What's he hiding?

As she worked on that dilemma, an open Jeep Wrangler skidded to a stop in front of them. The driver wore a Bigby Farms jacket with the avocado logo. The pa.s.senger was his boss, Bruce Bigby, standing tall, holding the roll bar for support, blond hair windblown. Wearing an off-white skier's jumpsuit, he had a bullhorn in one hand, a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, a digital thermometer zippered on his sleeve, and a revolver holstered on his hip. In that getup, Bruce looked part astronaut, part general, and-she hated to think it-a total dweeb.

"Get those heaters into the hollow!" Bigby yelled into the bullhorn. "Gosh darn it, I told you, the trees in the low areas freeze first!"

"Hi, hon," Victoria said.

"Sweetie." He gave her a brisk salute, then hopped out of the Jeep. The legs of his jumpsuit were bloused over the tops of combat boots. On the speakers, Celia Cruz was singing "Corazon Rebelde," ode to a rebellious heart.

"Hey, Bruce," Steve said.

Bigby's eyes went wide. "Jeez, Steve. Another shaving accident?"

"Family reunion."

"Those are open cuts. Have you taken antibiotics?"

"Does Jack Daniel's count?"

Bigby's walkie-talkie crackled with static. "Seor Bigby, thirty-three degrees in the north quadrant."

Bigby hit a b.u.t.ton. "Get some heaters over there, Foyo."

"S, jefe."

"n.o.body sleeps. Hot coffee all night. Rum and c.o.ke at dawn."

"S, jefe."

"And that music. Does it have to be that Cuban c.r.a.pola?"

"Is what the men like."

"Whatever." Bigby clicked off the walkie-talkie. "Bobby, care to ride with me?"

Bobby gripped Steve's hand and shook his head.

"He's a little shaken," Steve said. "We'll catch up with you later."

"You got it."

"What can I do to help?" Steve asked.

"Gonna be a long night," Bigby said. "Will you look after my sweetie for me?"

"To the best of my limited abilities."

"What's with the gun, hon?" Victoria asked.

Bigby lowered his voice to a whisper. "The men expect it. El jefe always carries a side arm. It's a Caribbean thing."

"And what does el jefe shoot?" she persisted.

"Varmints, trespa.s.sers . . ."

Guys sniffing after jefe's fiancee? she wondered.

The violent bleat of a siren interrupted them. Startled, Bobby stumbled into Steve's chest, his gla.s.ses falling to the ground. "No noise. No noise. No noise."

Steve wrapped his arms around the boy. "It's okay, kiddo. It's okay."

"Not really," Bigby said, grimly. "It means the temperature's just hit thirty-two. If it goes to twenty-nine and stays there, I'm in deep doo-doo, if you'll pardon my French."

Did he really say "deep doo-doo"? Victoria wondered.

"I'm taking Bobby inside for a while," Steve said, picking up the boy's gla.s.ses.

"There's hot chocolate in the kitchen," Bigby said, "and a spare bedroom next to the den. Make yourself at home."

Steve and Bobby walked toward the house, the boy ferociously gripping his uncle's arm. When they were out of earshot, Bigby said: "With the grace of G.o.d, we'll never have to face that."

"Face what?"

"You know . . . that."

She was startled. "If you mean Bobby, he's a wonderful child."

"I know, sweetie. I know. You're a sucker for the bird with the broken wing."

"It's more than that. I really love the boy."

"Sure you do. But would you rather our son be the captain of the football team at Dartmouth or some oddball who scrambles words in his head?"

"Depends who has the bigger heart."

"Whatever." He peeled the thermometer off his sleeve, checked the readout, and frowned. "Keep the kid out of trouble for me, sweetie. He falls down a well, Solomon will sue me quicker than he can say 'shalom.'"

"Don't think I've ever heard him use the word."

"Figure of speech."

"I know, Bruce. Just one I never expected to hear from you."

"Hey, you know me. Not a prejudiced bone in my body. All my doctors and lawyers are Jews. Heck, I wanted you to work with Solomon for a while, remember? Pick up some of his tricks. They're sharper than we are that way."

"Are they?"

"Oh, come on, don't be so sensitive."

She blinked involuntarily, as if she'd been slapped.

Don't be so sensitive?

"That's very controlling," she said.

"What? How?"

"C'mon, Bruce. You're not that clueless. You can't tell another person how to feel."

Bigby's walkie-talkie squawked again. "Jefe, veintiocho grados in the hollow."

"Darn! Those lights strung yet?"

"Almost. Ya casi termino, jefe."

"Gotta go, sweetie." Bigby straightened the holster on his hip and hopped into the Jeep. John Wayne amid the avocados.

"I could come along," she said.

"Sends the wrong message to the men. Wouldn't want them to think their jefe's p.u.s.s.y-whipped."

"Of course not."

She studied him, smoke swirling around his head, diesel fumes in the air.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"I've never seen you like this."

"In a time of crisis," Bigby intoned, "that's when you can take the full measure of a man."

"So true."

He motioned for the driver to pull away. Still standing, gripping the roll bar with one hand, he waved to Victoria with the other. "Later, sweetie."

"Later, jefe," Victoria said, as the Jeep b.u.mped along the path and disappeared into the black haze of the grove.

Thirty-seven.

THE WHISPERING.

OF PALM TREES.

Steve's b.u.t.t was sore, and his torn lip flared with pain. Bobby was starting to calm down, asking if he could have marshmallows in his hot chocolate. They were walking on a flagstone path between two rows of cypress trees. Bigby's farmhouse sat on a rise ahead of them.

"Big house for one person," Bobby said.

"Two people," Steve corrected.

The house was a solid three stories of Dade County pine with a wraparound porch and a tin roof. It had been built by Bigby's great-grandfather, who'd also had the good sense to buy two thousand acres of surrounding land n.o.body wanted at the time. The exterior grounds had been preserved much as they must have been in the reign of Bigby the First, Steve figured. A sugarcane grinder sat under a lean-to; a dinner bell topped a ten-foot-high pole; and firewood was stacked next to a smokehouse, where in earlier days hogs were turned into hams.

Steve spotted some modern additions. A red clay tennis court ringed by coconut palms. A lagoon surrounded by a man-made beach, and a chickee hut with bamboo walls and a roof of dried palm fronds. He visualized Victoria as Lady of Bigby Manor, didn't like the picture, chased it away.

He and Bobby walked inside, where a uniformed housekeeper seemed to be expecting them. Bigby must have called ahead on his cell phone or walkie-talkie, Steve figured, or maybe he sent smoke signals. The maid held a cup of steaming coffee for Steve and a cup of hot chocolate for Bobby. With marshmallows.

The coffee stung Steve's lip. The hot chocolate sent Bobby off on a riff about cocoa beans. He'd read somewhere about the health benefits of flavonoids, and he was repeating the chemical composition to Steve, who wasn't listening. Instead, he was thinking about Bruce Bigby. The man with everything. Including Victoria.

So why don't I hate him?

Maybe because Bigby seemed decent enough. Sure, the guy was irritatingly upbeat and so forthright that irony sailed right by him. Then there was that streak of boosterism, hawking his time-shares like some kind of subtropical Babbitt. But so what? Compared to most people Steve encountered each day-violent criminals, incompetent judges, perjurious witnesses-Bigby was a Boy Scout with shiny merit badges. Besides, it didn't matter what he thought. Victoria loved the guy.

So get over it, chump. She's his.

The interior of the house had been updated recently, Steve thought, as he walked Bobby to a guest bedroom. The walls were sleek mahogany, the floors Italian tile. The artwork-mostly South American and Native American-was expensive, eclectic, and tasteful, if you overlooked the six-foot oil painting of two ripe avocados dangling on a branch like pendulous b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The guest bedroom was a cozy place with Native American baskets, wall hangings, and pottery. Steve tucked Bobby into bed, pulling a comforter up to his chin.

"Don't go till I fall asleep, Uncle Steve."

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. "Not going anywhere, kiddo."

"That was raging today, huh?"

"Raging?"

"When you waxed Mom's friend, you were totally tight."

"Totally," Steve agreed. There was something buzzing around in Bobby's head, Steve knew, but it was having a hard time coming out. "You want to talk about what happened, kiddo?"

Under the comforter, Bobby's thin shoulders shrugged.

"You know the rules. Anything you ask, I answer."

"My mom," Bobby said. "Is she a bad person or is she, like, totally whacked?"