"Why do you think Varn told us he dropped Peggy and her friends at Robarts Arena?" I asked Logan.
"Maybe he did."
We were driving down the key, heading for my condo. The salad had not done much to fill me up, and I heard a faint rumbling from the area of my stomach.
I said, "That doesn't make any sense, unless he had nothing to do with her disappearance. That's a pretty big coincidence to get my arms around. He admitted to spending the three days with them at Sea Club, and then he lied to us about who he was. The kids seemed to have dropped off the earth when he left them."
"Why don't we see what was going on at Robarts the day he says he dropped them off?"
"Good call. The arena probably has a Web site."
We pulled into my condo complex and parked next to a huge bougainvillea, its blood red blooms dancing in the breeze off the water. We took the elevator, sharing it with one of my neighbors, and got off on the second floor.
I had enclosed my balcony the year before, making it into a sunporch. I also put an air-conditioning duct out to the area. Florida is hot in the summer. My computer was set up there, giving me a magnificent view over Sarasota Bay as I surfed the Internet.
My new twenty-eight foot Grady-White walkaround sat sedately in its slip in front of the condo, bobbing slightly when a wake rolled in over the sandbar that separated our little harbor from the bay proper. The sun was high and the cerulean sky was dotted with puffy clouds. The Sister Keys, uninhabited mangrove islands, defined the eastern edge of the Intracoastal Waterway across from my home. Several elderly ladies were doing water aerobics in the pool that took up most of the space between my building and the docks.
I Googled Robarts Arena and came up with a list of events for the entire year. I scrolled down to the period three weeks before.
"Looks like a revival ended the same day that Peggy checked out of the Sea Club," I said, pointing to the highlighted event.
"I can't see how that would be of interest to a guy like Varn."
"We'll have to check it out. Let's see if the evangelist has a Web site."
He did. I found it, and clicked on the tab that detailed his schedule.
"They moved on to Venice," I said, "and they've been there for three weeks. Last night was the last evening for saving local souls. Maybe somebody's still there."
"Probably a waste of time. Let's go."
We drove to the mainland and took Highway 41 to Venice, about fifteen miles south of Sarasota. The address given on the Web site turned out to be a large undeveloped lot on the highway south of the city limits, about halfway to the town of North Port.
The lot wasn't empty. A sea of canvas covered the ground, a tent being disassembled for transport. A crew of about ten men was rolling up the canvas. A small forklift stood nearby, ready to put the tent into the white semi parked nearby. The trailer's aluminum side was emblazoned with red letters spelling out REVEREND ROBERT WILLIAM SIMMERMON MINISTRIES, WORKING FOR JESUS. Next to the sign was a painted picture of a handsome gray-haired man, whom I assumed to be the evangelist. A sleeper cab was backed up to it, but had not yet hooked on. It looked as if they were about ready to leave. A forty-foot motor home was parked nearby.
We stopped next to the trailer, got out of the Explorer, and walked around to the other side, near where the men were working with the canvas. As we cleared the rear of the truck, a woman stepped out of the door of the motor home. She came up short when she saw us.
"Can I help you?" she said. Her voice was soft and held the inflec- dons of the southland. She was about five seven and her high-heeled sandals added another two inches. Her auburn hair was thick and hung below her shoulders. She had the body of a woman who would do a bikini proud. I'm not much on fashion, since I usually wear a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boat shoes, but I could tell that her clothes were expensive. She had either a large diamond or a beautifully cut piece of glass on her right ring finger. Several gold chain bracelets concentrated around her left wrist and clinked quietly when she moved her arm.
"I'm looking for Reverend Simmermon," I said.
She smiled, showing me teeth that were so perfect they must have been the work of a very good cosmetic dentist. "I'm afraid he's not here. I'm Michelle Browne. I'm his administrative assistant. Can I help you?"
"Do you know a man named Clyde Varn or maybe Jake Yardley?"
She was quiet for a moment, screwing her face into a little moue, as if thinking was not something she was used to doing. "Can't say that I do. Who are they?"
"Same guy," I said, "but he uses both names."
"I wish I could help." She smiled again, and turned to a man who had just walked up, in effect dismissing me. The truck driver, I thought.
I interrupted before she spoke to him. "When do you expect Reverend Simmermon?"
"Oh, he's already gone," she said, turning back to me with a shrug and a smile. "On to the next stop. The work of the Lord never stops, you know."
"Where's the next stop?"
"Key West. Sorry I couldn't help."
Logan and I thanked her and returned to the Explorer.
As Logan snapped his seat belt closed, he said, "Mighty helpful little southern gal, don't you think? Did you notice that the last time she said `help' it came out `hep'?"
"I did. That's a little more country than she'd like us to believe she is. She's been working on that accent."
"I think so. And she's mighty pretty to be a minister's assistant."
"A little overdressed too."
We sat quietly in the vehicle for a few moments before I cranked up and headed back north.
"Didn't Bill Lester say that some teenagers had disappeared from the North Port and Venice areas?" asked.
"Yeah, but he didn't say when. Aren't you reaching a little on this?"
"Probably so. But I'd like to check with the chief anyway."