But it hadn’t yet happened, at least to their knowledge.
Said Dana: “Whatever’s got into Art, let’s just leave it be.”
“Amen,” Willow said.
“Sit back and enjoy the peace.”
“Right.”
“Hey. Maybe he’s found God.”
Willow laughed so hard that Diet Pepsi jetted out of her nostrils. Naturally that’s when the judge walked in. As Willow grabbled for a box of Kleenex, Arthur Battenkill said, “How elegant.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s like having Princess Grace answering the phones.”
With that, the judge disappeared into his chambers, closing the door. Willow was somewhat battered by his first-thing-in-the-morning sarcasm, so Dana took him coffee.
She told the judge he didn’t look well.
“It’s Saturday,” he grumbled. The chief judge had been on Arthur Battenkill’s ass about clearing the case backlog, so he’d been putting in hours on weekends.
“You haven’t slept.” Dana, affecting a motherly tone.
“Pollens. Mold spores.” Arthur Battenkill took a sip of coffee. “I sleep fine.”
It was the scene at breakfast that had disturbed him—Katie gobbling down four huge buttermilk flapjacks and a bagel, a clear signal she was no longer grieving. Clearing the dishes, she’d exhibited a perkiness that could have at its root only one explanation: She’d come to believe her precious Tommy wasn’t dead.
Reluctantly the judge had already reached the same conclusion. The strongest evidence was the uncharacteristic lack of communication from Champ Powell, who by now should have called to seek Arthur Battenkill’s praise and gratitude for the arson. Nearly as ominous: Champ’s Harley-Davidson motorcycle had been found and towed from a Blockbuster parking lot three blocks from Tom Krome’s house. The judge was certain Champ never would have abandoned the bike were he still alive.
The unexpected upswing of Katie’s mood had clinched it for Arthur Battenkill. Picking indifferently at his pancakes, he’d recalled hearing the telephone ring while he was in the shower—probably Krome, calling to tell Katie not to worry. The mannerly motherfucker.
Now Dana, arms folded: “You’ve got that emergency hearing in ten minutes. Would you like me to press your robe?”
“No. Who is it?”
“Mrs. Bensinger.”
“God. Let me guess.”
Dana dropped her voice. “Another alimony problem.”
Arthur Battenkill said, “I hate those horrible people. Thank heaven they never had children.”
“Not so loud. She’s out in the hall.”
“Yeah?” The judge cupped his hands to his mouth: “Greedy freeloading twat!”
Dana looked at him blankly.
The judge said, “Her husband’s a thieving shit, too.”
“Yes, he is.”
“By the way, I’ve decided to take some time off. I suppose you and Willow will survive without me. I get that impression.”
Dana fixed her gaze safely on the coffeepot. “How long will you be gone?”
“I can’t say.” Mrs. Battenkill and I are going away together.” The judge thumbed his appointment book. “See if Judge Beckman will cover for me starting late next week. Can you do that?”
“Certainly.”
“And, Dana, this is supposed to be a surprise for my wife, so don’t blow it.”
Willow buzzed on the speakerphone to report that Mr. Bensinger had arrived and that the atmosphere in the hallway was growing tense.
“Fuck ’em.” Arthur Battenkill snorted. “I hope they slaughter each other with blunt objects. Save the taxpayers a few bucks. Dana, isn’t it Judge Tigert over in Probate who’s got the bungalow in Exuma?”
“The Abacos.”
“Whatever. See if it’s available.”
The notion of the judge taking his wife on a romantic trip to the Bahamas was stupefying. Obviously the man was suffering a breakdown. Dana could hardly wait to share the gossip with Willow.
As she was leaving his chambers, Arthur Battenkill called out: “Dana, darling, you’re doing a superb job of concealing your amusement.”
“What on earth are you talking about.”
“Don’t pretend to know everything about me. Don’t pretend to have me figured out. I do have feelings for Mrs. Battenkill.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Dana said. “By the way, Art, how’d she like the new necklace?”
The judge’s smug expression dissolved. “Send in the goddamn Bensingers,” he said.
JoLayne Lucks hadn’t been to the Keys since she was a small girl. She was amazed at how much had changed, the homey and congenial tackiness supplanted by franchise fast-food joints, strip malls and high-rise resorts. To take her mind off the riffraff, JoLayne recited for Tom Krome a roster of local birds, resident and migratory: ospreys, snowy egrets, white herons, blue herons, kingfishers, flycatchers, cardinals, grackles, robins, red-tailed hawks, white-crowned pigeons, flickers, roseate spoonbills…