Scheme - Chris Gordon (reading in the dark .txt) 📗

Scheme

 

Scheme

 

I want to tell you how I managed to get a divorce from Timothy Ryan. Wait! Don’t run off yet. Look, I know that sounds about as interesting as a user’s manual for a dinner plate but trust me. It’s a story with enough intrigue to keep you awake. And it’s not that long.

 

Timmy had found the good life he had always wanted. After a very questionable past, he had a beach house in the Bahamas, a BMW Z4 convertible, enough cash to provide a comfortable life for at least a few years, a sailboat that he planned to put into charter for a little extra cash and a girl friend who adored him. This was remarkably close to the dreams he imagined growing up rough in Boston. He thought he had finally made it.

 

It’s true that he should have been more careful about inspecting the beach house he bought, for cash, from Roderick Cooper, the unscrupulous developer on the island of Eleuthera. Once he was in the house he could easily see how shoddy the construction was. But he felt there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. He was surprised to learn that no insurance agent would give him a policy on the house. Rose, the girl friend he had met in upstate New York and who traveled there with him, said it was because the house was too close to the water, only a foot or two above the high tide line. She told him a big storm could wash it away. But Timmy only listens to his own ideas. I know. I was married to him for six years.

 

No, he had the good life and vowed that nothing would take it away from him.

 

#

 

My name is Elaine Marshall, Laney to my friends. I was the product of a most genteel upbringing, one of the third generation of “old money” by Florida standards. When I was 17 I “was presented” at the Jacksonville Debutante Coterie held at the Timuquana Country Club. Yep, that kind of money. I’m very well educated for no discernible purpose.

 

Over the next 12 years I turned down seven proposals of marriage, about which I have no regrets. Some of them may actually have been interested in more than my wealth but I had no more than a passing interest in them. When I was 38 I purchased the Carlisle estate, a Florida historical landmark on Piney Creek in Palm Landing near Jacksonville. I live there to this day and would never want to live anywhere else.

 

When I was 49 I married, unwisely, an attractive young man named Timothy Ryan. There was a huge scandal when he was apprehended as part of a scheme to steal millions from the bank where he worked, a bank run by my brother Bobby. Since then, I have been keeping pleasant company with a man named Hank Darowski, a man who had helped uncover Timmy’s involvement in the thefts from the bank. But that’s another story.

 

Hank and I were both quite happy with our unsanctioned relationship but, in the society which I’ve always been part of, it would be less awkward if we were actually married. I couldn’t bring myself to introduce him as my boyfriend or lover. Partner was the best term I could find but I don’t care for it. Neither of us had any objection to getting married but the State of Florida did have one. I was still legally married to Timothy Ryan. I had no idea where he was or what had become of him since the trial where he turned state’s evidence and was relocated.

 

Florida law requires that someone wanting to obtain a divorce from a missing spouse first make an attempt to locate the spouse. I figured the best way to do that would be to hire a private investigator. At the offices of A1A Investigators in Jacksonville Hank and I were told that Clete Goodwin was their best Person-Locate man and that if Clete couldn’t find Ryan there would be no charge for his services.

 

Within 24 hours Goodwin learned that Ryan had changed his name to Tom Leary and moved to Oakmont, a town in upstate New York. Goodwin flew to Rochester, rented a car and drove to Oakmont. No one there knew much about Leary except that he had left town months ago with a waitress from Molly’s Cafe. Her name was Rose and her friends thought that Tom and Rose had settled somewhere in the Bahamas.

 

A1A had a contact in the Bahamas named Harrison Sawyer who located Leary, now using the name Ryan again, on the island of Eleuthera near the town of Governor’s Harbour. Goodwin phoned me with the address and mailed a formal report along with a bill for services rendered and expenses. It was money well spent.

 

#

 

I booked seats for Hank and myself on the best flights I could find from Jacksonville to Governor’s Harbour, stopping in Miami and Nassau along the way. A flight that went directly to Governor’s Harbour would be only 400 miles and take about an hour. But there was no such thing so it was five hours after we left Jacksonville that we would reach Eleuthera.

 

During those long hours, with not much else to do, Hank chose to pass the time by asking questions about my past, something he hadn’t felt any need to do before this. “How is it you came to be married to this Ryan guy?” he asked during the first leg from Jacksonville to Miami.

 

“I met him at a charity auction. You know Duane, Duane Richter, who’s been doing some work on the house?”

 

“Of course. He does real good work.”

 

“Well, he had donated an hour of his time to be auctioned off. I didn’t know about him then but the way the auctioneer went on about his woodworking skills I just decided I had to be the top bidder. After the first few bids the only ones left were me and Muriel Kravitz. Muriel wasn’t bidding herself, that’s not her way. She had come with a guy she had hired from an escort service and she had him doing the bidding for her. You don’t know Muriel. She’s been a tyrant since middle school when she was Muriel Smoot. Well, the bidding kept going up and it didn’t look like either of us was going to give in when Duane stopped it. He told the auctioneer, a local real estate salesman, that he wanted to work on my house and would do whatever was allowed to make that happen. The poor auctioneer didn’t know what to make of that but Muriel’s escort stood up, said he understood and was dropping out of the bidding.

 

“The auctioneer saw an easy way out, slammed the gavel down and said ‘Sold to Ms. Marshall for $1200. Next item.’ Muriel was furious. She leapt to her feet saying ‘I bid $2,000.’ The auctioneer told her ‘I’m sorry Ms. Kravitz but the bidding on that item is closed. Now this next item …’

 

“Muriel turned on her escort, screaming ‘Why did you drop out? You knew I wanted that hunk!’

 

“I turned around to look at them, saw him smile generously at her and say ‘It seemed like the right thing to do, Muriel.’

 

“She screamed back at him ‘It was not the right thing to do. You have just lost your tip and your ride back. You’re fired. Get out of here.’

 

“He rose, smiled again at her, and said ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Muriel’ and walked, in an amazingly dignified manner given the circumstances, to the back of the hall.

 

“Well, I felt so bad about what had happened that I went after him. I didn’t even know his name but called to him ‘Please, let me drive you home.’

 

“He was reluctant but gave in. I drove him back to his car which was parked at Muriel’s. All along the way he wanted to know about my house that Duane was so eager to work on. I told him a little about it and said if he wanted to see it he could stop by any time during the day and I’d show him around. That’s how it began.”

 

“Then he seduced you?” asked Hank.

 

“We seduced each other. He seduced my house and my money. I seduced his youth, his good looks and his charm. We both lost out.”

 

#

 

 

On the second leg, while flying over the Gulf Stream, I asked Hank what he did for a living before he retired. I wondered why I hadn’t asked this earlier then realized it really wasn’t relevant. I was just curious. Now, we were just passing away the time.

 

“I did a lot of things over the years. I worked the longest for a company called Upward Steel, building microwave towers then later cell phone towers. I helped put them up all over the world.”

 

“That sounds very dangerous.”

 

“Not really. With the safety equipment we had it was perfectly safe.”

 

“So that’s why you already had a passport for this trip.”

 

“Yep. I needed it for work. I never traveled outside the US for pleasure before. This is a first.”

 

“Well, let’s hope we can get our little business with Timmy wrapped up quickly and have some time to enjoy ourselves.”

 

“If you’re there, Laney, I’ll enjoy myself wherever we are.”

 

“Oh Hank, I know that’s what men are expected to say but you really mean it, don’t you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Hank, have you ever had an ulterior motive in your life?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I do love you, Hank.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

On the third leg, flying over the Great Bahama Bank, we were captivated by the turquoise water and black patches of coral spread out below us and didn’t talk at all.

 

When the plane touched down on the single airstrip at the tiny, unsophisticated, fragrant, welcoming airport near Governor’s Harbour, we’d had quite enough of plane travel. It was a relief to walk down the steps to the tarmac and into the unimpressive airport building. There were so few other passengers that it didn’t take long to get through Immigration and Customs and out to the parking lot.

 

We hired a taxi driven by an elderly, dark skinned, impeccably mannered gentleman named Basil Albury. He drove us to the Coconut Palms Inn near the house that Timmy had bought. After checking in, we were led to our room by a young Bahamian bell hop named Winston. I gave Winston a $10 tip and asked him if he’d mind delivering a note to the house down the beach. “Oh no madam, I’d be most happy to. But that house ain’t there no more.”

 

“What do you mean? The house is gone?” I asked.

 

“Oh yes, madam. The very first tropical storm that came through got rid of it. It happened about a week ago. Not a real big storm but enough to knock out that house. It was too close to the beach and not built good at all.”

 

“I see. And do you know what happened to the people who lived there?”

 

“No, madam. They’re gone too.”

 

#

 

Hank and I were sitting on lounge chairs set up on the beach below the hotel. We had taken a look at the site where Ryan’s house had been. Winston was right. There was nothing there but rubble. We were wondering what to do next when Winston appeared. He said “Madam, I know where the man is who lived in that house that’s gone.”

 

“Where is he, Winston?”

 

“Locked up in the jail in Governor’s Harbour, Madam.”

 

“What did he do, Winston?”

 

“He murdered Mr. Cooper, the man who built the house that’s gone.”

 

“Oh dear.”

 

I suggested to Hank that it might be better if I took this next step on my own. He didn’t object. He figured I’d be safe enough in a police station..

 

I walked in the front door of the lime green police station in