don’t think so. No. No. It’s not the only Spanish castle in Florida.’
Too much, probably, but the outsider carrying Lucy’s picture is in no shape to read the fine print in Bobby’s face. Every line in his body sags. He shoves the snapshot back into his pocket. ‘I see.’
He looks so messed up that Bobby says kindly, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
The young man thinks before he answers. When he does it’s nothing Bobby expects. ‘Did you ever hear of a woman named Muriel Keesler, got on fire?’
‘Keesler. Oh,’ Bobby says, relieved. ‘That. Moms used it to scare us. This is what happens when you play with matches, kids . . .’
‘And two others.’
Bobby says sharply, ‘What are you really here about?’
The answer is so careful that it may not be an answer. ‘Going up in flames. I’m down here on a story.’
‘Reporter!’ This makes Bobby feel better. ‘You never said your name.’
‘Dan. I’m looking for the house?’
Bobby does not say, Dan what. They can’t be out here in the road much longer. He needs to be alone so he can think. ‘Where it happened? The last one standing is over on 57th.’
‘You mean the one where Mrs Archambault.’ Changing expressions race across his face. ‘I saw the photos.’
Bobby says, ‘Pretty bad. If Lorna’d seen herself like that, she would have died.’
The wind in the pines doesn’t stop, but the air around the newcomer’s head is still. There is an odd moment before he says, ‘You mean the foot and the chair.’
‘My point. In her day, she was quite the lady. If you’re researching the family . . .’ Bad idea, Chaplin. Stop your mouth.
He doesn’t have to. The kid cuts him off. ‘I need to see the house.’
For a frantic half-second, Bobby thinks he means this house. Maggie, doing a Mrs Rochester in the window. Al watching QVC. ‘This is not the best day.’
‘No. Her house.’
‘Of course.’ Make a smile for him, Bobby. Make it good. ‘It’s back that way, one block in from the corner of Fourth and 57th. Where you made the left at the Publix? If you see the water, you’ve gone too far. Look for the banyan, it’s . . .’
‘Thanks.’ The kid is halfway to his car.
Bobby says anyway, ‘The oldest one in town.’ Then he goes inside to do what he has to do.
Maggie’s fussing over her African violets. The sunlight playing on those white, white hands is just sad. After her 9/11 meltdown, it’s the best she can do. Younger than he is, and she has Little Old Lady written all over her.
His big brother is kicked back in front of the Shopping Channel with a beer. If anybody asks, Al is retired, which is a good cover if you don’t know. Retirement is as good a name for it as any. He’s not that far north of fifty, too many idle years ahead, but is that an indictable offense? Between them, QVC and The Shopping Channel have everything Al wants and they have it in his size, second day delivery, which gives him a giddy feeling of control. Al’s happy, Bobby thinks, or what passes for happy, and this is even more depressing then the set of his sister’s mouth as she nips dead petals off yet another African violet.
He’s going upstairs to phone when Margaret looks up from her violets. ‘You had a phone call.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. I called you, but I guess you didn’t hear.’
‘I was talking to someone.’
‘You.’ She snaps a head off a violet. ‘You’re always talking to someone.’
Not really. ‘Did they leave a message?’
‘I am not your answering service,’ Margaret says resentfully, apparently pissed off by his contact with real life.
He loves his sister, he hates seeing her like this. He says, ‘Look, you can’t just go into mourning and stay there.’
‘OK, it was Chape Bellinger.’
‘Shit.’ You reach a stage in life where you can’t tell whether a phone call from somebody you used to know is a good thing or a bad one. It’s embarrassing, given that they were bonded in high school. They haven’t spoken since Bobby got home, and that was last spring. When you get right down to it why would they, Chape is a litigator, Bobby’s heard, demon in the courtroom, president of the Gryphon Club, kids’ soccer coach, king of the world. Given what just happened, they have to talk anyway. Lucy’s picture, in this stranger’s hands. He has it planned: Bob Chaplin, returning Chape Bellinger. Sound