CHAPTER THREE

Leesburg was about 45 minutes from Brunell and she welcomed the ride. She drove north on 301 through a terrain that seemed authentic Florida to her, with plots settled at random by individuals, not developers. The area was dry, suffering from lack of rain, yet vivid, worthy of Van Gogh. She moved past modest houses, mobile homes, and an occasional ranch on land where bales of rolled hay toasting in the late afternoon sun like outsized Shredded Wheat. She crossed Palmetto Creek and moved on through stands of live oaks, still green in spite of the drought, and shot with occasional splashes of a golden raintree. Shelby went to meet Cole.

In their home state of Ohio, Coleman Scott Bedford had been born one of nine into a blue-collar family while Shelby grew up with a widowed mother who had grand ideas for her daughter’s life. When they first met as freshmen in high school, she found herself looking at him—slight and blonde and with bright blue eyes. By the time they were seniors, looking did not seem enough. The two dated all year while Cole focused on football and Shelby, on grades. Their friends and their families disapproved. “Too different” was what they all said. After graduation, she left for college, and Cole went off to the Navy. From that point, their lives had diverged. Just this past summer, when she went back to Ohio to visit, the two met again. Both now divorced, they each had lived many places, and each felt like aliens in their home town.

“I never expected to see you, again,” Cole had offered on meeting.

“I thought often of you.” She responded.

“Seeing you and thinking of you are two different things.” He smiled and gave her a hug.

That afternoon they rode around town in his rental car, drove past old hangouts, the high school, the ice cream shop—now closed—and friend’s homes. They stopped at a bar with a juke box and an empty dance floor. As they danced, she told him, “I’m not getting married again.”

He laughed, “Well, that’s good. Me either.”

Before long, in Florida, they met again. He came to Brunell, and they drove into Tampa for dinner. On this night, they would meet on his turf.

At the Brunell-Leesburg Road in Quarrytown, she turned east. A fat, orange moon had risen and clung to the horizon as though reluctant to stray far from home. The sky around it was autumn yellow, then lilac, then blue. The road was empty of cars. To the left, huge mounds of dirt loomed like walls of a medieval fortress. She was startled. So unlike the Florida landscape she’d just come through, the great earth piles blocked out the last rays of sun and the first light of the moon and cast the road dark, like a Ryerson abstract.

Shelby spotted a sign, SOUTHERN ROCK and LIMESTONE, Collette Mine. This must be where Chere’s father died. She slowed down for a look. Surrounding the property were irregular dunes, pockmarked by outcrops of new scrub and weeds, the landscape of some errant planet. Behind them were the tops of large implements she presumed to be cranes. She visualized men and machines in the pit behind, clawing, devastating the landscape. The size of the earth walls surrounding the quarry struck her with the force needed to make them, the power that had ravaged this terrain.

Chere said her father drowned after hours. Why did he come here then? He must have been an unusual man to be out here alone at this time of evening. That is, she assumed he was alone. Regarding Chere’s father and his death, it was unclear what Chere might be willing to face. From her demeanor, it was likely she had unfinished feelings about the man—both parents actually—but she might not want to look into that. Shelby knew many patients only will deal with what’s on the surface, not willing to touch what’s underneath. Chere’s stated problem was fear, fear of Dar, her estranged husband, but Wallace was doubtful. Chere didn’t seem motivated by fear.
She drove on, slowly. The big dunes were darker still, with the last rays of light outlining their peaks. They seemed to dare her to see what lay behind them. The metaphor caused her to smile. What probing and intruding and fixing she was driven to do, whatever the problem—like these dunes at SOUTHERN ROCK—she wanted to see what lay behind it.

She eased back up to speed and moved past grazing fields and the stark, formal entrance of the Quarry Correctional Facility. Crossing the Florida Turnpike and into Lake County, she moved on into Leesburg, a once typical Florida hamlet at rest between lakes, crammed now by enclaves of “snowbirds.” She turned onto Route 441 toward Nick’s. The sun slipped down behind her.

An unusual restaurant for a town of this size, Shelby thought as she parked at Nick’s Lakeside, that it looked more like a night club. It sat like a gentile Southern manor house under the trees with a hat-doffing doorman who asked, “How’re you doing this evening?”

“I’m good, and you?” She replied. They exchanged talk of the weather and the beautiful night, and Shelby entered the foyer, through a second set of doors, and into an intimate dark, where she paused. It took time to see.

The lounge was straight ahead with a small dance floor beyond, while the dining room lay off to the left. There, two graying couples in dress clothes stood near the maitre d’, talking and waiting for seats. Before her at the bar, two big-haired women perched; each dressed in black, one dark, one blonde, while at an angle to the side a slight man shot her a glance. Soft jazz played in the background. Cast through the shadowy lounge were several other lone post-work patrons in business clothes like a scene from “Nighthawks.” Down one side of the bar, she saw Cole.

After all these years, she still liked to look at him. His once curly hair now was gray at the temples and tamed into neatness. The planes of his face were strong-boned and open; his movements, considered, not hurried. With his height—six feet one—Cole dipped his head when he entered a room like one used to ducking through hatches. On that night, he wore black linen slacks and a gray polo shirt, but he could have worn jeans, for Cole Bedford dressed just as he pleased.

He saw her and stood, then gave her a hug as she took the stool to his right. He asked, “Any trouble finding the place?”

“No, not at all. Been here long?” She placed a small purse beside her on the bar and looked up at him.

“Just one drink.” His face was warm but not smiling. “You look good in red.”

“Oh, this old thing?” She laughed and mimicked, indicating the burgundy sheath she was wearing.

“I meant you look good, not your clothes.” Cole said, not laughing, as he turned to the bartender, “Ken, two dirty martinis. Straight up.”

Ken, a compact, bald man in black pants, white shirt, and string tie, placed ice, Stolichnaya, and olive juice, no vermouth, in the metal container and shook. He poured the contents into two iced stem glasses, added extra olives, and placed them on the counter.

“To old friends,” Cole toasted.

“Yes, old friends.” They touched glasses and sipped, looking at each other a moment. Then Cole indicated a wide-chested man with steel hair at his left and introduced him. “Garber,” Cole said. “Owns the ‘lash-up’ next to mine.” She figured he must mean the man’s condominium.

Garber nodded, dubbed her the “mystery woman” from Cole’s past, and reached out to shake her hand. A chunk of a man, his voice attracted attention. Clad in short sleeves, Garber’s arms were thick-muscled, his grasp all-encompassing. A scattering of patrons encircled them at the bar—some talking, some quiet, some watching. The two women she had seen at first stared.

“You know them?” She asked Cole softly, indicating the two.

“I dated one,” was all Cole said.

Shelby felt an awkward moment of examination from the two females, so she sipped her martini and turned the conversation to him. “Been busy?”

Since retiring from the Navy as a Master Chief, Cole had finished college and had started his own business. He had told her before when they met he was restoring old “bikes.”

“Bikes?” she had asked.

“Motorcycles,” he answered.

“I race ‘em,” Cole continued. “Motocross. Or I did. Now, I ride just for pleasure.” He had gone on to tell how he’d raced in Spain and Morocco and in the U.S. when he first returned stateside.

“Oh, Morocco, she had said.” She had started to say she had been there, too, but decided to wait since he was in the midst of his story. When he finished, she had asked, “Did you win?”

At that, he had smiled. “Well, I’m bigger than the average racer ... but, yes, I won. Quite a bit. Or I wouldn’t have done it.”

Now, in Nick’s, he responded, “Still learning ins and outs. Celebrating, actually. Found magneto coils just today for that old Vincent of mine.” Cole went on to tell of his luck with tracing this elusive part and where and how he found it “on the Net.” When he added something about fly-wheels and sparks, she drifted momentarily to her meeting with Chere and Chere’s outburst about Dar, and on to Claude Collette’s death. A montage of images passed through her mind—Chere’s blatant impatience, her coldness, Dar’s lurking on her, and the vision of Collette’s body floating in one of those ponds. She shivered.

“You cold?”

Shelby shook her head and realized she was only half-listening. “So you still ride.”
Cole nodded in Garber’s direction, “We ride. Sometimes, with some others. On road. Off. Sometimes at the quarry. You probably passed it on your way here. Not far from the prison. Broke my collarbone out there.”

“The quarry? What quarry?” He now had her attention. “You mean they let you in there? Out there where they’re digging?”

“Where we ride, no one’s working. It’s been abandoned for years.”

Shelby explained she was thinking of SOUTHERN ROCK and asked, “Where is it then? Where you ride.”

“Not far from the Turnpike, south side of the road. Why?”

Without mentioning Chere, she said “There was a death out there ... at SOUTHERN, just last year. Tied to a case I’m handling. I’m curious.”

Cole spoke about mining in that area as he knew it, that it involved sand, or rock, or stone and that he thought “it’s mostly big companies own them. But, there could be locals who own the land or hold the mineral rights.” He went on to say that there are “lots more mines on that road than just SOUTHERN” and that “some time we you ought to go out there and see them.”

“What kind of water is in them? I mean, how does it form? And how deep?”

“I’m not real sure, but after the digging is through, I think some of them fill up from springs.” He teased, “But I ride where it’s dry.” At that, he bent toward her and squeezed her hand while the two women in black shot her daggers. He went on, “You can ask him about it.” He gestured to Garber.” He used to service equipment out there. Am I right?” Cole turned to his friend. “Don’t those quarries fill up from springs? Out on Quarrytown Road?”

Garber leaned out, asking, “You mean like LAWTON or SOUTHERN?”

“Yeah, she’s interested. In SOUTHERN, especially,” Cole answered and gestured to Shelby.

“Yeah.” Garber took a swig of his beer. “When they get down to a certain level, they often run into springs. So those old quarries fill up.”

“How deep is the water?” Shelby asked.

“Oh, pretty deep.” Garber grimaced and stared into his glass. “Some of those pits are way deep. Probably well over fifty-sixty feet. More.” He glanced back up at her. “I grew up out there. Quarry County. They find bodies out there lots ‘a times. In those quarries. Folks have a way ‘a disappearin.’” He grinned. “Like, say, rivals, or enemies, or, ah, troublesome family. You know, Sheriff Saylor lost his nephew out there.” Garber laughed again and asked, “Someone you want to get rid of?”

Shelby answered, “Oh, no, nothing like that. Thanks for the suggestion though. In case somebody bugs me.” She smiled at Cole.

“Okay, you guys. I see how this is going. Ma’am, how about dinner?” Cole reached for the check although Shelby offered. His voice lightened, “No more jokin’ at Coleman’s expense.”

She nodded and agreed. Then they each bid goodbye to Garber and stood. “Oh,” she whispered to Cole, smiling, “by the way, which one?”

Puzzled for the briefest of moments, he followed her eyes, and the blank look on his face gave way to a smile, and he whispered, “The brunette.”

Cole signaled the maitre d’ and they followed him into the dining room, filled now with parties in date clothes or Sunday apparel. The air smelled of garlic, grilled meat, and cologne. Crystal hurricane lamps cast pin shots of light on the patrons, and the walls of the room were sienna, painting a glow like a renaissance canvas. On each plane hung curved ivory sculptures undulating like waves. They sat at a linen-draped booth in one corner.

“You pick the wine. I’ll get a bottle.” Cole read the menu while Shelby looked at the wine list.

“A pinot grigio would be good,” she said. White wine okay with you?”

“Whatever you want.” He signaled the waiter and told him. Soft sounds of music, conversation, and dining drifted around them. “I’ve heard quite a few tales of those quarries since I’ve been in Florida,” Cole continued. “Some, I thought were just stories, but some of ‘em are probably true. I heard there was a land dispute some years back and two bodies were found out in one.” He scanned her face. “You seem pre-occupied by this ... case of yours. Is it always like that?”

“Pre-occupied?” She brought her hand to her mouth. “Let’s just say I am curious. I don’t know. There was just something about this client today that has caused me to think. But as I look at it, it’s probably nothing. I can get hung up on an idea.”

Cole smiled very quickly, then adjusted in his seat like someone about to make a pronouncement.

“You’re mighty serious, Shelby.”

She tensed in defense, but paused before speaking. She asked, “How do you mean that?”

The waiter brought the wine and uncorked it. He offered the first sip to Cole who deflected to Shelby.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You’re very serious, too, you know.” She made a wry smile.

“Oh, you think so?’

“When we were young, you used to smile a lot more.”

Cole mused in silence for what seemed like forever. “I guess my training, my job, taught me to be serious. There wasn’t time or occasion for anything else.”

Shelby didn’t wait this time to respond. “You think my profession hasn’t trained me the same way?” She came across more forcefully than she had intended.

He stared at her a long moment as though seeing with new eyes, then took her hand. “I’m sorry. This isn’t coming out as I wanted. Here we are together after all of these years. I just want you to relax with me. How about we change the subject to something else. Something ... that might make us both smile. That a deal?” He grinned.

She took a sip of her pinot and grinned back at him. “It’s a deal.” She mused for a moment, adding, “The big thing about it is I’m curious. That started when I was a kid.” She laughed. “In fact, there’s a story about that. Told in my family.”

“What’s that?”

“One time, when we were visiting my great-grandpa—Grandpa Zerbe—you remember the name ...?”
Cole nodded.

“I decided to explore in his room—I must have been all of three, if I was that—my mom found me up there some time later. I had taken his pocket watch all apart. When I saw her, I handed the pieces to her and said, ‘Here, you fix it.’ ”

He laughed. “So that’s how you are, huh?”

“It was then.”

“Is there something you might want me to fix?”

She smiled, “Thanks, but you’re not my mother. Now I fix it myself.”

Cole said nothing.

She searched for another subject. “You mentioned Morocco. I was there, too. Some years back.”

“You were? Where?”

“Casablanca and environs.”

“You like it?”

“Well, I was only there for a week. But, yes, I liked it. How about you?”

He nodded.

“Where were you?”

“Kenitra. North of Rabat.”

“In the Navy?”

“Yeah, for two years.” Cole paused. She could see the wheels turn in his mind. She imagined he might ask her how and with whom she had gone there. But he surprised her by saying, “You mentioned the death at the quarry. That triggered my memory of something that happened when I was there. Morocco. They found a body out in the cork forest. Know where that is? “

She shook her head.

“On up the coast toward Tangier. They thought at first it was an accident. Then, they said it was murder. By a Moroccan. Caused a big thing with the locals. Then ....”

“Cole, wait a minute.” She put her hand on his arm. “Who died? I mean, was it a man or a woman? You’ve lost me.”

“Oh, sorry. It was a marine from the base. Turned out, he was involved with another guy’s wife, and the guy shot him.”

“What made you think of this now?”

“Well, I’m not really sure.” Cole thought for a minute. “I guess when we spoke about Morocco ... but something about your death at the quarry also brought it to mind. It’s no big deal.” He smiled at her.

“Oh.” She paused for a moment, catching herself in another analytical detour, then continued, “Well, you know, you’re the one who threw down the gauntlet. Saying I’m serious.” She grinned. “Let’s say we leave Morocco and murder and the quarry and lighten up for tonight.”

“You got it,” he said.

They spent the rest of the time on old friends and on places they’d been as they sipped their wine. Then, after dining on shellfish and memories, they moved on back to the lounge. A small combo was playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Elvis had entered the building. Cole dipped his head and offered his hand. Shelby took it and, keeping pace, followed him onto the floor. As he turned and moved toward her as he had years before, she felt like a throw-back to an earlier time and place. She was in high school again, at the prom, and she was seventeen.

Coming Friday, July 16: The Break-in