Flyin' Solo, page 7
I closed the door to my office and punched in Captain Dave’s number. It was my day for recordings. Captain Dave was gone fishing but would call me back as soon as he returned. Ahoy, yourself.
I called Mark. It was too late to think about brunch at Pancake Pantry.
‘How about lunch?’ Mark asked.
‘Sure. What time?’
‘One, one thirty? Let the worst of the lunch rush clear out?’
‘Sounds good. Thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. You’re buying lunch.’
I walked down the street and waited in line to get a table. I watched the every day parade of Hillsboro Village while I waited for Mark. Music industry types mixed with Vanderbilt students, med center staff and businesspeople in the Village. Twenty-first Avenue South runs through the Village, and a few blocks south the street becomes Hillsboro Road. If you followed Hillsboro Road south for thirty miles or so, you’d find the actual village of Hillsboro for which the road was named. Confusing? That’s nothing compared to trying to find something on Old Hickory Boulevard in Nashville.
Mark found me frowning at the traffic inching through the Village, even more crowded at lunchtime than usual.
‘What’s up? When you call out of the blue like that, you usually want something.’
‘Do I? I’m sorry. But, yeah, I do want something. What do you know about Franklin Young?’
‘Besides that he’s missing? What’s your connection with Franklin Young?’
I told him. I told him about high school and the reunion and the dinner at Blue Moon. I decided not to tell him yet about the email.
‘You mean you could have been Mrs Franklin Young, the third? You could have been a multi-millionaire?’
‘Well, no. That’s kind of the point. He broke my heart, and I didn’t hear from him for twenty years.’
‘Franklin Young! I mean, that would have been a whole different life. You’d be a whole different person!’
I looked at him. ‘What makes you think that? What makes you think I wouldn’t be the same person I am?’
‘You know what Everett Dirksen said. “A million here, a million there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” Real money, forty, fifty million or so, has a way of changing a person.’
‘Fifty million?’
‘That’s cash in the bank, they say, well, just the spending money, not counting the house in Belle Meade, the condo in south Florida, although that technically belongs to the corporation, the house in Aspen, the portfolio, the HealthwaRx shares. There was a house in the Bahamas, Eleuthera, maybe, but they sold it last year. Word was, they were looking for something on Maui. And that’s not counting her money, either, the assets of Erika’s Lifestyle Balance, Inc.’
‘So that sailboat would have been pocket change.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So what have you heard in the last couple of days?’
‘Only what I read in the paper. I haven’t heard any whispers. Of course, nobody at the paper knew about you.’
‘There’s nothing to know about me.’
‘Lakeside tryst? Mrs Young’s fortune at risk to a second wife? That could be a motive for something.’
‘It wasn’t a tryst; it was a talk. And what happened to him was a storm.’
‘Well, OK, if you’re going to insist on facts.’
I glared at him as the waitress approached, a discrete silver stud piercing her left nostril. ‘You guys ready to order?’
‘Yeah,’ Mark said. ‘She’s paying, so I’ll have an omelet with ham, cheese, onions and jalapenos, maybe some cheese grits on the side.’
I went with the Club Salad.
‘Did he at least get you in on the IPO?’
‘No, I saw something about it, but I didn’t have anything spare to invest. I know those IPOs are usually tied up with big investors. I didn’t even try.’
‘Worried about insider trading violations?’ Mark worked at keeping the bland look on his face.
I considered throwing the bread at him, but it was too good.
‘It might be just as well, though,’ he went on. ‘One guy in Business did say he’d heard a whisper or two that the stock might not perform the way everybody’s been expecting it to. There’s some talk that maybe the company’s a little more cash poor than anybody knew. Enron and Worldspan bookkeeping, maybe. But, after all, the reason most companies go public is to raise cash for one reason or another.’
‘You’ll let me know what you hear, won’t you?’
‘Sure. If you’ll buy me a blintz for dessert.’
‘So much for ethics in journalism.’
He smiled, cheerful and not at all offended. ‘You’ve always told me that’s an oxymoron anyway.’
TWENTY-ONE
I talked to Marcella that afternoon. No news, and no news was beginning to be bad news. ‘The Coast Guard hasn’t said how long they’ll keep up the search. There are volunteers out looking, and there’s a lot of shipping in that area, commercial and private. Everybody’s trying to stay optimistic. He’s in shape; he’s smart. He’s taken the survival courses. If anybody can make it through this, Franklin can.’
Yeah. And in Nashville there was nothing to do but wait.
Wait and plan that college basketball trip to Freeport. So that’s how I spent the afternoon. I had to find space in a hotel that had no gaming, no gambling at all. It’s an NCAA regulation. NCAA teams have to stay in non-gaming properties even in the Bahamas. Gaming is a major tourism asset in the Bahamas. How many places don’t even have a slot machine? It took a while. It took me all afternoon to find two properties that seemed to fit our parameters: good resort, safe, reasonable price, no slots, restaurants on site. It looked like I would have to make a quick trip there to check them out.
If I hadn’t worked late, I’d have missed Captain Dave’s call. It was six thirty, and I almost didn’t answer the phone.
‘Miss Hale? Captain Dave. I had a message that you called.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for calling back. Any news?’
‘No. Sorry. Nothing.’
‘They’re still searching?’
‘Yes, yes. The Coast Guard is still searching, and a lot of local boaters are out. They’re communicating with the Coast Guard. There are a lot of people out there looking.’
And not finding anything. Unspoken, it hung there in the air, hummed on the line.
‘Look, I know you all know how to do this. I just, I just … I don’t know. I was just thinking, wondering, I mean, if you know where he was, when you talked to him last, and which way the current moves from there, where something would get to in a couple of days, which direction at least?’ I quit rambling.
Captain Dave cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. Yeah, you’re right. Folks who know the waters, men who’ve been around here forever, they know how the currents go. But … a storm like that, winds like that … You can’t predict. You know, with the wind, anything on the surface, there’s no way to know.’
I nodded, but Captain Dave couldn’t see me. ‘Yeah, that makes sense,’ I said finally. ‘Is anything missing from the boat, besides the life jacket, I mean?’
‘Oh, yeah. Most anything that would have been on deck, outside the cabin, cushions from the deck. They float, you know. They’re not life jackets, but you can hold on to them. They float. He coulda’ grabbed one of them, more’n one, float a long time. Some bumpers were gone, some line. The bumpers float, too.’
‘What about the life raft? One was on the boat, right? Was it … is it still there?’
Silence. Then he spoke. ‘Yeah. Yeah, there was a life raft, inflatable, fastened in a container bolted on deck. And, yeah, it’s still there. The container was open, the raft partially inflated, like maybe he tried to get to it. Yeah, it’s still there.’
I couldn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. I nodded. He waited.
‘Miss Hale?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’m here. Thanks. I just, I mean, I know you guys know what to do. I just …’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘I know. You keep thinking there’s one more thing. And you keep hoping.’
‘Yeah, thanks. Thanks.’
‘We’re all still hoping.’
‘Thanks.’
I hung up.
I locked the door behind me as I left the office, breathing deep in the summer late-afternoon air, smelling honeysuckle even here. Even in Hillsboro Village, somewhere not far away honeysuckle was growing, languishing over a backyard fence, creeping up a telephone pole, trailing its intoxicating scent like a lady, seductive but just out of sight. I was looking forward to the drive home, late enough to miss the traffic, the Spider’s top down in the soft air. But clouds were piling up in the west, darkening the sunset. The air felt heavier than it had when I was out at lunch, and I could smell the rain on it.
Then it hit me. The cat! I’d forgotten all about Rex! That’s exactly why I had never wanted a pet. I didn’t want to have to rush home to feed something or let it out or put it in. Now this tiny homeless cat was hungry and feeling abandoned in this strange cardboard box. I had to get home.
I raced the clouds across town, west to east, trying to beat the storm I could see coming and hoping the cat wasn’t panicking. As I seemed to be.
TWENTY-TWO
The first huge raindrops were splattering against my windshield like water balloons when I pulled into the driveway. I put the top up. Lightning was punctuating the storm. I ran across the yard. As I reached the porch, lightning hit close enough to rattle the house. I heard the ripping sound of a tree splitting nearby. I jumped and dropped my keys, but I finally made it inside. I leaned against the door, glad to be in out of the storm and feeling safe.
Then I heard it. Not really meowing, more like mewing. The cat! The poor baby had been all alone in the storm. OK. But this is why I never wanted a pet.
I followed the sound of the mewing to the kitchen. ‘It’s OK, baby. I’m here. It’s just a little old storm. Yeah, you’re fine.’ I was talking to the cat. One day, and I was talking to the cat.
I picked it up, looked Lightning in the eyes. ‘I am not going to talk to you. Don’t be thinking you can just move in here and I’ll be telling you about my day at work.’ Holding him with my left arm, I emptied and refilled his water dish and set them both on the floor. He drank and then wandered back to me, stumbling and rubbing against my wet shoe. ‘Oh, no, you’re doing that ankle rubbing thing.’ OK, OK. I put some cat food in the appropriate dish and set it near his water.
I poured myself a glass of iced tea and picked him up and carried him to the den. I sat down, and Tigger – no, absolutely too cute – settled down in my lap. He was soft. That tiny vibrating purring. I could see how people could get used to this. I turned on the TV just in time for the local news.
Fly was the lead story. Local business leader lost at sea. There was film of the boat, a close-up of the boom where the blood was – confirmed now as Fly’s blood type, not enough time for DNA yet – the torn life jacket. And Captain Dave. He looked the part with a weather-bleached gray beard and faded T-shirt, and his broad As revealed his Boston background. ‘He seemed to know what he was doing, had a license. But this was a heck of a storm.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve never lost anybody yet. Everybody’s still looking.’
The camera cut back to the Nashville reporter. This story was big enough that they’d sent a local reporter to Florida. ‘Jeremy, the official Coast Guard position is that this is still a search and rescue mission. Everyone here is trying to be positive.’ Here he shook his head, Miami sun glinting off his hair. ‘But the longer searchers go without finding Franklin Young, the harder it is to remain hopeful.’
Then the story was back in Nashville. ‘Young’s wife, author Erika Young, spoke briefly with reporters today.’ There was Erika, somber and pale in a black suit, conservative pearls, a more restrained look than she usually wore. Her two children, Fly’s children, stood on either side of her. A sad, beautiful family. ‘We’ – she twisted a handkerchief in her hands – ‘just want everyone to know how much we appreciate your concern, your prayers. We’re still confident that Franklin will be found.’ She put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder and gripped her son’s hand. ‘And the men and women who are searching for Franklin, the Coast Guard, the volunteers, people who’ve risked their own lives to look for Franklin – thank you. You can’t know how much we appreciate what you’re doing.’
The clip ended, and a photo of Fly was projected over the anchor’s shoulder as she spoke, somber now. ‘Business analysts here in Nashville and across the country are trying to assess the effect Franklin Young’s absence may have on HealthwaRx. Young’s partners have issued a statement that their first concern is to find Franklin and support his family, but that the company is stable and secure. We’ll keep you informed as the situation develops.’
‘Bill, is the storm going to have an effect on our weather here in Middle Tennessee?’
I wasn’t listening. How long would they keep searching? I realized something that felt like sandpaper was rubbing my hand. The cat. ‘Fluffy?’ Who’d have thought a soft little kitten’s tongue would feel like four-aught sandpaper. ‘Garfield?’ Nope, probably trademarked.
Suddenly I had to get out of the house. The storm had ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving sunshine to finish the day. ‘Sorry, Kitty, this bonding’s going to have to wait.’ I picked up the phone and called MaryNell. ‘I really, really need a movie or something. Can you meet me?’
‘Oh, hon, I can’t. Melissa’s got five teenage girls here. I can’t leave. You want to come over here?’
‘No. No. Thanks, but I don’t need to be in the middle of a houseful of teenage girls.’ I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
‘Julie’s here. Sam’s daughter. You could bond.’
I had already decided that bonding was what I didn’t need tonight.
‘No. Thanks.’
‘You OK?’ I could hear the concern in her voice.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’
‘What?’ Her voice was insistent.
‘I don’t know.’
‘This Franklin Young thing?’
‘Yeah. I just feel funky, I guess. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
I took the kitten back to his box in the kitchen. ‘I’ll be back.’ That was another reason I never wanted a pet. There I was explaining myself to a cat!
I opened the door, and the humidity hit me in the face. The heavy, damp air from the storm was hot and oppressive.
I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew that I had to get out. I put the top down on the Spider. At least the air would be moving then.
I headed for Hamilton Creek. The sailboat marina on Percy Priest was one of my favorite places to escape. I found it quiet, a few sailors cleaning up, tying down, some cooking supper and preparing to sleep aboard. Fifty yards offshore, maybe a hundred yards, a breeze ruffled the surface of the water. I walked the docks, listening to the music of the halyards and the masts. Wind chimes.
I stopped to listen, nodding a greeting to a gray-haired couple packing their gear out in canvas bags, their steps matching from long years of practice. I smiled and felt … what? Sad? Jealous? I wanted that. Not now, maybe. But when I got to be their age, I wanted someone beside me, someone who knew me. I watched the sun fading over the masts, telltales revealing the faint breeze.
He was wrong. Fly was wrong. It wasn’t ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’. I remembered. It was ‘Unchained Melody’, and time was going by awful slowly for me.
As the sunset rose, pink and coral behind the city skyline, I walked back up the ramp to the parking lot. The sun was down, but the air wasn’t cooling. The humidity was holding the day’s sticky heat. I got back in the car and drove, across the dam first, then just around. The lake was dotted with lights from boats still out.
TWENTY-THREE
I would have sworn I was driving aimlessly, but I found myself on Sam Davis’ street. I had been to Sam’s house before, but never uninvited, never dropping by without warning. And I probably shouldn’t now. We had no commitments. I didn’t know he wouldn’t have guests or if he were even at home. I did know his daughter was at MaryNell’s, though. I could have called. I had a cell phone in the car. But I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say.
His car was in the drive. I pulled in behind it and went up the short walk. I knocked and felt like running away before he could see me, like a kid. He opened the door wearing shorts and an old T-shirt, a glass of ice water in his hand.
‘Hey. Come in.’ He was glad to see me, and I needed that.
‘Hey.’
‘You OK?’ He looked concerned.
‘Maybe.’
Barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt, Sam looked younger, the muscles in his arms and legs sculpted, not like a bodybuilder’s but lean and hard, like a runner’s, with nothing to spare. He looked at the glass in his hand. ‘Want something to drink?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
He nodded. ‘Have you had supper?’
I shook my head.
He nodded again. ‘We could have supper.’
I nodded.
‘I was just cleaning my gun. You OK to wait while I finish?’
‘Sure, of course.’
‘You sure you’re OK?’ He came close to me and touched my face. I smelled the cleaning oil on his fingers. He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me closer, then leaned down and kissed me. He stood there for a moment, looking into my eyes, his expression unreadable. ‘Come on.’ He smiled. ‘You can have your first lesson in cleaning and breaking down a gun.’
I followed him through the entryway into the den. The house was neat, but it looked like a man’s house. I guessed very little had been changed since his ex-wife had moved out, taking what she wanted to keep, but it looked somehow womanless. Beige walls, framed prints, plaid upholstery. He moved a newspaper to make room for me to sit on the sofa beside him. Parts of a gun were spread on newspaper on the coffee table in front of us. I looked around. Photos of Julie in elementary school, Julie cheerleading, Julie’s senior photo filled one wall. A collection of old metal signs and license plates, one of the few touches that seemed to reflect Sam’s personality, decorated the opposite wall. A Texaco star, Coca-Cola, Purity Milk, a couple of signs for companies with Davis in the name, an old license plate from the days when Tennessee plates were shaped like the state itself.
