“And I just wondered if any of the bad things that happened to your family’s restaurant rivals in New Jersey had anything to do with what happened to Ronnie Hodges down here.”

My question hung in the air. Tony lowered his chin and stared at the ground for the longest moment.

I could hear Pepe’s nose hitting the rim of his bowl. The raccoon splashed water as he washed his food. An ibis’ throaty call reverberated from deep in the swamp.

I was beginning to consider the sanity of raising this topic with a bunch of animals as my only witnesses when I heard a door slam in the distant parking lot. Faraway voices sounded. Human voices. Potential witnesses’ voices.

Tony’s face came up, his head tilted toward the lot. His gaze returned to meet mine.

“I wondered how long it would take for my family history to follow me here.” He seemed more resigned than angry. “It sounds like the other nature walkers are on their way. I don’t want to get into this now, Mace. I will tell you I had nothing to do with what you read about. My whole life, I’ve been trying to live down who my father is. What my family is.”

A flicker of pain lit in his eyes. I felt bad about putting it there. I resisted the urge to smooth out the wrinkle now marring his model-worthy brow.

The clamor of voices grew as my visitors made their way along the path. I also heard the rumble of a powerful motorcycle traversing the wooden bridge at the park’s entrance. The sound seemed out of place, since the bikers I’ve met generally prefer chicks and bars to birds and trees.

“I’d better get back to the office to meet them.” I nodded to the door. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to come along.”

His smile had been stripped of several thousand watts. But he managed a weak grin. “No, I really do want to see the park. And it’s not like you’re the first person who ever asked about my family. I’d like to talk later, though. Explain where I’m coming from.”

“Sure,” I said.

Collecting the food tray, I started for the exit. Before I could juggle the unwieldy tray to reach for the door handle, Tony jumped to open it for me. Apparently having a Mafia don for a daddy doesn’t rule out having nice manners.

As he stepped aside to let me pass, Tony bumped against the snake’s pen. A low hiss sounded as warning.

As Tony and I approached the wooden walkway outside the park’s office, I could barely believe who was among the nature walkers milling about.

The usual retirees were there, sporting bright clothes and sunburns. There was a serious-looking, thirtyish couple; binoculars around his neck, Birds of Florida in her hand. And there was the mystery woman from the bar at the Speckled Perch, outfitted again in dark glasses and black leather.

I greeted everyone, exchanged introductions, and outlined where the wooden boardwalk would take us. Then I addressed Ms. Sunglasses.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jane Smith.”

Yeah, right, I thought. “Would you like to leave that in the office?” I gestured to the motorcycle helmet she carried.

Clasping it tightly to her side, she shook her head. “S’fine.”

“Everybody ready to spot some wildlife then?”

My answer was a chorus of yeses and smiles from the seniors and Tony, and nods from the birdwatchers. The sunglasses seemed to aim past me into the distance. No acknowledgment, not even a head nod. Not exactly Ms. Congeniality. She’d certainly seemed friendly enough last night, chatting up Carlos in the bar.

Maybe she was hung over because they’d stayed up all night, drinking and yakking. My stomach clenched like a fist. It surprised me how much it hurt to think that maybe talking wasn’t all the two of them had done.

We started out on the walk. It had to be one of the strangest I’d ever given. I always tried to draw out the visitors, asking folks where they came from originally. Few locals from this part of Florida would voluntarily walk through the woods in June at sunset unless there was the promise of shooting something, too.

On this walk, I got back a Pennsylvania, a few Ohios, and a Michigan. Tony piped up with New Jersey from the back.

We all turned to Ms. Sunglasses, waiting for her answer. Her lips opened just wide enough to mutter two words, “All over,” before she pressed them shut again.

She made Darryl from the fish camp look like a motor mouth.

Stone-faced and silent, she hung back from the rest of the group. Which would have been fine, if she’d shown the slightest interest in taking in the view from the boardwalk. But she seemed more intent on watching us than observing nature. I couldn’t say for sure, though. Despite the darkening sky, she never removed the sunglasses. And she didn’t participate, not even when I called the walkers to a railing to see a huge gator lolling in the swamp below the boardwalk.

“How big is he?” one of the Ohioans asked. Flashes went off on digital cameras.

“A ten-footer, at least,” I said. “A good way to tell, if all you spot is his head above water, is to estimate the number of inches from his eyes to the tip of his snout. His body will be about the same number in feet. Course, if we weren’t on this boardwalk, and he was close enough for you to count inches, you might never get the chance to tell anyone else how big he was.”

Everyone laughed but Ms. Sunglasses. She leaned against a far railing, regarding me with a frown.

A little farther on, we came to a hardwood hammock. I pointed out a cardinal flitting by, and a delicate air plant nestled high in a crook of an oak tree. “A lot of people think air plants are parasites, but they’re not. They don’t get nutrition from the tree; they only use it for support, like a trellis.”

“Do the alligators eat the air plants?”

The birdwatchers snickered at the question. Remembering Rhonda’s warning, I looked down at the water, and then way up high to the tree. I forced a smile for the gent from Ohio.

“No, sir. Gators definitely prefer the meat course to the salad bar.”

“Aren’t orchids air plants, too?” asked one of the retiree wives, from Pennsylvania.

I glanced across the boardwalk. Ms. Sunglasses stood rigidly, dark lenses pointing my way.

I answered, “Yep, orchids and Spanish moss, too. Air plants are also called epi … epi … epiphytes.”

As I stumbled over a word I’d used dozens of times before, I knew the mystery woman was making me nervous. And I wasn’t alone. The seniors watched her furtively, taking in her biker regalia. Tony kept looking over his shoulder, as nervous as a seventeen-year-old trying to buy beer. Only the birders seemed unconcerned by her lurking about like a nature-walk spy. They were too busy sharing binoculars and jotting field notes to notice her odd behavior.

I was relieved when the hour was finally up, and I could bid the whole group goodbye. Tony thanked me, and then hurried off with the rest of the group toward the parking lot. The biker woman hung back, aiming her sunglasses at the upcoming programs on the bulletin board.

Was she reading them? I couldn’t be sure. I prayed she wouldn’t return for any of the events I led. She gave me the creeps.

“I’m about to close up the park,” I finally said to her. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Jane Smith” shook her head without turning, and took her time finishing up at the board. Then, suddenly, she spun around and left without a word. She moved across the deck like a Florida panther, surprisingly quick and silent for a woman in big black motorcycle boots.