Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide (21 page)

“You looking for something, son?”

Buddy raised up from where he had bent over the motor. The old engineer had left his place and was standing on the bank, watching Buddy. The engineer’s face was bright pink and wisps of white hair stuck out from under the cap. Buddy cleared his throat. “This is my brother’s boat,” he said.

The engineer didn’t say anything for a minute. He pulled out a blue bandanna and wiped his neck. He said, “That boat belongs to Mr. Robert Dawkins. Mr. Dawkins is a friend of mine. His only brother died of bone cancer last year.”

Now, Buddy should say, “Screw you, I was just looking.” He should jump out of the boat and haul ass away from here. He’d find another boat or walk through the woods like he’d been doing. It wasn’t a big deal.

Instead, he went into kind of a commando crouch, cocked his gun, and pointed it at the engineer, all in less than two seconds. He watched the engineer’s face go meaty purple.

The engineer put his hands up. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“I heard you all right,” Buddy said. He thought,
I’ve taken enough.

Buddy jumped over the side of the boat into calf-deep water. His boots sank into the sludge and he felt water rushing into them. He didn’t care. He strode through the shallow water to the engineer and said, “People like you ought to mind their own business.”

“Yes, all right,” the engineer said. His pudgy hands were shaking so fast Buddy couldn’t make out one finger from another.

Buddy jerked the engineer’s bandanna out of his pocket and gagged him. The engineer made a choking sound. Buddy marched the engineer into a stand of trees and shoved him down in the brush. He took off the engineer’s belt and bound his hands together and tied them around a sapling. He’d probably get loose, but not until Buddy was long gone.

All of this had been done in what seemed no time at all, but now Buddy felt an urgent need to move. He ran back to the boat, shoved off, and paddled out into the creek. He’d get down a ways and find a place where he could work on the motor and get it started.

He was going home. In spite of everything, it might work out all right.

Isabel had slept well in her clean, spartan room at the Gilead Springs Lodge. Today, she had decided, was the last day of her search for River Pete. She would go to St. James, Rose of Sharon, and the memorial park. That was it. Then she would have to face returning to Cape St. Elmo.

After breakfast, armed with the desk clerk’s directions to the cemeteries, she drove out of Gilead Springs in the morning heat.

It didn’t take long to cross the small burial ground at St. James Church off the list. When that was done, Isabel proceeded to Rose of Sharon Primitive Baptist, which proved to be a different story. Rose of Sharon church was a large, new-looking brick building with a bright tin roof and a towering spire. Behind it was the cemetery, which appeared to be several acres of treeless hillside divided by neat copings.

She pulled up in a gravel parking lot and cut the motor. To look at every grave would take days. She’d have to find somebody who could tell her who was buried here. Either that or forget it.

She got out, crossed the parking lot, and walked into the front door of the church. The air inside was deliciously cool. There was no one in sight.

There had to be an office. Following the sound of typing, Isabel walked along an aisle to a side door. In a small room she found a woman sitting behind a desk, typing on a large manual typewriter. A burned-wood plaque beside the door read CHURCH OFFICE. Beneath it was a smaller matching plaque: HESTER DAVIS, CHURCH SECRETARY.

The woman— Hester Davis, presumably— continued typing. She looked to be in her seventies, with ruffled gray hair and one ear plugged with a hearing aid. She wore a red wool sweater buttoned up to her neck. When Isabel was standing directly in front of her, she gave a start and said, “Goodness!” After she recovered, she continued: “What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to trace someone who may be buried in your cemetery,” Isabel said. “Is there a list of names?”

Hester Davis touched her hearing aid. “Trace what?”

Isabel raised her voice. “The cemetery! Do you have a list of people buried there?”

“Yes indeed,” Hester said. “The Reverend Willis has it in his office. He’s on vacation, but he’ll be back a week from Saturday, if you want to check with us then.”

Summoning a smile, Isabel said, “I’m from out of town. Do you think you could let me look at it now?”

The secretary shook her head adamantly. “I don’t go in his office when he’s not here. I can’t get called a snoop that way.” She looked as if it was a sore subject.

“I really would so much appreciate it—”

Hester shook her head again. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

Rows and rows of neat grave markers swam before Isabel’s eyes. Forget it. She turned away.

She had taken a couple of steps toward the door when Hester said, “What name were you looking for?”

Isabel turned back. “Addison.”

Hester’s eyes widened. “Addison! Why didn’t you say so?”

Had she finally hit pay dirt? “You mean you have an Addison buried out there?”

Mention of the name Addison had transformed Hester. “Goodness yes. Father of one of our church elders. I remember the old man so well, coming in for services with his wife. A fine old gentleman, so mannerly and polite.” Her beaming face clouded. “The son’s not well at all, I’m afraid. Did you say you’re kinfolk of his?”

This was no time to get mired in tortured explanations. Isabel opted for a plain and simple lie. “I think I might be.”

“Oh, he would be pleased. If you want, while you go have a look at the old man’s grave, I’ll phone the son and tell him you’re in the neighborhood. It would do him a world of good to talk to you.” She waved Isabel out. “Go on and look. The family plot is in the third row from the church building, next to the far end. You’ll find it.”

Isabel could hardly believe this abrupt reversal of fortune. Stammering her appreciation, she left the office while Hester was picking up the telephone.

Out in the manicured cemetery, she counted the rows of headstones, walked to the far end, and began searching. There were no Addisons. She began to suspect that Hester was simply loony. She continued to look.

After another few minutes, she saw the explanation. There were two headstones directly in front of her, surrounded by clean white pebbles and stone coping.
Mother
and
Father.
The
Father
stone was inscribed:

Addison Bainbridge

1880-1960

Beloved Husband and Father
Gone to Eternal Rest

Hester had sent her to someone whose first, not last, name was Addison. Isabel had tracked down the wrong man.

Isabel sprinted back to the church office, but it was too late. Hester greeted her with the news that the son of Addison Bainbridge had been delighted to hear of a visiting relation. He insisted that Isabel come right over. Hester obviously felt she had done something admirable. “I told you he hasn’t been well,” the secretary said, dropping her voice. “They say it’s… serious. This will make him so happy.”

Isabel didn’t have the heart to tell her about the misunderstanding. She noted the directions to the Bainbridge farm, which according to Hester was only a few minutes’ drive away. “He’s expecting you!” Hester caroled as Isabel said good-bye.

Isabel would have to stop by and see Mr. Bainbridge, explain the mistake. What an embarrassment to have raised a sick man’s hopes for a visit with a relative. As soon as she had straightened things out with him, she would be on her way.

Following Hester’s directions, she took a left at the bottom of the hill. After a couple of miles, she saw the house— white frame, tree-shaded, substantial, with several outbuildings behind it. Coming up the long driveway, Isabel passed banks of camellias and azaleas, stands of fruit trees and dogwoods. Everything about the place bespoke graciousness and prosperity. A far cry from the world of River Pete, living in a driftwood shack and doing chores for the Purseys in exchange for tobacco.

She parked at the steps. As if he had been watching for her, a man in his sixties came out on the porch. He had sparse salt-and-pepper curls and dark eyes sunk in a face with an unhealthy gray pallor. He wore a crisp white shirt, a tie knotted at the neck. An aroma of after-shave made Isabel wonder whether he had dressed after he got Hester’s phone call.

“I’m Addison Bainbridge,” the man said. He had a deep voice, an appealing smile. “Are you my long-lost cousin?”

Isabel flushed. “Actually, I doubt it,” she said. “In fact, I think there’s been a mix-up.”

Addison Bainbridge was not daunted. “Oh, we’ll find a connection somewhere. I got out the albums. Come on in.”

It wouldn’t hurt her to spend half an hour with this courtly gentleman. She followed him into a parlor with chintz-covered furniture. Several ancient-looking photo albums were piled on a coffee table. “Where are you from?” Bainbridge asked.

“I grew up on Cape St. Elmo.”

“St. Elmo.” He waved an invitation to sit down. “None of our kinfolks are from that area. Not that I know of. What’s your family name again?”

“Anders. My grandfather was John James Anders, and my grandmother was Polly Sheffield.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

Isabel tried again. “I’m sure the secretary at the church misunderstood somehow, and—”

He settled himself beside her and picked up an album. “Don’t be hasty. The albums may tell us something, don’t you think?”

She could see that he was set on looking at the albums and not particularly curious about who she was. She could spare the time to look at one of them before she left.

“Here’s my father.” Bainbridge pointed to a studio portrait of a formidable-looking man with a mane of gray hair and a luxuriant beard. Addison Bainbridge, Sr., was dressed in a well-fitting suit, his hands folded, staring unsmiling into the camera.

“He’s very striking,” Isabel said.

“Oh, he was something. What a life he had,” said Bainbridge. “Came to Gilead Springs with nothing but some poker winnings, bought land—” Bainbridge made a sweeping gesture to indicate the house and its surroundings, fruits of his father’s labor and ingenuity.

Keeping the conversation going, Isabel asked, “When did he come to Gilead Springs?”

“He came here… oh, sometime in the late twenties. Look. Here’s one with me.”

The photo was of his father, looking no less stiff, standing next to a slight, pretty woman with a prim smile. The woman was holding a chubby baby in a lace bonnet. “That’s my mother,” Bainbridge said. “She was twenty-five years younger, but he outlived her. He was nearly fifty when I was born. And, oh, gracious, look at this—”

Nodding, murmuring politely, Isabel studied the Bainbridge sisters and brothers, ponies, dogs, birthdays, vacations, graduations. She was comfortable, and it seemed fine with Bainbridge if her participation was minimal. Possible connections between the families had been dropped as a topic for speculation. When the first album closed, the next one opened.

Sometime later, the last page was turned in the last album. Isabel had done her duty. She said how interesting it had been and that she’d better go.

“I have enjoyed this tremendously,” Bainbridge said, and she was sure he meant it. There was a pink glow on his ashen cheeks.

“So have I.” Isabel stood and offered her hand.

He took it. “I’m sorry we didn’t turn up any relationship between our families. It doesn’t seem likely they even knew each other. You’re from the coast, and my father didn’t like the ocean at all. Wouldn’t go near the water and hated the taste and smell of fish.”

Isabel smiled. “We’ll declare ourselves honorary cousins.”

He chuckled. “Let’s do that. It’s been lovely for me, reliving these memories.”

They began a slow stroll toward the door. Bainbridge said, “You know, it’s fashionable to criticize your father, isn’t it, but I’ve always admired mine. He had a checkered career before he settled down. He was a gambler, spent time in Cuba, was pretty much a wastrel until he married my mother and joined the church. Once he did that, he never gambled again, and he swore he’d whip any of us if we ever started.”

At the word
wastrel,
Isabel’s ears had pricked up. She said, “He came to Gilead Springs from Cuba?”

“So I understand. He was always vague about those early days. I think he was ashamed of the way he’d lived. He said a good friend of his died of scarlet fever and that made him decide to change his life.”

They were in the hall. “Let me show you something,” Bainbridge said. He disappeared through a door, emerging a few minutes later with a small box of polished wood. He unfastened the catch and opened it.

The interior of the box was fitted with dark blue velvet. Lying in a round depression was a gold coin. Its edges were uneven, its worn surface carved with symbols Isabel couldn’t decipher. Despite its crude look, the gold piece had an eerie beauty.

Chills rippled over Isabel’s skin. She was sure— she knew— she was looking at a coin from the
Esperanza.

Bainbridge caressed the coin with his forefinger. “My father told me he won several of these in a poker game in Cuba,” he said. “Spanish coins, probably pulled out of a shipwreck down there. When he came to Gilead Springs, he had four of them. He sold three to get himself started. He kept this one— for luck, and to remind him of his vow never to gamble. He had this case made up for it. See, here he is in Cuba.”

A photograph was mounted in the lid of the box. It showed two men on a porch whose wrought-iron railings were nearly obscured by a flowering vine. The bearded one with his arms crossed was Addison Bainbridge. Beside Bainbridge, his face half-shadowed by a straw hat, stood John James Anders.

Isabel could not speak. Staring at John James, and it was certainly John James, she sent a silent message:
So that’s what happened to you. You took off for Cuba, you bastard.

Addison Bainbridge was saying, “My father made me promise never to get rid of this coin. It’s in his will that I can’t sell it. He was superstitious about it.”