Gumbo Limbo by Tom Corcoran

lucked out with more than his share of young women. Chris’s social life wasn’t so much easy-come-easy-go as it was plenty for everyone. Someone had once joked that he owned the island’s largest collection of wrinkled bar napkins, each adorned in feminine cursive with a first name and a hotel room number.
    Abby Womack tilted her head toward Chris. “He’s not only met me, Alex has asked me to dinner.” She turned back toward me and dropped her voice. “I budgeted for this vacation. I’m sure you locals have favorite spots, off the beaten path. Island atmosphere, good food, all that … Unless you’ve got other plans, you pick the place, I’ll buy.”
    A disappearance, a street death in Old Town, a ransacked apartment … Now a lovely stranger arbitrarily had decided I was a catch. Did everything balance out in the end?
    “I accept. Why me?”
    “Let’s say you’re the man I’ve been looking for.”
    I smiled and killed the impulse to raise an arm to check body odor. I raised my drink instead. “I’m not just some guy you found?”
    “Clever,” she said. “Now I’ll say, ‘I wouldn’t have left if you’d acted right.’ We can write country songs all night long.”
    “What is it about me that fits your parameters?”
    “I recognize your face from old photographs. I know your name from old conversations.”
    “If I’d ever met you, I promise, I’d remember.”

    She hesitated. “Seventeen years ago I was Zack Cahill’s mistress.”
    Her words stopped me cold. “I’ve never heard of you.”
    “That fact bothered Zack for the year our affair lasted. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to compromise your loyalty to Claire. Before we went our separate ways, we became partners in a sizable business deal. It’s still ongoing. But I think he might be in trouble. I can’t find him. I need your help.”
    She had to be at least forty or forty-two. “Whole lotta secrets goin’ on.”
    “No shit.” Her chrome bracelet shimmered as she fluffed her hair.
    We settled our tabs with Chris and walked out through the restaurant. Two Pepto-Bismol-pink taxis waited at the Waddell curb. The driver of the first one, a gnarled coot with a Greek captain’s hat and long gray ponytail, helped me hoist my Cannondale onto his trunk-mounted bike rack. My mind spun like crazy, but I couldn’t think of a restaurant that would give us decent food and privacy. I told her so, and suggested that we share the rum in my kitchen and call for a delivery from a Thai restaurant.
    That was fine with Abby Womack.
    I asked the driver to take us to Dredgers Lane.
    As the cab bounced down Simonton, she told me that Zack had called her three days earlier. “He asked me to fly to New Orleans for a meeting. I showed up, another person showed up, Zack didn’t. That’s not like him. He’s always the ultimate pro, fastidious about appointments, being on time. In all these years, that was a first. I waited all day and all night for him to get in touch. He knew where I was staying. He could’ve found me through my message service. He never called. I flew here out of desperation.”
    “Why here?”
    “Long story. I’ve been an investment counselor since I graduated
from Northwestern. A long time ago, on Zack’s request, I structured a significant equity placement for a non-revocable trust. I designed it, Zack did the investment work. I didn’t know the background facts, but I was told that the capital package came from Key West. The New Orleans meeting was related to that deal. Zack’s message led me to think that it was time to distribute the trust.”
    “Where does New Orleans fit in the deal?”
    She furrowed her forehead. “A new twist. It wasn’t an original factor. Now it is. Ethically speaking, I’ve already said too much. It’s just … you know, I’m worried about him.”
    The cabdriver asked if he could drop us on Fleming. He didn’t want to attempt navigating the narrow Dredgers Lane right-of-way in