Authors: Tom Corcoran
But I couldn’t get my mind off Naomi Douglas, our ten-year friendship, the levels of our friendship.
At times I had put her on a pedestal, viewed her as a grand angel who had come to bless the island. Other times we were equals, co-conspirators, planning how my photos or some new promo approach would best benefit the cause, the charity of the moment. She possessed a liveliness, depth, a unique air, a sharp sense of business. Her cantankerous moments were few, and taken for regality. She had showed few eccentricities, though one was her unwillingness to dwell in the past. She once told me that she loved the future as a concept, but worked to live each day for itself.
Naomi always wore light cotton, never denim, and expensive walking shoes, not just sneaks. She had worn minimal, distinctive jewelry—two rings, a bracelet, a shirt pin, earrings with an artsy flair. Either her hair never grew, which I doubt, or she was careful to have it trimmed often to a length that spoke of comfort and elegance. I had come to count on the constancy of her appearance, her outlook, and her cheer.
Eight or nine years ago Naomi gave me the swelled head. My housemate then, Annie Minnette, had always pointed out her favorite photographs, had told me which ones were “good,” and which images didn’t work well. Naomi had gone beyond one-word critiques, had told me that she liked where I had placed my horizon, or the picture’s offset balance, the play of tone, the war between colors. She had urged me to take myself more seriously, or at least express myself without an amateur’s cynical mask of uncertainty. Naomi claimed to see art in my workaday photos. I still recall the exact spot where I stood, in the San Carlos Theater lobby, when she said to me, “I need to ask two favors.”
“I’ll say yes twice.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I want to buy two of your photographs.”
“The brochure’s got—”
“The brochure’s at the printer,” she had said. “It’s behind us, and thank you. But I see something in your pictures that’s higher than illustrating a darned brochure. I want two prints”—she indicated the ones she liked—“matted and framed. And signed, of course. You name the price, and don’t think for a minute that I’ll accept them for free.”
When she paid me for the two framed prints, she also gave me a book of Walker Evans’s photos from the 1930s. She ordered me to keep up my habit of taking pictures as often as possible, told me that I could become the next Walker Evans. Most of her flattery had bounced off, but her words had been pleasant to hear.
Several years ago I had helped her construct a display kiosk for a charity function, and we had gotten sweaty and dusty in the yard behind her house. We’d stopped for a break, some bottled green tea. Something about the afternoon light, or the perspiration on her upper lip, or her different look with her hair tucked behind her ears …
My gaze must have given me away.
She’d said, “You look at me like that, I wonder about your thoughts. You know that I’m broad in the beam and light of sail. I’m not shaped like your girlfriend.”
“I’ve always been a sucker for eyes and smiles.”
She had laughed. “Then you better watch yourself, buster.”
Nothing ever came of it. I suppose I didn’t want to change the nature of our friendship. She was honorable enough not to cause problems in my then-current relationship. Our social and business friendships had brought me pleasure. I had a girlfriend who made me happy.
Yet I wished I’d spent more time with her. There must have been many days when I rode my bicycle across Grinnell, past her house, and hadn’t stopped. Perhaps I had pressing appointments, or didn’t want to socialize just then. There’d always be time, I had figured. There’d always be another chance to catch up on chat, to show off new pictures, to have a quiet glass of green tea on her screened porch.
Naomi Douglas had helped other artists besides me. She had been a visionary, a volunteer, and a person who smiled more than she frowned. The world needs more like that. As of right then, it was short one and I was minus one fine friend.
I was inside shaving when the brass bell clanged. Marnie stood at the door, dressed for a day in the “home office”: running shorts, a tank top, a ball cap on backward. I waved her in, invited her to make more coffee, and finished getting dressed.
“He left at seven-thirty, driving.”
“Will the Bronco make it past Tavernier?”
“I dropped him at the airport. He reserved a car.”
“Here’s to dependable transportation,” I said. “I didn’t see you at the house last night. I was on the front porch with Sam for almost an hour.”
“Here’s to Dinner Party Sam. I wasn’t home until midnight. I was out on the dark city streets, playing journalist detective, getting the lowdown on Yvonne Gomez.”
“And?”
“Steve Gomez was brokenhearted. A friend told him that Yvonne was screwing around. Her thing was to go to motels with tourists during city commission meetings. She would turn on the TV while they did their thing. As long as the mayor was right there in his official chair, in grainy black-and-white, he never could catch her. But secrets don’t last long on this island. I guess he confronted her. She told him she wanted out of the marriage. She wasn’t after money, either, because she had her own. She didn’t care what she got, as long as she got rid of him. She moved out and rented a cottage on Love Lane, of all places. She called it her Love Shack.”
“Cold woman,” I said.
“Broke his heart. It explains a lot. Of course, somebody might argue that this constant east wind drove him crazy.”
“Why ‘Dinner Party Sam’?”
“You know how he is. He’s always got to rise to the occasion, answer the call, do the right thing. His one big flaw, living out his macho self-image. We had a dinner party going last year for people I work with and their spouses or partners. Sam got a phone call. Captain Turk’s motor had died out by the Snipe Keys. It was a half hour before sunset, and we had eight guests sitting down to dinner. Sam didn’t think twice. He went to his boat, powered out to the Snipes, and towed Turk in. He got home, smelling of sweat and beer, just as our last guests left.”
“It’s the rule of the sea…”
“The rule of the house was that he did all the dishes. Anyway, back to last night, Sam went to bed early. This morning he woke me up before the sun came up. He was, let’s say, amorous and vigorous. So if I look like I’m walking bowlegged…”
“You look like a woman on a mission of her own.”
“As did your girlfriend yesterday afternoon. Sam said he pulled you out of dinner at Camille’s.”
“She got home after the garbage trucks,” I said.
“I guess we all learn things about our housemates.”
“Why does my life have to be this rolling sine wave of information?” I said. “It’s good news, bad news, and I’m not begging for a boring straight line…”
“She moves into your home, then doesn’t come home…”
“Last week I watched Teresa do a wonderful thing. I didn’t know she spoke French, never heard her say a word of it. She knows French as well as we know English. We were in Fausto’s, in the checkout line. This woman barged to the front feigning bewilderment, excusing herself in French and pointing to the baby she held in her arm. I assumed a diaper emergency. Teresa said something in French and the woman butted back out and went to the rear of the line. Outside on the sidewalk I asked Teresa what she’d said. She’d told the lady that her child didn’t smell like caca, but the lady’s breath smelled like beer. She told her she’d call the police on child-abuse charges if she didn’t wait her turn.”
“Maybe she should’ve been a cop instead of a news liaison.”
We both quit talking, and thought about what we’d been saying. An idea came to mind. “Marnie, who found Naomi?”
“I asked that question, too. The police weren’t sure. The call came from Naomi’s home. The officer I talked to figured that a neighbor found her. He said that a lot of people didn’t want to get caught up in legalities. Maybe she had a housekeeper.”
I shook my head. “No woman as active as Naomi Douglas would need a housekeeper.”
Marnie shrugged and stood to leave. “She was always on the go, maybe she didn’t want to spend time cleaning. Knowing Naomi, we also could guess that she employed someone who needed the money.”
“Was it a woman’s voice or a man’s that called?”
“You’re not going to believe this. The call came through on a line that wasn’t recorded. The dispatcher who took it couldn’t recall if the voice was male or female.”
* * *
I was unlocking my bike when I heard the phone ring. If I waited three more rings my answering service would pick up. I had eighteen seconds to decide: win big or lose big. I got it just in time.
Jack Spottswood, attorney-at-law. “Alex, have you ever been executor of an estate?”
“I’ve been called some bad-ass things, but never that.”
“Guess what. You’re up to bat. Naomi Douglas named you in her will.”
“Why would she leave me money?”
“That’s a minor part of it. What I’m getting to is that she asked that you handle her estate, the financial details. As executor, you’ll get a set fee. But don’t go ordering a new car.”
“Don’t executors get asked or warned in advance?”
“Most of the time, yes. Not this time.”
“When do I execute?”
He asked if I still lived on Dredgers Lane.
I told him I did.
“Can you come down to the office about three o’clock? We can go over the papers.”
I said, “Tell me about the time factor.”
“You got a conflict?”
“I leave tomorrow for a seven-day job in the Caymans.”
“Come down here and sign papers, I can put this in motion. Some of this can take weeks and months. The sooner I start it, the better. The rest, we’ll do it when you get back.”
She had planned it, and I had to laugh. Naomi would be part of my life, and I would stay part of hers. Amazing woman.
7
I
RECALLED THE WORK
crew in 1998, tossing chunks of drywall and flooring into a Dumpster at the Fleming Street curb near Duval. The West Key Bar had been one of the classic wood-floor saloons on the island, but there is a huge difference between classic and classy. It’s amazing what plans, paint, glass and cement will do. The first level is now a glitzy clothing store. The Spottswood law offices are upstairs. A lot of old woodwork remains in salute to the structure’s history. Today’s pale walls, mahogany furniture, and office art would baffle the old bar crowd.
I sat in Jack Spottswood’s office while he finished two calls and rejected a third. He asked a woman named Robin not to interrupt unless his daughter called. He sat back in his leather chair and took a deep breath.
“There won’t be a funeral, Alex.”
“We could pack a church,” I said.
“That was Naomi’s decision. She left a directive letter with her will. The only thing she wanted was a gathering on Louie’s Afterdeck. There’ll be a jazz group, champagne, and six tables of hors d’oeuvres. Anyone who cries has to donate a hundred bucks to AIDS Help and leave the party.”
Perfect, I thought. “Her sense of style plays on.”
“It does. She had fun on this island. She put a lot into it, too, but I don’t have to tell you that.” He checked a file. “Her body’s at the funeral home on Simonton. They’ll cremate. We didn’t want to taint the directive, so she gave me verbal instructions. She wanted her ashes scattered at Woman Key.”
“This is a case where we don’t ask permission?”
Jack cracked a smile. “I can’t advise you on that.”
I smiled, too. “Ah, but you did.”
“Anyway,” said Jack, “our first problem is finding her older brother, one Ernest Bramblett. He’ll get the bulk of the estate. Ever met him?”
“Never heard of him,” I said. Odd that she’d never mentioned his name.
“The will is only three years old, but the guy’s address is history. Robin went looking on the Internet but found nothing. I remember Naomi saying recently that she had been in touch with him. He’s out there somewhere.”
“Can I look through her papers?”
“Or maybe go on her computer. I was hoping you’d take care of that.”
“Where did they grow up?”
Jack flipped through some pages. “Akron, Iowa. She’s leaving money to the Akron-Westfield School. I never knew there was more than one Akron.”
“There’s one in New York State, too.”
“You get to all the hot spots, Alex. Anyway, we contacted the
Akron Register
and Northwestern Bell. Mr. Bramblett had previous accounts, but he left no forwarding info. If you don’t have one, I’ve got a house key here.”
“I never had a key.”
Jack told me I was free to enter Naomi’s home. Her household items could be given to friends or charity. I would make those decisions. She had specified sums for the Red Cross and a half-dozen local causes. I would determine sources for that money, from the sale of stocks and bonds, cashing certificates of deposit, or tapping bank and brokerage accounts. Jack agreed to help me set up an escrow account for handling estate costs. He wished me luck, told me to call anytime.
“When I asked why she would leave me money, you said it was a minor part of it. How minor?”
“I will be the trustee of a small amount to, quote, ‘further the fine-art career of Alex Rutledge.’ It’s twenty grand, for camera gear, film supplies, printing, framing, and so on.”
“Not too damned minor,” I said.
“She must have believed in you.”
Our meeting had been quick. I sensed that Jack had other business on his desk, so I stood to leave. “Shame about Steve Gomez.”
“Crazy, what he did.” Jack tilted his chair, inhaled, looked away. “Steve was another one. He put a lot of himself into this town. Some people live for today. He could see the future. His last margin of victory was a landslide, a fine job review from the voters. Today’s front page did him right. They got a positive quote from every important person in the Lower Keys. I guess, if he killed himself, Steve didn’t agree with the mandate.”
Jack thought for a moment then said, “You watch. There’s going to be a mad scramble at the city. Steve left some real estate deals blowing in the wind. The commission’s voting could go haywire. There’s no telling what they’ll pass or reject.”