Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 7:00 p.m.
January 6, 1999
Water splashed hard and fast into the enormous claw-footed tub in my bathroom like Yosemite’s Illilouette falls. Gotta love modern plumbing. I poured avocado oil bath gel in the water and while it bubbled into snowy white mounds, located piano nocturnes on the player and lit two gardenia-scented candles.
Lowered gingerly into steamy water, head rested against bath pillow, stretched out my full five feet eleven and a half inches and wiggled ten toes. Eyes closed. Tried to stay in the present, blissful moment.
No luck.
Kept coming back to Carly, catastrophizing her situation. Mine, too.
Inactivity is hard for me. My karmic purpose must be to learn patience. Regardless of how I redirected my attention, Carly and Dr. Morgan occupied my mind. The more I tried to push the problem into tomorrow like an earlier Southern mistress, the more the situation menaced.
Both Carly and I could end up not only unemployed, but disbarred. Or worse.
Scarlett O’Hara was an idiot; the Bay Body, as Bennett called him, would still be dead tomorrow, too.
The water had grown as cold as the Gulf.
I gave up the effort to avoid bad news, pulled the plug, wrapped myself in a robe, and turned on the television.
Again, the lead story was ongoing non-identification.
Frank Bennett recapped the few facts he’d previously reported, then said, “Dental records have been requested and may take several days to locate.”
His next words gave me hope.
“One source close to the investigation told us the victim could be a tourist who disappeared last year after what survivors claimed was a boating accident. Our source also said authorities are evaluating evidence of a copycat killing.”
Bennett aired old film clips next. I realized why the Bay Body seemed so familiar to me. An eerily similar killing had occupied the news media for months four years ago and repeated endlessly when the killer was convicted last fall.
Two possibilities, both chilling: a serial killer, or maybe the wrong man was convicted. I shuddered.
Bennett ran old interviews following the two prior deaths.
I noticed the lateness of the hour, pressed the mute button, and began drying my hair.
Bent over from the waist, head upside down, I glanced at the screen.
Senator Sheldon Warwick and his wife, Victoria, disembarking from a plane at Tampa International Airport. I restored the sound and heard that the senator and his wife were in town for tonight’s benefit. Kind enough to plug the fund-raiser and George’s restaurant, which was nice. I didn’t see Elizabeth Taylor. Was she there?
When they began the sports report, I pressed the off button and finished up my hair.
I was standing in my closet when George came upstairs, patted my bare ass, and said, “Cute as that is--”
I pulled the creamy cashmere shift out of its garment bag, and held it shoulder level while examining my reflection in the full length mirror. No shape, no style, no color. “It seems like a perfect opportunity for this.”
“How about one of your cocktail dresses?” He suggested, continuing through to his bathroom and shower. The secret to a long marriage, I’d learned eons ago, was separate bathrooms and separate closets, but never separate beds.
I focused on makeup. By the third try, my eyeliner looked less like rick-rack on my eyelids, so I left it alone. After a few drinks, no one would notice. Or maybe I’d start a new style.
Raised my voice to be heard over the pelting water. “This one would get Victoria’s attention. You know how status-conscious she is.”
Senator Warwick’s wife was infamous for drinking too much and engaging in rowdy behavior that embarrassed everyone. She threw heavy objects and connected more frequently than the Ray’s best slugger. No police department in Florida had ever been politically stupid enough to charge her. But George despised negative publicity and he wanted Victoria to behave. I’d been charged with that task during the planning stages.
“But if you’d rather I wore something else,” I called out, “I’d be happy to.”
George said nothing, but I knew I’d snagged his attention.
So I put on the dress and admired. Fabric draped perfectly from neckline to hem. Covered but did not conceal. Soft as a bunny’s tummy. I loved the dress; every woman present would, too. When it came to fashion, pleasing women was more important. Besides, the dress cost so much I’d be wearing it the rest of my life. Might as well start now.
George came around the corner wearing a shaving creamed face and nothing else.
“You know, that’s always been one of my favorite dresses. You look great in it,” he said with such mock sincerity, we both laughed. Tried to kiss me, but I ducked. “You smell great, too,” he said.
George’s fun-loving side has faded somewhat over the years, but a couple of martinis can still bring out the best in him. I ducked away.
“Who’s attending this thing?” I shouted, returning to finish my makeup. Minimalism takes more time than you think.
He said, “All the usual suspects.”
“Meaning Marian and the CJ?” I asked, referring to the guy who thinks he’s my boss and his wife, who are not my favorite couple.
Although CJ is the Chief Judge of the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Florida, Tampa Division, the title means he’s a paper pusher, not that he gets to boss me around. One of these days, he was going to figure that out. Maybe I could hold my temper until that happened.
“Among others.” George said.
I put down my hairbrush, entered the steamy bathroom and confronted him directly.
“What others?”
“All of the offspring, too. $1,000 a plate.” He said as he ducked under the shower to avoid my outrage.
“Eight Richardsons?” I shouted to be heard over the running water.
“I couldn’t invite Pricilla Worthington and not invite her brother.” Attempting to placate me by naming a guest who actually was one of my favorite people. No chance.
Steam heated me up and wilted my hair. The dress felt scratchy against damp skin. I escaped into my dressing room to finish my ultra short hair. It doesn’t take much; whatever shape it’s going to have flows from cut, not effort.
When George shut down his shower, I asked, “Who is Pricilla’s brother?”
“We’ve lived here ten years, Willa,” he said, truly exasperated. “The CJ is Pricilla’s brother. How could you not know that?”
Indeed.
How could I not know that?
Denial. Pure and simple.
“The interrelationships of Tampa society don’t interest me.” Indignation is often the best defense. “Who else is coming to this thing?”
With exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a simple-minded child, he said, “It’s a Junior League function. Anyone and everyone willing to pay will be an honored guest.” He had finished making a perfect bow of his black tie, patted my cashmere-covered butt, and left the room saying, “If you’re really curious, there’s a copy of the guest list on the desk.”
Still thinking about Carly, I skimmed over the names, which only reinforced how boring this evening would be. Every person on the list could afford to pay a thousand dollars a plate, all right. But this wasn’t Silicone Valley. People who had that kind of money around here had made it the old fashioned way--inheritance.
About midway down, on the third page, found the name I’d hoped for--Dr. Michael Morgan and guest. The discovery lightened my heart.
He couldn’t be dead if he was walking around our dining room tonight, right?
Find him, prove Carly’s suspicions wrong. Then, I’d find her.
I wrinkled my nose and fumed at George.
This is the part of being married I don’t like--the compromise, the accommodation. A single tonight, I’d be out with real friends, or working, or just relaxing with the dogs.
Friends tell me the best part of being single is doing whatever you want, whenever you want. No holidays with the in-laws, whiskers in the sink, toilet seats left up, or refusals to eat zucchini. Most definitely no interminable evenings spent with insufferable bores to raise money for the worthy-cause-of-the-moment.
Like the CJ, for instance. Chief Judge Ozgood Livingston Richardson, Senior--”Oz,” to his friends (which does not include me)--is 65 years old, going on 95. Actually, I think the CJ was born old. If he ever laughs, it’s politely. He knows which fork to use at eight-fork table settings. He married a debutante back in the day when that was important. Each of his three children, two daughters with husbands, and “Junior,” (as Ozgood Livingston Richardson, II, is not-so-affectionately known) are firmly ensconced in society, and they’re all just as interesting as processed white bread. If any of them had ever had so much as a ten-word conversation, the listener had to be hearing impaired.
The CJ’s wife is regarded by one and all as a fixture in Tampa. She’ll tell you, each and every time you’re introduced, “I’m Marian Wright Richardson, and I’m a fifth generation Floridian.”
If you live in Florida, you recognize immediately how remarkable that is. You’re lucky if you can find someone who was born here, let alone a fifth generation resident. This makes her children sixth generation, the equivalent of royalty.
The rest of us are expected to kiss the ring.
Repeatedly.
I dropped the list of party guests, puckered up, and went to do what had to be done.