That summer, I was driving a 1936 Packard convertible, cobalt blue. I drove out across the Ringling Causeway after my interlude with Ginger. There’s something about red-heads that I can’t turn down. The sun was still high in the late afternoon sky, but behind me, in the eastern sky, floated the late afternoon thunder storms everyone in West Florida has come to expect.
I pulled up to the gatehouse at the Bird Key entrance. The guard said, “Can I help you, sir?”
“I hope so, bub, I’m looking for the Stansfield Residence.”
He smirked, “What business do you have with the Stansfields?” He had a luxurious mustache and was probably a tough guy when Prohibition started.
I blew smoke in his face. “It doesn’t concern you, jack, now are you going to tell me where I can find the house or do I have to shake it out of you?”
He looked a little uncertain. Perhaps I should explain that I’m six feet four inches tall and weigh over two hundred pounds. I’m pretty good at shaking things out of people when I have to. I don’t like to very often, but some things need to be done.
“Well? What’s it gonna be?”
He hesitated a second. I reached for the car door. He said, “Okay, fine, they live at 1365 Spoonbill Way. Take the third left, their house should be on the right about half way down the block.”
“Thanks. That wasn’t that hard, now was it?”
“Hey, I’m just doing my job.”
I drove on past him. I’ve found that people like talking to gumshoes just a hair more than they like talking to the law. I rarely introduce myself as a shamus, it kind of gets in the way, and my job’s hard enough without setting people in a wrong mind in the first place.
I found Spoonbill Way and the house subsequently numbered 1365. It was a large beige stucco job with a terra cotta roof. There were three balconies leading off double doors on the second story. On one of said balconies Sabrina Stansfield sunned herself on a towel. I called up to her, “Mrs. Stansfield.”
“Oh, Mr. Steele, how nice to see you again. Please, come around the house and have a drink with me by the pool.” She pointed to my left. I went around through a gate and onto the patio. By the pool, Sabrina Stansfield waited in chaise lounge, a pitcher of martinis on a small table next to her. I sat in a chaise lounge next to her.
She looked beautiful in her baby blue swimsuit.
I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I have a few more questions for you.”
“It’s not a disturbance at all. In fact, I am glad to have the company. Howard, that’s my husband, is in New York on business and it can get so lonely down here.”
If I was married to her, I’d never leave her. “What makes you think your husband is having an affair?” I asked without preamble.
She shook her head. “First, let me pour you a drink and then we can discuss this awful business.”
“Fine with me.”
She poured me a martini. She made a toasting gesture with her glass and said, “To love.” I repeated her toast and had a sip of it and managed not to make a face – too much vermouth. I picked an olive off the toothpick and even that didn’t make it better.
I shook a Lucky out of my pack and offered her one. She accepted. I lit hers and mine with the same flame. Good smoke.
“So, we were discussing why you think your husband’s having an affair.”
“Were we? That’s such a bore. Let’s talk about something else.”
I nodded. “What would you like to talk about?”
“You.”
I nodded again. “What about me?”
“Are you married?”
