Stormy Weather

"What-they don't allow women?"

"Edie, we shouldn't be seen together. Not if we're going through with this."

"You expect me to stay out here alone?"

"Look, I'm sorry about your dogs—"

"They weren't my goddamn dogs."

"Please, Edie."

With his round eyeglasses, Fred Dove reminded her of a serious young English teacher she'd known in high school. The man had worn Bass loafers with no socks and was obsessed with T. S. Eliot. Edie Marsh had screwed the guy twice in the faculty lounge, but he'd still given her a C on her final exam because (he claimed) she'd missed the whole point of "J. Alfred Prufrock." The experience had left Edie Marsh with a deep-seated mistrust of studious-looking men.

She said, "What do you mean, if we go through with this? We made a deal."

"Yes," Fred Dove said. "Yes, we did."

As he followed her into the house, she asked, "How soon can you get this done?"

"Well, I could file the claim this week—"

"Hundred percent loss?"

"That's right," replied the insurance man.

"A hundred and forty-one grand. Seventy-one for me, seventy for you."

"Right." For somebody about to score the windfall of a lifetime, Fred Dove was subdued. "My concern, again, is Mister Torres—"

"Like I told you last night, Tony's in some kind of serious jam. I doubt he'll be back."

"But didn't you say Mrs. Torres, the real Mrs. Torres, might be returning to Miami—"

"That's why you need to hurry," Edie Marsh said. "Tell the home office it's an emergency."

The insurance man pursed his lips. "Edie, every case is an emergency. There's been a hurricane, for God's sake."

Impassively, she watched him finish dressing. He spent five full minutes trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his sex-rumpled Dockers. When he asked to borrow an iron, Edie reminded him there was no electricity.

"How about taking me to breakfast," she said.

"I'm already late for an appointment in Cutler Ridge.

Some poor old man's got a Pontiac on top of his house." Fred Dove kissed Edie on the forehead and followed up with the obligatory morning-after hug. "I'll be back tonight. Is nine all right?"

"Fine," she said. Tonight he'd undoubtedly bring condoms-one more comic speed bump on the highway to passion. She made a mental note to haul one of Tony's mattresses out in the sun to dry; another strenuous session in the BarcaLounger might put poor Freddie in traction.

"Bring the claim forms," she told him. "I want to see everything."

He jotted a reminder on his clipboard and slipped it into the briefcase.

"Oh yeah," Edie said. "I also need a couple gallons of gas from your car."

Fred Dove looked puzzled.

"For the generator," she explained. "A hot bath would be nice ... since you won't let me share your tub at the Ramada."

"Oh, Edie—"

"And maybe a few bucks for groceries."

She softened up when the insurance man took out his wallet. "That's my boy." She kissed him on the neck and ended it with a little bite, just to prime the pump.

"I'm scared," he said.

"Don't be, sugar. It's a breeze." She took two twenties and sent him, on his way.

CHAPTER TEN

On the drive to the morgue, Augustine and Bo

"One of yours?" Bo

"I'm wondering." It was impossible to know if the snake had belonged to Augustine's dead uncle; Felix Mojack's handwritten inventory was vague on details.

"He had a couple big ones," Augustine said, "but I never measured the damn things."

Bo

"Me, too." He was pleased that she was concerned for the welfare of a primeval reptile. Not all women would be.

"They could give it to a zoo," she said.

"Or turn it loose at the county commission."

"You're bad."

"I know," Augustine said. As legal custodian of the menagerie, he felt a twinge of responsibility for Bo

Without reproach, Bo

"Pray it was somebody who deserved it."

Bo

They rode in silence for a while before Bo

"I don't know how anything ought to be, but I know how it is. Hell, those cougars could be in Key Largo by now."

Bo

Before entering the chill of the Medical Examiner's Office, she put on a baggy ski sweater that Augustine had brought for the occasion. This time there were no preliminaries to the viewing. The same young coroner led them directly to the autopsy room, where the newly murdered John Doe was the center of attention. The corpse was surrounded by detectives, uniformed cops, and an unenthusiastic contingent of University of Miami medical students. They parted for Augustine and Bo

A ruddy, gray-haired man in a lab coat stood at the head of the steel table. He nodded cordially and took a step back. Holding her breath, Bo

"It's not my husband," Bo

Augustine led her away. A tall black policeman followed.

"Mrs. Lamb?"

Bo

"Mrs. Lamb, I need to speak with you."

She turned. The policeman was broadly muscled and walked with a hitch in his right leg. He wore a state trooper's uniform and held a tan Stetson in his huge hands. He seemed as relieved to be out of the autopsy room as they were.