore through the curriculum and while she was at it learned to speak several languages from the various co-eds in her dorm. After that, she spent two years studying international finance at the Sorbonne.

"When she was 21, Collonia brought her back to Chicago and married her. Very soon after that, he put her to work in his business. He reserved her for the jewel and art deals that required someone who could fit in with the rich and cultured people in many countries. She could do that in spades. She could pass for a 'lady' from any one of perhaps seven or eight different countries and even fool the real deals." He looked at Victoria, "Am I not right about that?"

Victoria nodded, smiling at the compliment, and said, "That is correct."

"What Collonia did not know at that point was that Brenda was already working for us. Shortly after Brenda arrived in Switzerland, European law enforcement sent in a couple of teachers and planted a couple of students. The teachers mentored her. The students befriended her. By the time she left the boarding school at only nineteen years of age, she was a fully trained intelligence agent.

"At the Sorbonne she studied international finance in the daytime. In the evenings she studied about international crime, weapons, art, jewels and martial arts." He laughed. "Again, all of her teachers and trainers claimed she was a brilliant student. The only teacher who ever expressed any reservations about her was one of her martial arts teachers who was not affiliated with law enforcement. He reported his concern that she could be dangerous; he thought she harbored a deep well of anger that would make her capable of killing. That was, of course, simply another jewel in her crown as far as her intelligence handlers were concerned.

"She came back to the U.S. and buried herself deep in Collonia's operations. She only rarely connected with her handlers. One of them posed as a regular client of Collonia's. Brenda made periodic deliveries to that person, and usually stayed for a few days of R&R at his home."

Ray asked, "Was that the man in Portugal?"

MacNeil nodded and continued, "As I said Tonio Collonia married her. Shortly thereafter, Aurelio and his father got into a dispute over both the direction in which the business was headed and the person of Tonio's wife. Aurelio felt that his father was not taking advantage of the full potential of either. So Aurelio killed his father, took over the business and married Brenda.

"You should know that Brenda rather liked Tonio. He had rescued her from a sordid childhood and given her an education and a future as something other than a hooker on the docks of Galveston. He was apparently fond of her and treated her well. Brenda never forgave her father for selling her, but she did not hold the transaction against Tonio.

"To say that Brenda was not fond of Aurelio, who modeled himself more after the Central American drug lords than the traditional Old World Mafia, would be a serious understatement. In fact Brenda hated Aurelio, but she married him and continued to work in the organization, reporting, whenever possible, to her handlers from Europe. She did that for more than thirty years." His voice expressed a combination of amazement and admiration. Tears continued to course down Ray's cheeks. Victoria was trembling violently.

"In the late 1980's, Aurelio pointed her at Roland Wilson, and created an alter ego for Wilson's benefit. That created a crisis for Brenda because she was already living a double life. She was very nervous about adding a third layer of complexity. Interestingly, one of her biggest issues was that Collonia was asking her to become a bigamist. I never understood that. She hated Aurelio. She actually rather liked Roland Wilson at first, until she found out what a spineless and selfish weasel he was.

"When Techtron began to devolve, everyone of her handlers at one time or another tried to pull her out, but she wouldn't go. There had never been any doubt in anyone's mind that we would never arrest Aurelio. Once we got the nukes, Aurelio was to be eliminated. Sometimes I think that the only thing that kept her going at times was her hatred of Aurelio and her determination to be the one to take him out.

"Unbelievably, somehow she hung in there. Collonia knew there was a plant somewhere in his organization and when the FBI never zeroed in on Marcella Wilson during its investigation of Techtron, Collonia began to suspect her. That started the final stages of the dance. She had to stay close enough to him to allow her to have access to his operations, but not so close that he could get her alone."

Ray interrupted, "I'm lost. She told me Aurelio was married and had a family."

The agent laughed, "Yes. After Brenda, who was going by the name of Marcella Johnson, married Roland Wilson, Aurelio married his long-time mistress and in subsequent years had three children. And, yes, that means that both Mrs. Wilson and Aurelio were bigamists, but I guess in the big scheme of things, that is one of their more minor crimes." Ray leaned over and put his head in his hands. The agent said, "I know it's insane. Don't try to make sense of it."

He went on. "After Techtron collapsed, Collonia killed Roland Wilson in Miami. What did not make the press was that he also left a clear warning that Brenda would understand to the effect that he was after her, too. That information was not made public, but Brenda knew about it. We were so very close to the nukes, we absolutely could not risk either pulling her out at that point or letting Aurelio kill her. So, we brought you in to keep her safe until we could finish the deal on the nukes. We pulled Brenda out the minute we had them, by kidnapping her. That was several weeks ago. We took her to Europe and kept her in isolation. Somebody else was supposed to finish off Collonia.

"Brenda had not been an undercover operative and international smuggler for thirty years without learning a few things about escape and evasion. She got away from us. We knew where she would go. She finished her assignment yesterday. Then she returned to the protection of law enforcement who were waiting for her outside Aurelio's bungalow."

Ray swallowed hard and whispered hoarsely, "Where is she now? Will she be prosecuted?"

"She will not be prosecuted. The murder of Aurelio Collonio will never be solved, or if it is, someone else will go to jail for it. She is out now. Out of the smuggling business and out of the intelligence business, too. She's officially a retired spook. I, personally, don't know where she is. She made it clear she does not want to ever be contacted by anyone from my organization again.

"Quite honestly, I think she hates us as much as she hated Aurelio Collonia, for much the same reason, and, in my opinion, with absolute justification. Both Collonia and the law enforcement organizations that were trying to catch him took over her life when she was too young to have developed any psychological protection mechanisms. We both proceeded to manipulate and control her ever since. Law enforcement was as responsible as Collonia for screwing up any chance she may ever have had for a normal life.

"She has plenty of money." He laughed. "Probably a whole lot more than we know. My guess is she was skimming the profits from the work she did for Aurelio from the beginning. She has her pension from British law enforcement, plus whatever she accumulated on her own. She's gone, and we have agreed not to try too hard to find her. My guess is that somebody in my organization will discretely look after her, but only from a distance, if he knows what's good for him."

He looked at Ray and said, "I know this has been hard for you to listen to, but she insisted we tell you. She wanted you to know first of all that you played a role in a significant event, but more importantly, she wanted you to know that you did not betray her. Your turning her in to the FBI was the signal. The unit making the buy of the nukes was feeding information to your researcher. The signal that the deal was done was the incriminating evidence against Marcella Wilson. If you had turned her in too soon, it would have been bad. If you had decided not to turn her in, she would be dead, because Aurelio knew by then that Brenda betrayed him.

"You played your role perfectly because you were honest, true and principled, exactly as everyone expected you would be. You did not betray her. You saved her life."

He handed Ray an envelope. Ray opened it and read it.

Ray,

I doubt you will never be able to forgive me for all the lies I told you and the way I, and so many others you did not even know about, deceived you. I am accustomed to living in a world of lies and deceit. Until I met you, I don't think I had ever met a totally honest and decent person. For all the lies I told you, I want you to know that it was true was that I trusted you. I trusted you with my life. My trust in you scared the living hell out of me.

You behaved exactly as they expected you to, and your integrity saved my life. For that I am grateful.

You planted the seed of trust in my heart. It scares me to have it, and I don't know if it will ever sprout. Frankly, I am not sure I would know what I would do with it in any case, but it is there where it never was before. Given the life I have lived, that is more than I ever could have hoped for.

Thank you.

Ray noted there was no signature. It was no from Marcella Wilson. The person who wrote the letter was a woman he had never met.

He remembered the recording device and said softly, "She forgave me in advance for doing what I had to do. How can I do less for her when she was walking such a fine line between doing a service for humankind and saving her own life? Forgiveness is not really an issue, but if it is what she wants, I forgive her."

He lowered his head in his hands again and tried not to sob loud enough for the tape record it. Victoria put her arm across his shoulders, and said to the agent, "Are we finished here, sir?"

He nodded and said, "Yes, madame, I believe we are finished here." He turned off the tape and reached out to take the envelope from Ray's. Ray held onto it. The agent shrugged and allowed Hank to show him out. Mercifully, Hank went into the kitchen and left Ray alone with Victoria.

Victoria continued to hold Ray's hand. She asked, "How much of that did you believe?"

Ray shook his head and said, "You wouldn't know it by my recent behavior, but I'm a skeptic. I believed almost nothing of that tale, except for this." He held up the envelope. "Somebody went to a hell of a lot of trouble for her to let me know she's okay. I don't know, or care, why. I have to tell you, I appreciate it more than I can say.

"Now I can go on with my life without holding my breath every time I read the newspapers expecting to see stories of her arrest."

She patted his arm as she walked him to the door. He walked down the stairs, blinking in the afternoon sun, and headed back to work.

The End

**Meredith Morgan** is a pseudonym for an author who grew up in the Midwest and now lives in Florida.

Born at the apex of the Baby Boom wave in the mid 1950's, every time she thinks of some great new, original idea or plan, she knows that next week it will show up on the cover of "Time" Magazine as the "Next Big Thing." She exhibits all the narcissistic Boomer neuroses, plus a few extra just to make things interesting, all of which she pours into her writing.

She enjoys walking the beaches, cooking (in theory if not in actual practice), and collecting odd, unusual and utterly useless bits of knowledge.

**Visit her blog at:** http://meredith-morgan.blogspot.com/
