And it’s the same kind of shock, delivered by Mr. Marshall here in the fragrant Japanese tea garden of the Flamingo Hotel. Only a mere few days since that Connecticut jury returned its verdict, in fact, though it seems like several lifetimes. Shock will do that.
I turn the words over in my head, examining them at various angles. Unlike in that Connecticut courtroom, there’s no echo, no simultaneous gasp of surprise from a hundred or so lungs to tell me I’ve heard him properly. Because I was right there, that night at Cocoa Beach. My thumb touches the bent circle of metal clinching the fourth finger of my right hand. Spins it around a time or two.
At last: “I see.”
“Yes. It’s an awful thing. You see, he’d agreed to work with me, a while back. He’d agreed it might be in his best interest to help us gather up a bit of information. I think he’d realized, by then, he was in over his head, he and that brother of his. He’s not a bad man, your husband. Why, the whole thing was Mr. Samuel Fitzwilliam’s idea to begin with, when he took over managing the shipping company. They started out just wanting to make a few bucks, to tide the business over when the harvest had all been shipped out—he had a lot of debt, you know, a lot of money to pay back to the banks—and the bootleg money, why, it’s a whole lot of dough, real hard for some men to resist. And I guess neither of them thought much of the Eighteenth Amendment to begin with. I understand that. I understand why some might object. I have my own opinions. But it’s the law of the land, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and I’m sworn to uphold the law of the land, and what happens when you start to break that law—my God, are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Please go on.”
“Let me get you a glass of water.”
“No! I want you to tell me the whole story.”
But he doesn’t listen. He reaches forward and grasps me by the shoulders and lifts me right out of my chair—he’s much burlier than I thought—and into his arms. I guess this might count as a romantic gesture to some, but his arms are hard and businesslike, and he doesn’t linger or comfort or anything like that, though he’s careful not to hurt me, either. He carries me briskly across the garden toward the French doors of the hotel, and the truth is, I am a bit light-headed. A little dizzy, a little sick, such that even if I wanted to protest, I really couldn’t. I do need a glass of water. I do need to lie down. There’s only so much a body can endure in a single week.
At the last moment Mr. Marshall veers from the wall of French doors and carries me to a discreet entrance at the side of the building. He seems to know exactly where he’s going. We proceed up the service elevator in absolute silence—thank God there’s no one about—and I manage not to lean my head on his shoulder, not once, even as we turn sideways through the door and he places me gently on the bed. I glance at the other bed—Clara hasn’t retired yet, it seems—and tell Mr. Marshall that this really wasn’t necessary, and he should leave at once before my companion arrives.
He’s pouring a glass of water from the pitcher and turns his head briefly to reply. “Miss Clara Fitzwilliam. Is that right?”
“Yes. My sister-in-law.”
He hands me the water. “I know. Now listen to me. I sought you out, I arranged this little meeting only because I wanted to inform you in person of the substance of our investigation, and to deliver a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Yes. Stay out of the way, do you hear me? These men are dangerous, extremely dangerous. So you’re not going to help, as you put it. You’re going to leave this entire matter to the bureau.”
“But—”
“I promise you we’ll catch the men who killed your husband, and we’ll let you know when we do. God knows you’ve suffered enough already. You should go back to New York, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. You should go back to New York, where I’m sure your sister needs you more than we do.”
I want to ask how he knows about my sister, but I suppose, once more—like Clara, like everyone else except me—he’s read about her in the papers. I set down the water glass on the nightstand. “I’m in no condition to travel all the way back to New York at the moment, Mr. Marshall. I’ll stay right here in Florida, if you don’t mind.”
“What about your daughter? You want to put her in danger? I’ll tell you this: these men, these Florida gangs, they won’t hesitate to hurt a baby girl. Or worse. I’ve seen what they can do, things no lady should have to imagine. That gun you’re hiding in your pocket isn’t going to do a damned bit of good. Thugs and murderers, every last one.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You ought to be afraid. For your daughter, if not for yourself.”
He speaks with terrible sternness. As I suppose he should; after all, he’s got a point, hasn’t he? He’s just confirmed what I suppose I already knew; he’s just slid a few pieces of this vast and complicated puzzle into place. The bootleggers, the Florida gangs, the acts of dangerous treachery. So I realize I should be afraid. I am afraid. I’m afraid for Evelyn, and I’m afraid for myself for Evelyn’s sake. I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother.
On the other hand—and this is important, mind you—just as in that courtroom in Connecticut, I happen to be in possession of a piece of information that nobody else knows, except Simon himself—a piece of information, a postmark, that constitutes my last particle of hope. If hope, indeed, is the word to describe this pitch of desperation that’s overcome my every nerve.
“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but the fact is, I find I’m enjoying myself here in Florida. The sunshine, the sand, the ocean. It’s the best kind of tonic.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Maybe I am. But I’m not going to be chased out of anywhere, Mr. Marshall. Not by some Florida bootlegger, nor by a stranger with a square jaw and a short haircut who claims he’s a revenue agent.”
Up until this moment, Mr. Marshall’s been looming over me as I lie on the bed, in the manner of a father trying to remonstrate with a recalcitrant child, while I have looked up at him in juvenile defiance. He straightens now, and his hard blue eyes—more lapis than sapphire, as the lamplight reveals—sort of widen. “Claims he’s a revenue agent?”
“You’re the one who told me not to trust anybody.”
He blinks at last, a bit slowly, as if he’s turning over rocks inside that prehistoric skull of his. “You know, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, for a woman who’s lost a father and a husband inside of a few months, you’ve got a quick mouth. Tell me something. Do you know how to fire that gun?”
“Of course.”
“Good. You might want to find a holster for it, though. You’re liable to have an accident in that pocket of yours.”