tropical bloom anywhere in sight, no stray African tulip tree to delight the eye with its creamy, fuzzy flowers, no pink or purple bougainvillea, no oleander or trailing lantana. Except for the scruffy cabbage palms and palmettos, this could have been a ranch in Texas or Colorado. I parked the car near a pair of rusting gas tanks, one marked LEADED , the other UNLEADED , and walked toward the largest of the houses. A short flight of steps led up to a porticoed entrance. I knocked on the frame of the screen door; the wooden door behind it was open. I knocked again.
“Come in,” a voice called.
I opened the screen door.
“I’m in here,” she said.
“In here” was a greenhouse tacked onto the back of the building. What the grounds outside lacked by way of indigenous growth, the greenhouse made up for. Everywhere I looked, there was a riotous bloom of color, pink orchids competing with African violets, red gloxinias crowding out yellow mums, yellow-and-white spinning-wheel daisies banked against the sunset hues of flame violets. A blonde girl wearing cutoff jeans and a purple tank top shirt was spraying one of the orchids, her back to me, as I entered. Without turning, she said, “Hi,” and went right on squeezing the red rubber bulb.
“Miss McKinney?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, absorbed in her task.
“Your mother’s expecting me,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, and tossed her long blonde hair, and turned to look at me.
She was, I guessed, five feet ten or eleven inches tall, a rangy suntanned girl, braless in the purple tank top shirt, her long legs beginning where the short cutoffs ended raggedly on her thighs, and tapering eternally to narrow ankles and sockless feet encased in dusty jogging shoes. She had the kind of face any New York model would have pillaged and killed for, high cheekbones and a generous mouth, a haughty nose turned up slightly at the tip, eyes that looked gray in the bright sunshine that flooded through the sloping greenhouse roof.
“Who gave you the shiners?” she said.
“Some friends,” I said.
Her eyebrows rose only slightly; a faint smile touched her lips. “You’re a cop, right?” she said.
“No, I’m a lawyer.”
“Right, right,” she said. “Mom told me. We’ve had enough cops out here this past week,” she said, and rolled her eyes heavenward. She put down the bulb sprayer she’d been using, picked up the walkie-talkie that was resting on a counter near the wet sink, and said, “Would you like some iced tea or something?”
“Well...how long will your mother be, do you know?”
“I don’t suppose too long,” she said. “She’s been gone almost an hour now. I don’t suppose she’ll be much longer. Too damn hot out there, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “You want some tea, yes or no? Or would you like something stronger?”
“Tea will be fine,” I said.
“Tea it is,” she said, and nodded, and walked past me into the living room of the house. “The shade trees keep it cool,” she said. “I hate air conditioning, don’t you?” The question was rhetorical. Without waiting for an answer, she went into the kitchen, took two cans of iced tea from the refrigerator, pulled the tabs on each, and poured them into separate glasses. “We’re out of lemons,” she said, handing one of the glasses to me. “Anyway, there’s supposed to be lemon in this, it says so on the can.”
Bloom had told me on the phone that she was twenty-three; she seemed younger. Perhaps it was the uncertain timbre of her voice, and the casual pattern of her speech. Or perhaps it was the way she moved, coltishly, almost awkwardly—but maybe the jogging shoes had something to do with that. Bloom had called her “a real beauty.” She was indeed, but I couldn’t help feeling that I was in the presence of one of my daughter’s teenybopper girlfriends.
“Who was the man with the shotgun?” I asked.
“Rafe, you mean? We can
“Come in,” a voice called.
I opened the screen door.
“I’m in here,” she said.
“In here” was a greenhouse tacked onto the back of the building. What the grounds outside lacked by way of indigenous growth, the greenhouse made up for. Everywhere I looked, there was a riotous bloom of color, pink orchids competing with African violets, red gloxinias crowding out yellow mums, yellow-and-white spinning-wheel daisies banked against the sunset hues of flame violets. A blonde girl wearing cutoff jeans and a purple tank top shirt was spraying one of the orchids, her back to me, as I entered. Without turning, she said, “Hi,” and went right on squeezing the red rubber bulb.
“Miss McKinney?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, absorbed in her task.
“Your mother’s expecting me,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” she said, and tossed her long blonde hair, and turned to look at me.
She was, I guessed, five feet ten or eleven inches tall, a rangy suntanned girl, braless in the purple tank top shirt, her long legs beginning where the short cutoffs ended raggedly on her thighs, and tapering eternally to narrow ankles and sockless feet encased in dusty jogging shoes. She had the kind of face any New York model would have pillaged and killed for, high cheekbones and a generous mouth, a haughty nose turned up slightly at the tip, eyes that looked gray in the bright sunshine that flooded through the sloping greenhouse roof.
“Who gave you the shiners?” she said.
“Some friends,” I said.
Her eyebrows rose only slightly; a faint smile touched her lips. “You’re a cop, right?” she said.
“No, I’m a lawyer.”
“Right, right,” she said. “Mom told me. We’ve had enough cops out here this past week,” she said, and rolled her eyes heavenward. She put down the bulb sprayer she’d been using, picked up the walkie-talkie that was resting on a counter near the wet sink, and said, “Would you like some iced tea or something?”
“Well...how long will your mother be, do you know?”
“I don’t suppose too long,” she said. “She’s been gone almost an hour now. I don’t suppose she’ll be much longer. Too damn hot out there, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “You want some tea, yes or no? Or would you like something stronger?”
“Tea will be fine,” I said.
“Tea it is,” she said, and nodded, and walked past me into the living room of the house. “The shade trees keep it cool,” she said. “I hate air conditioning, don’t you?” The question was rhetorical. Without waiting for an answer, she went into the kitchen, took two cans of iced tea from the refrigerator, pulled the tabs on each, and poured them into separate glasses. “We’re out of lemons,” she said, handing one of the glasses to me. “Anyway, there’s supposed to be lemon in this, it says so on the can.”
Bloom had told me on the phone that she was twenty-three; she seemed younger. Perhaps it was the uncertain timbre of her voice, and the casual pattern of her speech. Or perhaps it was the way she moved, coltishly, almost awkwardly—but maybe the jogging shoes had something to do with that. Bloom had called her “a real beauty.” She was indeed, but I couldn’t help feeling that I was in the presence of one of my daughter’s teenybopper girlfriends.
“Who was the man with the shotgun?” I asked.
“Rafe, you mean? We can
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