CHAPTER EIGHT

The Withlacoochee River began in north Polk County in the nursery of rivers—Hillsborough, Peace, and Oklawaha as well as the Withlacoochee itself—Florida’s Green Swamp. It twists a short way east, then north, then west, touching seven Florida counties, over 80 miles into the Gulf of Mexico and outlines Quarry County. The depth varies widely with the weather. In El Nino years it overflows its banks and gobbles the land around it. In a drought it trickles into creek-like streams and islands form within it. It was the Withlacoochee that was their destination

Cole arrived in his vintage steel gray Mercedes and parked. Having changed her clothes to jeans and a pale blue turtleneck, Shelby walked toward the curb, stuck her head into his car, and said, “I haven’t asked, did you restore this?”

“I kept it up.” He got out and hugged her, and asked if she was “set.” She nodded, he placed her in the car, and they drove west beyond I-75 while Shelby gave directions.

She glanced at him. In a pale gray shirt, he looked, as usual, self-contained and quiet. She was at the stage with him she’d come to dread, where she’d want to grill men for their feelings, to know just where they stood, simply to get it over, or want to withdraw and put an end to it. Though she’d understood the reasons now for years, understanding still hadn’t changed what she felt. In the past, in her anxiety, she’d rush, revealing everything about herself or nothing, angling for the current “him” to take all the risk. She vowed when she left Tampa and the last relationship was over that she’d move slowly into friendship next time, if there was a next, and not race into things. Next time was here.

“You seem to know where you’re going.” Cole flipped on the radio and turned the dial to jazz. John Coltrane was playing. He handed Shelby the articles he’d brought.

“I hope so.” Shelby smiled and glanced down at the papers. “Where’d you get these?”

“In Leesburg, at the library.”

She read through both clippings quickly. They each seemed fairly cut and dried. Claude Collette had set out fishing on a Friday afternoon and, although fishing in the quarry seemed a curiosity to her, the only abnormality about it was he had slipped and fallen. She wondered why his wife did not report him missing sooner, but there could have been a simple explanation. She asked, “How’d you know what I wanted?”

“Well, you talked about it. I was at the library and saw the microfilm. This was a drowning and at SOUTHERN ROCK so I thought this just had to be the one.”

“Yes, this is it. Thanks. I don’t see anything unusual here.”

Cole responded, “Did you expect to?”

“No, not really.”

“So, what’s the story?”

She smiled wryly at the irony in what he’d said but dropped it and answered, “I’m not really sure at all. Let’s just say I’m trying to check my intuition.”

“What’s your concern?” He shot her a glance and turned back to the road.

“It’s related to a case, Cole, so I can’t say very much.”

“Oh. Shrink stuff.” He was quiet for a moment, seeming to think.

“And, I don’t know exactly,” Shelby said. “For one thing, a couple people have said Collette was just too careful to be involved in such an accident.”

“Well, careful people have accidents, you know.”

“Yes.” she paused. “My imagination may be over-reaching.”

“Don’t you doctors ever quit?” He was playful.

“I don’t know about all doctors, Cole.” She was serious.

“Well, since it got us together, that’s fine with me.” He half-smiled and touched her hand. “Whatever it is you’re doing, we’ll have some fun.”

They drove along in silence through the waning Florida afternoon. She glanced at him and wondered if he could ever understand the responsibilities of her profession. The way she saw it, her job was a science and an art combined. She might use humor, bend the rules, or make artful use of timing, all judgment calls, but nothing cavalier or frivolous. At times, she kept to Dr. Nathan’s credo to help the client move to what they said they wanted. At other times, she followed her own belief that her work was surgical, to cut away unhealthy habits and implant a wholesome way of life. The secret was to know when and in what way to intervene. This was serious business. Her inner voice began. Shelby, of course, he doesn’t understand, he came out here to be with you.

She realized that Cole was talking. He was so pleasant, interested, that she felt chagrinned. “What?” she asked.

“I said you’ll have to tell me where to turn.”

“I will.”

They continued and Cole turned north at her direction along the Withlacoochee. They approached an enclave laid out on its banks where each residence appeared quite disparate in its upkeep. There were stilt-homes of neatly painted frame, low-cost built-by-owner cabins, and mobiles of all kinds, some neatly kept, and others showing years of careless disregard. Cole slowed the car.

He asked, “What are you looking for?

“What I’m looking for ... I’ve found. There.” The rusted mailbox read “Louis Collette.” “That one?” Cole stopped the car. “Louis Collette. That the brother?”

She debated for a moment what to say and answered, “Yes, he’s the brother of the man who drowned. Or so I’m thinking.”

Cole looked confused as though preparing to speak, but kept his silence.

Behind a rusted fence sat a mobile home that may have once been white but now was streaked with shades of mold. Glimpses of the river were seen just beyond. The yard was hardened dirt. An overhanging canopy of trees blocked the sun and hindered growth of grass and other plants except for random clumps of scrub weeds near the door. At one side a dirty motorcycle leaned against a tree.

“What kind is that?” It was an inconsequential question, but she felt the need to involve Cole in something that could interest him.

“Harley. Looks like. Sure not kept up.”

“There. Pull over there.” Shelby gestured to a woman at a mailbox at next door. She was obese and wore a baggy pair of navy shorts and an outsized sweatshirt in dark tan. Huge rolls of fat ringed her legs. “Please, I mean,” she amended and smiled. “Roll down your window, would you, Cole?”

He drove to the mailbox and stopped.

“Excuse me,” Shelby called.

The woman turned and looked at them with no expression on her puffy, indifferent face.
“Do you know Louis Collette?”

“Yeah.” The woman’s voice was dull.

“Do you know if he’s at home? I don’t see a car.”

“You won’t find him there.” She nodded toward the mobile home. “He’s over at the Gator. Always there this time of day.” She turned to walk away.

“The Gator, ma’am. Where might that be?” Shelby asked her, louder.

“Just up the road, then east a half a mile.” She raised her hand, pointing in a hollow gesture. She mumbled something else and turned once again.

“Pardon me. I didn’t hear you, ma’am.”

“Frenchy. Name is Frenchy,” she said while moving away, waddling toward a pale blue wooden cabin.

Cole twisted half-way in his seat, “Get what you want?”

“Well, sort of. Mind if we go there? To the bar?”

“That was the idea, wasn’t it? Jukin’, you said. You’re the doctor.” He half-smiled. “Wanta get a beer?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly where we’re going, but I guess we can find it. Sure you don’t mind?” As she said it, she realized how true it was that she really didn’t know where she was going with all this. Or why.

Cole said, “No,” that he was thirsty, and they drove on as the woman had directed. Shortly after turning on the highway, they spotted the sign, “Gator’s Nest.” He pulled off the road and parked before a white frame roadhouse with the mandatory Budweiser sign hanging in the window. Three other vehicles were sitting in the lot—a Jeep, a bright red Dodge Dakota, and a rusted dark green Chevy. The “Gator’s” door was standing open. They went inside.

Cole and Shelby stood in the entrance the first few moments just to get their sight. The waning sun cast beams of microcosmic dust before them to the floor. She began to see the bar itself was mostly wood, stained dark, a rectangle in the center of the room, illuminated now by two small pools of light. Stools encircled it. With only two men drinking then, the smell of smoke and beer was fairly mild. An aged pool table occupied one corner at the back with a silent juke box just beside it. They moved from the entrance and took two seats at the far end of the bar, at right angles to the seated drinkers. A skinny, sullen man asked them what they wanted. He was dressed in tight ink jeans, with a silky mane of walnut hair lashed into a pony tail behind his narrow head. Indicating Cole, Shelby responded she would have what he was having.

“Have any ale?” Cole laid his wallet on the bar.

The server said, “We got Bud, Busch, Mic, and Lite. Oh yeah, there’s Guinness.”

Surprised, they signaled, “yes” to that.

Shelby glanced along the counter to one of the drinkers, a flat-faced man with wispy hair. Neatly dressed in brown plaid shirt and clean tan twills, with the suggestion of a paunch, he could be a hardware salesman, so she thought. The bartender called him “Phil.”

Two seats down from Phil, a second drinker sat. Of average height and bullish build, he had a shock of once-black, mottled hair and a multicolored beard. He wore a navy leather, European-looking cap, like Hans Brinker might have worn, Shelby thought. His eyes shone dark above his sturdy cheeks, his nose prominent and wide. He wore a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves above a chest shaped like the kegs of beer he likely drank. His jeans were bleachest blue and looked like they had been worn so long they were sculpted to his body. As she watched him down his draft, she knew who he had to be.

The bartender brought their drinks, then turned and walked back to the second man and asked him, “River low by you?”

“Unh!” His voice was gravel and his head and arms moved when he talked.

“Rescued any gators?” The young man asked and shot a knowing wink at Phil.

The old man sipped his beer for just a moment, sprung a wicked grin, and answered, “Now, Sonny, you know I don’t know nothing ‘bout all that. Don’t pay no mind by him,” he said to Phil.

All three men laughed.

Shelby reached into her pocket for the pen and paper she had grabbed before she came and placed it on the bar in front of Cole behind a stack of napkins, inscribing “We’ve found our man.”

He looked long and hard at her and scrawled beneath her writing, “We?”

Just then a couple wandered through the door. They were twenty-ish and hanging on each other. The girl was dumpy, chunky-faced and blonde with heavy hair. The boy was gaunt and hungry with his jeans low on his hips. They moved up to the bar and stood. She rubbed her head against his shoulder like a cat. He said, “Two Busch.”

“Draft, right?” Sonny asked.

They nodded.

Two burly, biker-looking fellows entered next. They both were large and dressed in jeans and shirts, one with a leather vest and a vacant-looking face, the other like a mid-aged wizard with a scruffy white mustache and beard. They sat across from Phil.

The couple emptied out their pockets, picking through their change, and moved to shoot some pool when the wizard asked, “Frenchy, how you doin’?”

“Just good,” the man called Frenchy said. “Just good. And you?” His answer had a subtle cadence like the remnants of an accent.

“Well, it’s Tuesday,” the first one said and snickered, “Think I’ll have a Bud.”

While the men continued talking, Shelby glanced at Cole and raise her eyebrows but, getting no response, wrote on the paper, “Gators, what?”

He drew a question mark and then wrote, “Poaching, maybe.”

As she looked up from her notes, she saw Frenchy and the bikers staring. Cole absorbed it, too. He quickly joined the conversation. “What do you catch out there?”

Frenchy answered right away, “Oh, the cats, and brim and bass.”

“What kind of bait?”

“Oh, the plastic worms. Why? You lookin' for a guide?” He scoped them up and down as if to say he knew they were outsiders. While he looked, he stroked his beard.

Cole glanced down at her, “Don’t know. Maybe.”

“Just move ‘round here?”

“I’m from Leesburg.”

The old man settled in his seat. “Well, you want the fightin’? Or for food? Some time I give you both.”

“Just something that’s fun.”

“There are women ... come to like it.” Frenchy flashed a lecherous smile at Shelby.

One of the bikers posed to Frenchy, “You fix up that old bike?” Frenchy turned away as their conversation moved to Harleys and to riding.

Shelby looked at Cole and hoped he got the “thank you” in her eyes. He reached into her lap and squeezed her hand. As she focused once again someone was saying, “Croom ... next Sunday.”

Cole joined in, “I used to tear up and down out there on those old trails. With some guys I rode with.” He captured the rapt attention of the three and even Phil glanced down in their direction. “The big thing to watch out for is not to ride out from the trees and crash into each other.” He stopped to sip his ale. “I don’t know how it’s run there anymore.”

“Yeah?” the vacant biker said, his voice a monotone, “what kind of bike you ride?”

“A motocrosser.”

“Oh, a play bike.” His blank face showed a moment of disgust.

Smiling wryly, Cole responded, “I used to play a lot. In between the times I was in the hospital.” He sounded tickled.

“Shi-it!” The biker drank his beer.

At that point, Shelby began to think it was time for them to leave. She didn’t know what she had come for but, whatever it might be, she certainly didn’t want more than they could handle. WE can handle? She was thinking. Looks like Cole is doing fine. The truth was she didn’t want more than she could handle. Just then the conversation shifted.

The wizard asked, “Didn’t you say you were going to come into money before long?” This to Frenchy. “From your brother, was it? You could fix up that old bike of yours with that.”

Frenchy wiggled for a moment, then replied, “Ah, yes. That is sure the plan. It takes some time.” He looked assured.

“When was it he passed? Your older brother, was it?”

Frenchy pursed his lips. “Last year, it was last year. No, no, I am older.”

“What’s the hold-up?”

“That pissy girl of his. My niece. Ain’t good for nothing. Wants everything her way. Always like that.” He drank hard on his beer. “But it comes out in my direction.” Frenchy wagged one finger. My brother owed me.”

Shelby was surprised. This was more than she imagined. Frenchy Collette here and revealing so much about the issue that had nagged her. She felt guilty and clandestine, like a reverse of confidentiality where she must blurt, “Don’t talk about Chere Collette. She’s my client.” She looked at Cole and wondered what he thought. Of course, he knew nothing of the situation or really why she’d come here. He drew on his ale and maintained his same impervious look.

“I just put one foot before the other,” Frenchy grinned, “and like with Mr. Alley-gator, it all comes in time.”

Discomfort rising, she felt like a child who eavesdrops while her parents speak of grown-up things. She wanted to hear more. She wanted to hear nothing. She wanted to flee these people and the easy machinations of their doings. She had left her comfort zone. Someone would rap her knuckles—all those authority figures of the DPR who regulate her license. She barely heard that Frenchy and the bikers changed the subject once again.

“... The Lotto ....”

“Cole, let’s leave.”

“Already?”

“Please. Can we? Now.” She stood.

“Okay. Okay.” He looked like she had slapped him.

The last thing she saw before she left was Cole placing bills along on the bar. She hurried for the door.

The deep voice called out, “See me if you want a guide, you hear? They’ll know where to find me. Name is Frenchy.”

Cole responded. “Yes, thank you.”

They walked to the car without speaking, Shelby in the lead, Cole just behind her. He didn’t look directly at her as he let her in the car. He entered on the other side, sat, and started driving. They sped on in silence through the advancing twilight. Cole drove fast. His face was set and unexpressive. The comfort of familiar ground and trees and purpled sky eased ever so slightly a rise of anxiety in her chest.

Finally, Shelby said, “I’m sorry. I was rude.”

Cole said nothing for a full minute, maybe two, then said with cool restraint, “We can talk, but not while I’m still driving.”

A sister panic churned her stomach as she waited through the passing Florida landscape. They entered Brunell and parked behind the house. The sun had set and 301 was almost empty. They walked upstairs to her apartment and to the kitchen at the back.

On the road to full remodeling, the room had a new stove of burnished stainless steel and a butcher block table in the center, both of which she’d added. On the counter lay a stack of kitchen cabinet brochures for the next step on the way to tearing out the dismal brown Formica unit now clinging to the walls. She opened the refrigerator and offered Cole a drink.

“I have some Bass, iced tea, or wine.”

“The ale.”

Shelby removed it and a bottle of chardonnay and set them on the counter. She poured his drink into an ochre German mug that had been her father’s and poured herself a glass of wine. Motioning to an antique cherry table by what she thought of as her window in the trees, she asked, “Okay with sitting here?”

Cole nodded and they sat. Patterns from the streetlight through the gently waving leaves alternately obscured and lit his face, giving him a weird, surreal appearance. She couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

Cole said, “I don’t like being jerked.” His voice was clipped. He leaned forward into the light. “It seems obvious you didn’t go out there to relax with me. You had your own agenda, and I was to sit there like a dummy.” He took a drink of ale. “Shelby, I’m not in high school any more. I don’t know what you’re into, but, if you want me involved, I’ve got to know what’s going on.”

She gestured, open-handed, “There’s a client relationship involved, Cole. I can’t.”

“I’m not asking what your client told you.” His voice was firm. “I’m asking what you think. “Strictly speaking, I know this is none of my business, but I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like what you're into. You’ve got somebody drowning who is connected to some case of yours. Either it was a suicide, an accident, or something else. That could become my business.” His voice was low and raspy. “There are things that go on in these back counties now and then that you don’t want to be involved in.” He pinned his eyes on her. In the muted light, they were dark and intensely focused. He paused for another drink. “You know, if you don’t know what you’re doing, you could end up in a gravel pit yourself. They find bodies out there all the time. Tell me what I need to know so that I can have my mind where it should be.”

Shelby thought for a moment, sipped her wine, and answered. “I just want to know how Collette died.”

“Is there some reason for you to think there’s been foul play? I mean, are you thinking this is a murder?”

“Murder? Oh, no. I can’t believe it’s anything like that” Her intended sip of wine became a gulp and she twisted in her chair. She sounded thoughts aloud. “I guess you have a right to your objections. I know I’ve dragged you into this without giving you the details. What I’d like to say is that ... this man, Claude Collette by name, the brother of Frenchy in the bar, has drowned and there’s something about it that doesn’t fit for me.”

He drank. “What?”

“This is where I’m in a conflict, Cole. The trouble is, most of what I’m reacting to happened in a session, and it’s based on ... subtleties at that.” She stopped and walked to the counter where she turned the radio on low. Blues meandered slowly through the room while she returned and sat. “I can say it’s like you had this, ah, motorcycle—bike—that always has a certain sound, a certain way of running, that even when it isn’t working right, is familiar to you. You even recognize it in its disrepair. There is something—several things—in this situation that relates to the death of Claude Collette that, like this bike you know to be a Honda, is now responding like a Harley. I know that’s a weak analogy, but it’s the best that I can give you.”

“Well, I sure don’t get it. But let me just say this. You need to watch what you are doing or you’ll get caught on your own hook. If this was a crime, there may be people who will go to any length to save their asses.” He shook his head. “I know the original case was ruled an accident. Has there been a move to re-open it?”

“A crime? Cole, I haven’t even thought of that. I just want to find out Collette’s state of mind before he died.”

“In a bar on the Withlacoochee?”

“I hoped to get to know the brother.”

“Well, you found him. I presume. Why didn’t you ask him?”

“I don’t know, Cole. I got the feeling in the bar I was into something that I shouldn’t be.”

“Into what?”

“I just don’t know.” She nearly whispered and shook her head. “As for understanding this, I really don’t know that much about it yet.” As they talked, she noted she was feeling more than just a little foolish. “I don’t even know if there are any facts to back up my suspicions. I thought of suicide at first, based on some things I’ve learned, but I’m thinking he likely didn’t drown himself. And, several people told me he was much too planned a man to have that kind of accident. So, now, I just can’t think it was anything beyond that.” She found she was surprised at what Cole said next.

“Well, if you want to find the truth, I’ll give you a hand with this. But only so far. Just to a reasonable point. You could find out something you don’t want to know. And, if it looks like you’re the one who’s getting caught, I want you to back off—or hand it off, more like—to the cops.” He stopped to sip his ale and looked fixedly at her. “If you ask someone the wrong questions .... You know, this Frenchy looks like he’s a player. And some bikers had just as soon run over you as look at you. It won’t stop ‘em because you are a woman.” He paused. “See, I’m not seeing Evie any more. I’d be doing this for you.”

Thoughts bounced around her brain. Too many pathways opened all at once. “I don’t know what to say. I need some time out. For a moment.” She stood. Cole glanced up at her.

Shelby walked along the hall toward her bedroom and stopped before the mirror. A somber face stared back at her. Her hazel eyes said, Sort it out and handle it. She stayed for several minutes while the dusky sound of Robert Cray floated in to keep her company. She walked back into the kitchen. Cole was standing near the window looking out. He turned.

She told him, “I’m concerned about this Collette thing and I’m concerned about ... the offer you gave. Let me just be honest. There’s a part of me who wants to make you everything. And, Cole, I just don’t dare.”

He moved close and put his hands on both her shoulders. “I’m not worried.” He half-smiled. “But then ‘everything’ might be ... ah ... kinda nice.”

She looked long at him. “Be careful what you ask for, as they say. I can be obsessive.”

Coming Friday, August 6: Resolving and Research