Characters in Duma Key

… A moment later I was lying on a jagged bed of bones and staring into Adriana Eastlake Paulson’s eternal grin.

… I had an old friend named Aggie Winterborn who used to do the advice-to-the-lovelorn column in the Tampa Trib, and I happened to mention the story once to her.

… When Wireman asked if I’d talked to Alice Aucoin yet about how the various groupings were to be hung, I’d suggest we volley some tennis balls …

… Your old line foreman Angel Slobotnik told Pam he’d bring you a jar of pickles. She said he sounded thrilled.

… I had my hand on the Malibu’s doorhandle when I remembered him saying that Annmarie Whistler, whom he depended upon to stay with Elizabeth when he had to be gone for any length of time, was on a call.

The end of this sash was soaking in a spreading pool of Gandalf’s blood. Mrs. Fevereau half-jumped and half-fell from the Hummer’s ridiculously high driver’s seat. Ava Goldstein came running from the front door of the Goldstein house, crying her daughter’s name. Mrs. Goldstein’s blouse was half-buttoned.

… “Everyone but my Aunt Jean and Uncle Ben,” I said. “They’re veteran freeloaders, dedicated to squeezing a good thing to the very last drop.”

Myra said she’d been worried, too—she and Ben both.

… when she seen ole Big Boy down there at the foot of the lawn, crossin the driveway and goin into the trees …

Carson Jones and Bridget Andreisson duet on “How Great Thou Art,” read the caption. Hmmm. My If-So-Girl had written, “I’m not a bit jealous.” Double-hmmmm. I made myself a bologna and cheese sandwich (three months on Duma Key and I was still a go for bologna), then went upstairs.

I could feel her smooth skin, even a few little grains of sand nestling in the hollow at the small of her back. I could smell her shampoo and taste a faint ghost of salt on her lips. I knew her name was Caitlin and he called her Kate.

But I couldn’t remember drawing any little books. “Freddy the Fish? Carla the Crab? Donald the Timid Deer?” Donald the Timid Deer rang a very faint bell, way down deep, but . . . “No,” I said. “Angel thought you should try to get them published, don’t you remember?

… “His name’s Carson Jones, and he’s a divinity student, of all things—do you believe it? I love him, Daddy, I just love him so much.”

And she guessed she knew why the little ones were scairt of Charley; there might be mysteries on Duma now, but that ain’t one of em. That was her own fault, although she meant well— vii “Charley!” I said. “His name’s Charley!” Noveen cawed her laughing assent.

” “I guess that was before Jay-Z.” “Got that right. Even better, I talked to Chris Shannington, over on Casey Key—you’ve almost certainly seen him. Colorful old geezer who walks everyplace with this gnarled briarwood cane, almost as tall as he is, and a big straw hat on his head.

… He said his mother had connected him with someone named Dario Nannuzzi, and Nannuzzi would be happy to look at my pictures between four and five PM on Friday afternoon …

… A man identifying himself as Detective Samson said that he was trying to reach both Edgar Freemantle and Jerome Wireman, to ask some questions about Mary Ire.

… I thought of Don Field, the guy who had inspected at least half of my buildings in the nineties (or so it seemed), and my mind did its crosspatch thing.

Carla the Crab? Donald the Timid Deer?”

… There were two older nurses that I called Dry Fuck One and Dry Fuck Two, as if they were characters in a dirty Dr. Seuss story.

… There were two older nurses that I called Dry Fuck One and Dry Fuck Two, as if they were characters in a dirty Dr. Seuss story.

… 1—My Other Life i My name is Edgar Freemantle. I used to be a big deal in the building and contracting business. This was in Minnesota, in my other life. I learned that my-other-life thing from Wireman. I want to tell you about Wireman, but first let’s get through the …

“Correct. Miss Elizabeth Eastlake. Given the lady’s age—eighty-five—I guess you could call her Ole Miss.” He began laughing again, shook his head, and said: “I have to stop. But in fairness to myself, it’s been a long time since I had anything to belly-laugh about.” “Same here.”

… His father, Ellis Shannington, was John Eastlake’s gardener. According to Chris, it was Ellis who took Maria and Hannah, Elizabeth’s two older sisters, back to the Braden School ten days or so after the drowning.

So were her sisters—both the Big Meanies and the twins (not Adie; Adie was in Europe with three friends and two trusty chaperones—Emery Paulson, the young man she’ll marry, had not yet come on the scene). The nanny/housekeeper was awed by her, called her la petite obéah fille.

That same dark hair, framing a pale, perfect face. Those same dark solemn eyes. “Esmeralda,” Wireman said. “The other half of my heart.”

… “Freddy the Fish? Carla the Crab? Donald the Timid Deer?” Donald the Timid Deer rang a very faint bell, way down deep, but . . . …

… I barely noticed, and I certainly didn’t see Gandalf dash into the street up ahead, concentrating only on Monica, coming down the other side of the street in Full Girl Scout.

Three waiting rooms, one outside General Admitting, where Wireman refused to even take a clipboard with a form on it—possibly because he couldn’t read it (I filled in the necessary information), one outside Neurology, where I met both Gene Hadlock, Elizabeth’s doctor, and a pallid, goateed fellow named Herbert Principe.

“My brother George and I are off with our mother, on our annual cruise—it’s Nassau this year.

… a guy named George Brown, known to everyone as Candy. Candy Brown had left work around 2:30 on Valentine’s Day afternoon, this man said, and hadn’t returned until the next morning.

Maria and Hannah come in. She doesn’t like them the way she likes the twins. The twins are little, like her. She thinks I called Maria and Hannah the Big Meanies in the used-to-know and realizes she knows again. It’s another thing that’s come back. The name for another detail.

Now he looks at you like you could shit gold belt-buckles.” “Angel, you stop!” Helen Slobotnik cried, simultaneously throwing another elbow and grabbing for his glass of champagne. He held it serenely out of her reach. “Tell her it’s the truth, boss!” “I think it sort of is,” I said.

Three waiting rooms, one outside General Admitting, where Wireman refused to even take a clipboard with a form on it—possibly because he couldn’t read it (I filled in the necessary information), one outside Neurology, where I met both Gene Hadlock, Elizabeth’s doctor, and a pallid, goateed fellow named Herbert Principe.

… think about my daughter, Ilse Marie Freemantle, who had weighed six pounds and four ounces at birth, whose first word had been dog …

… On the day I arrived in my rental car (driven by Jack Cantori, the young man Sandy Smith had hired through a Sarasota employment agency), I knew nothing about the history of Duma Key.

“Of course I know some of the things I remember aren’t true, but I remember them with exquisite precision, all the same. No cross-examination could trip me up to this very day, not even concerning the pus-covered roaches I saw crawling out of old Jack Fineham’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils.

Dario introduced him to me as Jacob Rosenblatt, the accountant who kept the Scoto’s books in trim. My heart sank a little as I shook his hand, turning my own to do it because he offered the wrong one, as so many people do. Ah, but it’s a righties’ world.

… “Everyone but my Aunt Jean and Uncle Ben,” I said. “They’re veteran freeloaders, dedicated to squeezing a good thing to the very last drop.”

His hand was short, the fingers blunt, the grip strong. “Jerome Wireman. I go by Wireman, mostly.” I looked at the beach chair meant for me. It was the kind with a high back and a low fanny-sling, like the bucket seat in a Porsche. “Something wrong with that, muchacho?”

But of all those fathers, I might be the only one who could kill a heedless, daughter-hurting suitor with a few strokes of a paintbrush. xi Dario Nannuzzi and one of his partners, Jimmy Yoshida, came out the very next day. Yoshida was a Japanese-American Dorian Gray.

… “Hey, Joanie, thank God you called back. I’m running late and was hoping our three-fifteen could be—” “It’s not Joanie,” I said.

… These were the Godfreys from Rhode Island, known to Wireman (and hence to me) as Joe and Rita Mean Dog.

… All three of John Eastlake’s last wills and testaments contained identical clauses setting up a trust fund to pay the taxes.

And past the sky. “Mr. Freemantle?” It was John Hastings, the old guy who lived two houses up from the Goldsteins. In his English tweed cap and sleeveless sweater, he looked ready for a hike on the Scottish moors. Except, that was, for the expression of dismay on his face.

… Jack had found me a stout lady named Juanita to clean twice a week, and I had her make up the guest bedroom.

… One of the circus accountants, Julia Taveres, was also from Mexico. As well as keeping the books, she functioned as translator for the fliers.

Of course, God loves surprises. That’s what Wireman says. Kathi Green the Rehab Queen had only been divorced once, but she and Tom were on the same wavelength. I remember her sitting cross-legged in her leotard, holding my feet and looking at me with grim outrage.

Wireman raised his hands and waggled his fingers in a typing mime. “Tessie and Laura Eastlake. The librarian sent me a copy of the Tampa paper from April 19th, 1927. The headline on the front page is very stark, very bleak, very chilling. Three words. THEY ARE GONE.”

Baby Elizabeth said when she couldn’t draw or paint, “her head hurted.” Her father said that when she did paint, “She ate like one of the horses she liked to draw.” The article’s author, one M. Rickert, seemed to find this endearing.

Tom Riley had made it almost to Pam’s shoulder. Bozie was next to him. From just behind them, Margaret Bozeman skated me a kiss from the heel of her palm.

Maria and Hannah come in. She doesn’t like them the way she likes the twins. The twins are little, like her. She thinks I called Maria and Hannah the Big Meanies in the used-to-know and realizes she knows again. It’s another thing that’s come back. The name for another detail.

Mary Ire understands it and fosters it. So if the Happy Art Galleria down the street discovers they can sell paintings of Elvis done in macaroni on velvet for ten thousand dollars a pop, Mary would—” “She’d blow them out of the water,” Nannuzzi said.

… I suppose Ilse also told you about Max Stanton, out in Palm Desert. Oh, Edgar, you know how she is!

Impatient now. “Qui est à l’appareil?” “Mmm, maybe I have the wrong number,” I said, feeling not just like an asshole but a monolingual American asshole. “I was trying to reach Melinda Freemantle.” “D’accord, you have the right number.” Then, off a little: “Melinda! C’est ton papa, je crois, chérie.”

The one marked SUICIDE was currently a bad option, as Dr. Kamen had pointed out. That left the one marked DUMA KEY. One other thing occurred in my other life before I slipped through that door, though. It was what happened to Monica Goldstein’s Jack Russell Terrier, Gandalf.

Please respect his privacy and my professional situation.” Whatever that is, I thought, bemused. “May I suggest that you browse the works on display while we step into the rear quarters for a little while? Ms. Aucoin, Mr. Brooks, and Mr. Castellano will be pleased to answer all your questions.”

Please respect his privacy and my professional situation.” Whatever that is, I thought, bemused. “May I suggest that you browse the works on display while we step into the rear quarters for a little while? Ms. Aucoin, Mr. Brooks, and Mr. Castellano will be pleased to answer all your questions.”

I’m thinking of fellows like Mr. Costenza out there, who was waving his checkbook around, and the ladies who come in with their dogs dyed to match their latest coats.” Nannuzzi showed his teeth in a smile I was willing to bet not many of his richer clients ever saw.

Wireman said Joe Mean Dog was an ex–Green Beret, in a tone of voice which seemed to indicate that explained everything. “Mr. Dirisko won’t even get out of his car when he has a package for them,” Wireman said. He was referring to the U.S.

I would have checked, too. “When Mr. Fredericks—he’s the tour director—threatened to send him home, Carson told him he could if he wanted to, but he wasn’t singing with that holy blond bitch anymore.” “Were those his exact words?” She smiled brilliantly. “He’s a Baptist, Daddy, I’m interpreting.

Mr. Hitchens had been its name, although I no longer knew why …

… what did Mr. Vestick think I was going to do? Call him at home and thank him again? Ask him for a loan and offer him a painting as collateral?

I was returning from one of these walks when Mrs. Fevereau hit Monica’s dog. I was three-quarters of the way home when the Fevereau woman went past me in her ridiculous mustard-colored Hummer.

There was another mighty honk as she blew her nose once more. When she started talking again, she was composed, with no hint of tears in her voice. “I asked Myra to call me when he got back home—Myra Devorkian, who lives across the street from him.

She sees her five sisters. Their dresses. How their hair is crazy-combed by the wind when they come in from outside. She sees her father’s mustache, now threaded with gray. She sees Nan Melda—not just the housekeeper but the closest thing to a mother this little girl knows.

“For a minute there I thought I saw . . . it looked like—” “Shut up!” Noveen cried. “Ne’mine no mojo arm! You gone want to see this, I bet!” I drew quickly, and the jockey came out of the white like a figure out of heavy fog.

She actually wants to call and tell you that, but she’s scared you’ll blow her off.” I gaped at him. “The first thing we establish once we get past the introductions is Pam Freemantle knows zip and zoop about a big art exhibition five weeks hence by her ex-husband.

Hardly more than a baby. Perse was . . . I guess you’d say Perse was her spirit-guide.” Wireman cracked his beer, sipped it, then leaned forward. “And what about you? Is Perse your spirit-guide, as well? Has she been intensifying what you do?” “Of course she has,” I said.

… There was a candystriper I called Pilch Lozenge—I have no idea why, but that nickname also had some sort of sexual connotation.

The bad frog chased us! Reba cried. It has TEEF! xii That word—TEEF!—was still ringing in my head when I sat up with a cold puddle of October moonlight in my lap. I was trying to scream and producing only a series of silent gasps. My heart was thundering.

It was the song about the poor woman who turns out her pretty daughter as a prostitute. It was “Fancy,” by Reba McEntire. “Reba,” I whispered, and hugged the doll against me. “You’re Reba. Reba-Reba-Reba. I’ll never forget again.” I did—the following week—but I didn’t get angry that time. No.

“You look pretty fine yourself.” She laughed, blushing, a stranger with whom I had once spent my nights. “Make-up covers a multitude of sins.” “Daddy, this is Ric Doussault,” Melinda said. “Bonsoir and congratulations, Monsieur Freemantle,” Ric said. He was holding a plain white box. He now held it out.

He professed to be completely puzzled about why she didn’t want me to stockpile my pictures on the island. About that, he said, he didn’t have a clue. Joe and Rita Mean Dog moved in; the relentless barking of their menagerie commenced.

… “Royal Bonnier, a legal crusader who has won half a dozen supposedly unwinnable pro bono cases, said he would make every effort to exclude the following video …

… Rudy Rudnick, my old secretary . . . Kamen, of course, he was impossible to miss . . . and Kathi by his side.

Lin can’t wear that kind of sneakers because none of the kids in her class wear hightops anymore . . . so don’t hold it against her. Lin wants Ryan’s Dad to take them to the prom . . . but don’t hold it against her.

… Sandy Smith was my Realtor in St. Paul. I had asked her to find me a place that was quiet …

“I went surfing around on the Internet and came up with a good deal from the local newspapers and a couple of memoirs that are available for download. One of them—I shit you not, muchacho—is called Boat Trips and Beeswax, A Girlhood in Nokomis, by Stephanie Weider Gravel-Miller.”

Hair that might not be hair at all flutters dankly around a melted face. Yellow hands grip splintered, punky wood. Then, one lifts slowly. And waves to the girl who will soon be GONE. It says Come to me, child. And, drowning, Tessie Eastlake thinks It’s a WOMAN! She sinks.

I scrolled through the names quickly and made sure Thomas Riley wasn’t one of them, knowing it proved nothing; he might have offed himself too late to make the morning line.

The Ship paintings were good. Maybe great. They certainly felt that way when I finished them. They were also bad, powerful medicine. I think I knew that from the first one, executed during the small hours of Valentine’s Day. During the last night of Tina Garibaldi’s life.

Can you refer me to one or would you rather I went through Todd Jamieson, the doc with his fingers most recently in my brain? Edgar I thought he’d refer, and I might even keep the appointment, but right then a few dropped words and linguistic oddities weren’t a priority.

William Bozeman III was a dapper, manicured, bow-tie-wearing sixty-five, wheeldog of the Minneapolis law-firm my company used, and if he knew Tom and I had been calling him Bozie for the last twenty years, he would probably have suffered an embolism. “I hadn’t thought about it. What’s the deal, Tom?

His great staring eyeballs, ship’s figurehead of a nose, and totemic lips were awe-inspiring. Xander Kamen looked like a minor god in a suit from Men’s Warehouse. He also looked like a prime candidate for a fatal heart attack or stroke before his fiftieth birthday.