Carl Hiaasen (45 page)

Which meant, of course, that his wife, Katherine Battenkill, had been to the police.

The judge began packing like the frantic fugitive he was about to become. Tomorrow’s front-page newspaper headline would exhume Tom Krome but, more important, rekindle the mystery of the corpse found in the burned house. Detectives who might otherwise have dismissed Katie’s yarn as spousal bile (and done so without a nudge, being longtime courthouse acquaintances of Arthur Battenkill) would be impelled in the scorching glare of the media to take her seriously.

Which meant a full-blown search would begin for Champ Powell, the absent law clerk.

I could be fucked, thought Arthur Battenkill. Seriously fucked.

He filled their second-string suitcase, a gunmetal Samsonite, with underwear, toiletries, every short-sleeved shirt he owned,
jeans and khakis, a windbreaker, PABA-free sunscreen, swim trunks, a stack of traveler’s checks (which he’d purchased that morning at the bank) and a few items of sentimental value (engraved cuff links, an ivory gavel and two boxes of personalized Titleists). He concealed five thousand in cash (withdrawn during the same sortie to the bank) inside random pairs of nylon socks. He packed a single blue suit (though not the vest) and one of his judge’s robes, in case he needed to make an impression on some recalcitrant Bahamian immigration man.

One thing Arthur Battenkill found missing from the marital bureau was his passport, which Katie undoubtedly had swiped to thwart his escape.

Clever girl, the judge said to himself.

What his wife did not know (and Arthur Battenkill did, from his illicit travels with Willow and Dana) was that U.S. citizens didn’t need a passport for entry into the Commonwealth of the Bahamas. A birth certificate sufficed, and the judge had one in his billfold.

He latched the suitcase and dragged it to the living room, where he got on the phone to a small air-charter service in Satellite Beach. The owners owed him a favor, as he’d once saved them a bundle by overruling a catastrophic jury verdict. The case involved a 323-pound passenger who’d been injured by a sliding crate of roosters on a flight to Andros. Jurors blamed the air-charter service for the mishap and awarded the passenger $100,000 for each of her fractured toes, which numbered exactly four. However, it was Arthur Battenkill’s view, based on the expert testimony, that the woman herself shared much of the blame since it was her jumbo presence in the rear of the aircraft that had caused the cargo to shift so precipitously upon takeoff. The judge sliced the jury award by seventy-five percent, a decision upheld on appeal and received buoyantly by the air-charter firm.

Whose owners now assured Arthur Battenkill Jr. that it would be no trouble flying him to Marsh Harbour, none whatsoever.

As the judge showered and shaved for the last time as an American resident, he imagined how it would be, his new life in the islands. It would have been better with Katie, for a single middle-aged man surely would attract more notice and even suspicion. Still, he could easily picture himself as the newly arrived gentleman divorcé—no, a widower. Polite, educated, respectful of native ways. He’d have a small place on the water and live modestly off investments. Discreetly he would let it drop that he’d held a position of prominence in the States. Perhaps eventually he would take on some piecework, advising local attorneys who had business with the Florida courts. He also would learn how to snorkel, and would order some books to help him identify the reef fish. He would go barefoot and get a nut-brown tan. There would be time for painting, too (which he hadn’t done since his undergraduate days)—watercolors of passing sailboats and swaying palms, bright tropical scenes that would sell big with the tourists in Nassau or Freeport.

Leaning his forehead against the tiles in the steamy shower, the Honorable Arthur Battenkill Jr. could see it all. What he couldn’t see was the plain blue sedan pulling into his driveway. Inside were three men: an FBI agent and two county detectives. They’d come to ask the judge about his law clerk, whose name had been helpfully provided by the judge’s wife and secretaries, and whose toasted remains had been (less than one hour ago) positively identified by a series of DNA tests. If, as Mrs. Battenkill stated, the judge had assigned the late Champ Powell to the arson in which he’d perished, then the judge himself would stand trial for felony murder.

It was a topic that would arise soon enough, after Arthur Battenkill toweled off, got dressed, picked up his suitcase and—
gaily humming the tune of “Yellow Bird”—walked out his front door, where the men stood in wait.

“What’ll happen to your husband?”

Katie Battenkill said, “Prison, I guess.”

“God.” Mary Andrea Finley Krome, thinking: This one’s tougher than she looks.

“There’s a Denny’s off the next exit. Are you hungry?”

Mary Andrea said, “Tell me again where we’re going. The name of the place.”

“Grange.”

“And you’re sure Tom’s there?”

“I think so. I’m pretty sure,” Katie replied.

“And how exactly do you know him? Or did you already say?”

Mary Andrea wasn’t in the habit of road-tripping with total strangers, but the woman had seemed trustworthy and Mary Andrea had been frantic—spooked by Tom’s divorce lawyer and rudely shouted at by the reporters. She would never forget the heat of the TV lights on her neck as she fled, nor the dread as she fought for a path through the crowd in the newspaper lobby. She’d even considered feigning another medical collapse but decided against it; the choreography would’ve been dicey amid the tumult.

All of a sudden a hand had gripped her elbow, and she’d spun to see this woman—a pretty strawberry blonde, who’d led her out the door and said: “Let’s get you away from all this nonsense.”

And Mary Andrea, stunned with defeat and weakened from humiliation, had accompanied the consoling stranger because it was the next best thing to running, which was what Mary Andrea felt most like doing. The woman introduced
herself as Katie something-or-other and briskly took Mary Andrea to a car.

“I tried to get there sooner,” she’d said. “I wanted to tell you your husband was still alive—you deserved to know. But then I got tied up at the sheriff’s office.”

Initially Mary Andrea had let pass the last part of the woman’s remark, but she brought it up later, as an icebreaker, when they were on the highway. Katie candidly stated that her husband was a local judge who’d committed a terrible crime, and that her conscience and religious beliefs required her to rat him out to the police. The story piqued Mary Andrea’s curiosity but she was eager to steer the conversation back to the topic of her scheming bastard husband. How else to describe a man so merciless that he’d burn down his own house to set up his own wife—even an estranged one—for publicly televised ridicule!

“You’re mistaken. It wasn’t like that,” said Katie Battenkill.

“You don’t know Tom.”

“Actually, I do. See, I was his lover.” Katie was adhering to her newfound doctrine of total honesty. “For about two weeks. Look in my purse, there’s a list of all the times we made love. It’s on lavender notepaper, folded in half.”

Mary Andrea said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Go ahead and look.”

“No, thanks.”

“Truth matters more than anything in the world. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“And then some,” Mary Andrea said, under her breath. She considered putting on a show of being jealous, to discourage the woman from further elaboration.

But Katie caught her off guard by asking: “Aren’t you glad he’s alive? You don’t look all that thrilled.”

“I’m … I guess I’m still in shock.”

Katie seemed doubtful.

Mary Andrea said, “If I weren’t so damn mad at him, yes, I’d be glad.” Which possibly was true. Mary Andrea knew her peevishness didn’t fit the circumstances, but young Katie couldn’t know what the Krome marriage was, or had become. And as good a performer as Mary Andrea was, she wasn’t sure how an ex-widow ought to act. She’d never met one.

Katie said, “Don’t be mad. Tom didn’t set you up. What happened was my husband’s fault—and mine, too, for sleeping with Tom. See, that’s why Arthur had the house torched—”

“Whoa. Who’s Arthur?”

“My husband. I told you about him. It’s a mess, I know,” said Katie, “but you’ve got to understand that Tommy didn’t arrange this. He had no clue. When it happened he was out of town, working on an article for the paper. That’s when Art sent a man to the house—”

“OK, time out!” Mary Andrea, making a T with her hands. “Is this why your husband’s going to jail?”

“That’s right.”

“My God.”

“I’m so glad you believe me.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I do,” said Mary Andrea. “But it’s quite a story, Katie. And if you
did
cook it up all by yourself, then you should think about a career in show business. Seriously.”

They were thirty minutes outside Grange before Katherine Battenkill spoke again.

“I’ve come to believe that everything happens for a reason, Mrs. Krome. There’s no coincidence or chance or luck. Everything that happens is meant to guide us. For example: Tom. If I hadn’t made love thirteen times with Tom, I would never have seen Arthur for what he truly is. And likewise he’d never have burned down that house, and you wouldn’t be here with me right now, riding to Grange to see your husband.”

For once Mary Andrea was unable to modulate her reaction. “Thirteen times in two weeks?”

Thinking: That breaks
our
old record.

“But that’s counting oral relations, too.” Katie, attempting to soften the impact. She rolled down the window. Cool air streamed through the car. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a cheeseburger.”

“Well, I’m dying to speak to Mr. Tom Krome.”

“It won’t be long now,” Katie said lightly. “But we do need to make a couple of stops. One for gas.”

“And what else?”

“Something special. You’ll see.”

O
n the morning of December 6, Clara Markham drove to her real estate office to nail down a buyer for the property known as Simmons Wood. Waiting in the parking lot was Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. As Clara Markham unlocked the front door, JoLayne Lucks strolled up—jeans, sweatshirt, peach-tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap. She’d done her nails in glossy tangerine.

The dapper Squires looked uneasy; he shifted his eelskin briefcase from one fist to the other. Clara Markham made the introductions and started a pot of coffee.

She said, “So how was your trip, Jo? Where’d you go?”

“Camping.”

“In all that weather!”

“Listen, hon, it kept the bugs away.” JoLayne moved quickly to change the subject. “How’s my pal Kenny? How’s the diet coming?”

“We’ve lost two pounds! I switched him to dry food, like you
suggested.” Clara Markham reported this proudly. She handed a cup of coffee to Bernard Squires, who thanked her in a reserved tone.

The real estate broker explained: “Kenny’s my Persian blue. Jo works at the vet.”

“Oh. My sister has a Siamese,” said Squires, exclusively out of politeness.

JoLayne Lucks whipped off her sunglasses and zapped him with a smile. He could scarcely mask his annoyance.
This
was his competition for a $3 million piece of commercial property—a black woman with orange fingernails who works at an animal hospital!

Clara Markham settled behind her desk, uncluttered and immaculate. JoLayne Lucks and Bernard Squires positioned themselves in straight-backed chairs, almost side by side. They set their coffee cups on cork-lined coasters.

“Shall we begin?” said Clara.

Without preamble Squires opened the briefcase across his lap, and handed to the real estate broker a sheaf of legal-sized papers. Clara skimmed the cover sheet.

For JoLayne’s benefit she said, “The union’s offer is three million even with twenty-five percent down. Mr. Squires already delivered a good-faith cash deposit, which we put in escrow.”

They jacked up the stakes, JoLayne brooded. Bastards.

“Jo?”

“I’ll offer three point one,” she said, “and thirty percent up front.” She’d been to the bank early. Tom Krome was right—a young vice president in designer suspenders had airily offered an open line of credit to cover any shortfall on the Simmons Wood down payment.

Squires said, “Ms. Markham, I’m not accustomed to this … informality. Purchase proposals on a tract this size are usually put into writing.”

“We’re a small town, Bernard. And you’re the one who’s in the big hurry.” Clara, with a saccharine smile.

“It’s my clients, you see.”

“Certainly.”

JoLayne Lucks was determined not to be intimidated. “Clara knows my word is good, Mr. Squires. Don’t you think things will move quicker this way, all three of us together?”

Disdain flicked across the investment manager’s face. “All right, quicker it is. We’ll jump to 3.25 million.”

Clara Markham shifted slightly. “Don’t you need to call your people in Chicago?”

“That’s not necessary,” Squires replied with an icy pleasantness.

“Three three,” JoLayne said.

Squires closed the briefcase soundlessly. “This can go on for as long as you wish, Miss Lucks. The pension fund has given me tremendous latitude.”

“Three point four.” JoLayne slipped from worried to scared. The man was a shark; this was his job.

“Three five,” Bernard Squires shot back. Now it was his turn to smile. The girl was caving fast. What was I so worried about? he wondered. It’s this creepy little hole of a town—I let it get to me.

He said, “You see, the union has come to rely upon my judgment in these matters. Real estate development, and so forth. They leave the negotiations to me. And the value of a parcel like this is defined by the market on any given day. Today the market happens to be, quite frankly, pretty good.”

JoLayne glanced at her friend Clara, who appeared commendably unexcited by the bidding or the rising trajectory of her commission. What
was
evident in Clara’s soft hazel eyes was sympathy.