Paint It Black

But if Margaret Dodie now felt the slightest bit uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She greeted Louis cheerfully, like she’d known him for decades. She was a plump woman, bright blue eyes sunk in a pink pincushion face, framed by a helmet of silver-blond hair. She fussed over him, showing him to her guest room, setting up a litter tray for the cat, and finally ushering him and Dodie out onto the patio with a small cooler of beer.

The Dodies’ house looked out over a canal that led out through the twisting mangrove-lined waterway to Matlacha Pass. The patio was just a concrete slab but it was furnished with comfortable lawn chairs and festooned with Japanese lanterns and orchids, another of Margaret’s new obsessions, Dodie explained. Dodie’s own diversion, a new Sundance Skiff, sat at a small wood dock.

“You fish?” Dodie asked.

“Nope,” Louis said, smiling.

“You will, you stay here long enough.” Dodie took a swig of beer.

Louis settled back into a lounge chair. He could feel his muscles unclenching, his mind slowing. Maybe it was just the combination of the breeze, the pleasant brackish smells, or just the beer. Maybe it was Dodie’s cheerful yakking. Whatever it was, he found himself thinking about childhood again, his “other-child childhood,” as he had only recently come to think of it. This time Higgins Lake in Michigan. A sunset over gray-blue water. The smell of marshmallows on a fire. The feel of cold sand between his toes. The first summer his foster parents had taken him up North.

A sound drew his eyes to the canal. A couple of kids were paddling out toward the open water in a canoe. Out toward the pass, Louis could see other small islands dotting the water like squat green pond turtles. It looked almost oriental somehow, like pictures he had seen of Japan.

“Another?” Dodie asked, reaching into the cooler.

“Why not?”

Dodie handed him a fresh Heineken. “I remembered.”

“I see.” Louis nodded to the Heineken that Dodie had just uncapped for himself. “When you start drinking this foreign shit?” he asked, smiling.

“Can’t get no Jax here.”

“You told me once you’d never leave Mississippi.”

“Well, I thought about trying to stick around, you know, afterward.” Dodie shrugged. “But Margaret, well, she always wanted to see Florida, so we came down here on that vacation I’d been promising her. After Busch Gardens, we came over to Sereno Key here and decided we kinda liked it.”

“Nice place,” Louis said.

“I guess I should thank you for it,” Dodie said. “What you did up in Mississippi got me a nice big retirement settlement.”

They fell silent, Louis lost in his memories of Black Pool.

“So you don’t miss Mississippi?” Louis asked.

“ ’Bout as much as a hemorrhoid,” Dodie said.

Dodie let out a satisfied belch. Louis looked out at the water. A large white wading bird had appeared on the dock, its slender neck bent in a graceful S, its long legs picking carefully along. Suddenly, it took flight over the water, its huge white wings stark against the deepening sky.

“Okay, so why me for this job?” Louis asked.

“Well, I heard you were out of work,” Dodie said.

“You hear why?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I did.”

“You hear all of it?” Louis asked without looking at him. “You heard what I did?”

Dodie nodded slowly. Margaret came out to a

“You don’t owe me no explanation, Louis,” he said. “But I’ll listen if you wa

Louis’s hands encircled the cold bottle. “Maybe later,” he said. “So what exactly am I supposed to be investigating here?”

“A man named Walter Tatum was found murdered, and his wife, Roberta, is the prime suspect,” Dodie said. “Her lawyer is the one who’s hiring you. He wants you to find other suspects, or at least something so’s a jury would find reasonable doubt.”

“When do I meet this lawyer?” Louis asked.

Margaret came out onto the porch. “Sam, Mr. Bledsoe’s here.”

Dodie rose, looking at Louis. “How ’bout right now?”

Scott Bledsoe was a bland-looking man of about forty, tall and pale with thi

In deference to Margaret, di

“So, why me, Mr. Bledsoe?” Louis asked, as Margaret brought out plates of key lime pie.

“Sam said you were good,” Bledsoe said.

Louis took a bite of the tart pie. “There have to be plenty of private investigators here you could have used,” he said. “Why pay to bring me all the way down here?”

Bledsoe glanced at Dodie, then back at Louis. “Well . . . ah.” He toyed with his fork. “Frankly, I thought a black man might be better for the job.”

Louis sat back in his chair. “And you couldn’t find one around here?”

Bledsoe again looked at Dodie. “Sam said you were good.”

Dodie was busy with his pie. Louis looked over at Margaret, who looked embarrassed but confused as to why she should be.

“I think I’ll get the coffee,” she said, rising.

Bledsoe looked back at Louis, his pale cheeks coloring slightly. “Roberta Tatum is black,” he said. “Her husband Walter was black. I thought having someone she could relate to might be helpful.”

“You’re her lawyer. You can’t relate to her?” Louis asked.

Bledsoe’s lips pulled into a line. “My client hired me because I’m the best criminal lawyer around here. But Roberta Tatum sometimes has trouble communicating. She’s . . . well, difficult.”

Louis looked over at Dodie. For a second, he was pissed, but he wasn’t sure why. Then Dodie looked up at him, and over a forkful of yellow pie, his blue eyes met his.

“I just thought you could use the work, Louis, that’s all,” he said.

Louis’s eyes slid back to Bledsoe and stayed there as he tried to reason whether he should be upset or not.

“Why don’t we go outside?” Dodie said, rising.

Louis rose and followed Dodie and Bledsoe to the patio. For several minutes, the three sat quietly watching the sunset. Dodie clicked his Zippo and as he lit the citronella candles, Louis studied his face. He looked like a kid who had gotten caught doing something wrong but wouldn’t apologize until he could figure out exactly what it was he did.

Bledsoe finally spoke. “Look, Mr. Kincaid . . . if I’ve offended—”

“Louis. If I’m going to work for you, it’s Louis.”

Bledsoe nodded and sank back in his chair. Even in the dim light of the candles, Louis could see the relief in the man’s face. Roberta Tatum wasn’t the only one who had trouble communicating.

“So, how was Walter Tatum killed?” Louis asked.

“Police believe he was first disabled with a shotgun wound to his leg,” Bledsoe said. “But he died from seventeen stab wounds in his chest. He was also beaten very badly, but that was postmortem.”

Louis heard a tightness enter Bledsoe’s voice with the last words. He had a feeling that despite being “the best criminal lawyer around,” Bledsoe had little experience with such violence.

“His body was found in some rocks along the causeway,” Bledsoe said.

“The same one we drove in on,” Dodie added.

“Was he killed where he was found?” Louis asked.

Bledsoe nodded. “Shot by his car, then dragged down to the rocks and stabbed and beaten.”