One True Secret

On occasion Eli’s work was dangerous. He had a scar on his chest from a bullet and one on his back from a machete. He’d been shadowed in Kuwait, beaten in New Delhi and drugged in Paris. He was still recovering from the caper in Yucatán, and he was not recovering swiftly. The machete wound still ached, and sometimes his fever came back.

The life of an investigative reporter was much like that of a soldier. It could be ninety-eight percent boredom and two percent terror. Sometimes he was tired of both.

His work could be disturbing as well as dangerous. If he had been hurt from time to time, he’d hurt others in return. He’d stripped them of their honor and watched the law strip them of their wealth, and sometimes their very freedom. Some of the people involved were criminals, and he didn’t mind what happened to them. But others were misled or deluded or desperate, and some were simply innocent bystanders.

There was a puzzle about the Roths, and it was a troubling one. But what was its nature and how culpable was Emerson Roth?

Sick of brooding, he waded into the churning waves. The sea was too rough to swim in comfort. He did anyway, the salt stinging the soles of his feet. Then he sat alone on the beach, throwing pebbles at the choppy waves and letting the rain pelt him.

When the rain began to pour down in earnest, he put on his street clothes in the little changing room, then limped back to his car. He hadn’t eaten, so he stopped at a rustic restaurant on Cudjo Key.

Few customers were inside, and none out at the garden tables, where the tropical trees waved their branches in the wind and flowers were beaten down by the assault of the rain.

Outside, workers fastened hurricane shutters, cutting off the view of the garden. The waitress was blond, busty, middle-aged, tanned to a crisp and friendly. She called him “hon” and said her name was Brenda.

“You here on vacation?” she asked, setting a plate of red snapper before him.

“No. I deal in art,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He switched the topic to her. “You lived here long?”

“All my life,” she laughed. “Born and bred here. Where’re you from?”

“I’m based in New York, but I travel a lot,” Eli said.

She raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Art dealer, huh? Lotta galleries in Key West.”

“Yup.” That was no lie, either.

Brenda looked philosophical. “Well, hope you got your work done and are headin’ home. We’re gonna have a big blow, I’m afraid.”

“It feels worse,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the car radio.

“Looks like its headin’ for Cuba. Folks’ll be evacuatin’.” Brenda nodded in the direction of the highway.

“That road out there’s gonna be mighty crowded. Ugh. Head north now, and you can get a head start.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. I got an appointment tomorrow I can’t cancel. Took too much work to get it. Local artist.”

She looked curious, so he thought he’d push further. “Nathan Roth.”

Her expression went dubious. So did her tone. “You’re talking to Nathan Roth?”

“His family, not him.” Eli did a good imitation of looking sincere and troubled. “Something may be up with him. Nobody’s seen him around for a long time.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Brenda said. “He used to be in here every weekend. This was one of his favorite places. Liked the live music. Good-natured guy. Come here with that little wife of his. She hung back, but he’d get a few beers in him, be life of the party. Then…poof.”

“Poof?”

“He stopped coming. Just like that. Poof. Like he’d vanished.”

“Why?”

She gave an elaborate shrug. “I don’t know. There are rumors.”

He frowned and made his expression more concerned. “Can you say what? The outfit I represent is worried. They’ve heard rumors, too.”

Conflict played across her face. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “People think maybe it’s his health.”

“His hearing? One thing we’ve heard is that he lost his hearing.”

“No,” she said immediately. “More serious than that.”

He looked at her as if he’d just discovered his guardian angel. He’d given this look to women many time before, and it usually worked.

He said, “That’s what we’re afraid of. You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s actually known him. What do you think happened to him?”

She tapped her forehead. “His mind going? Something like that, maybe? He was kind of forgetful the last few times I saw him. And…sometimes he was different. Once he argued that I didn’t add up his check right. But I had. He got it all wrong.”

Eli felt his chest contract, and a chill played under his skin. The woman hadn’t said it outright, but she’d hinted clearly. This was the gossip growing and spreading through the art world about Nathan Roth: something had happened to his lively and creative mind.

And his family was hiding it.

Eli stared deeply into Brenda’s mascaraed eyes. “That’s what we’ve been wondering, too.”

She shook her head sadly. “He’s getting on in years. These things happen. What is he, eighty-something?”

“Eighty-three. Tell me, what do you think of his work?”

She made a gesture of exasperation. “Look, I liked him as a guy. But his pictures were just a bunch a wiggly lines. They didn’t look like anything to me. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“It’s okay,” Eli said. “Lots of people don’t care for modern art. It’s no crime.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it, is all. Nathan’s, his was kinda pretty—the colors, the shading I guess you’d call it. But some of the stuff out there, it looks like a little kid did it. Or even a chimpanzee, for God’s sake.”

He gave her a half smile to show he understood. “You’re not the first person to think so.”

She pointed to a brightly colored ceramic fish on the wall. “That, to me, is artistic. You look at it, you know it’s a fish, right?”

“Right.” He paused. “Nathan’s granddaughter’s still putting his work on the market, you know. She says he’s still painting.”

Brenda’s face hardened. “Oh. Her.”

Her reaction pricked Eli’s interest. “Emerson Roth? You don’t like her?”

“She comes in here once or twice a month. To buy take-out for Nathan. He still likes our shrimp and scallops. I always ask her how he is, why he doesn’t come around. She just says he’s fine, then gives me the brush-off. Sometimes men try to get friendly with her. No dice. Guess she thinks she’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”

Eli wondered. Emerson could give a fine impression of an ice princess. But was it snobbery that kept her from getting close to the locals? Or fear?

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If Nathan’s…not himself, could he really still be painting? Do you think so?”