by John Lutz
He sat there leaning back on his palms, his stiff leg out in front of him.
The air-conditioning was turned off and the house was almost as hot as the sultry evening outside. Silent, too, except for the leaning palm tree’s fronds rattling over the tile roof as the wind blew. It sounded as if someone might be walking around up there with skeleton feet.
Carver levered himself to his own feet with his cane and looked around. He was in a small office: gray metal desk with black leather swivel chair, two-drawer oak file cabinet, table with a small copy machine on it, gray metal stand supporting a gray IBM typewriter, the old-fashioned kind with the manual carriage return. On the wall behind the desk was a framed photograph of Dr. Sam wearing swimming trunks and standing in front of Victor the shark, circling behind him on the other side of the aquarium glass. The camera had picked up very little reflection from the glass, and the photo was striking, almost as if the doctor were casually standing underwater only a few feet from the huge carnivore.
Already sweating, Carver limped over to the desk and opened the drawers. All four of them were empty except for a three-foot strand of soft rope in the left-hand bottom. Carver wondered if it was cut from the length of rope Dr. Sam had used to hang himself. There was a combination phone and answering machine on the desk. Its counter registered no messages. Carver lifted the receiver. The phone was dead. He went to the oak file cabinet and wasn’t surprised to find it as empty as the desk. The contents must have been in the boxes Millicent had shipped north. Carver examined the typewriter and saw that it contained no ribbon. He lifted the rubber flap of the copy machine to make sure nothing had been overlooked there. Sighing, he sat down in Dr. Sam’s desk chair, trying literally to put himself in the late researcher’s place, contemplating death as Dr. Sam himself must have before seeing it as an acceptable option.
After a while Carver decided he wasn’t gaining any insight, then left the office. In the hall he noticed a thermostat, switched it to Cool and rolled the setting back to seventy. Nothing happened. The utilities had been turned off.
Carver had been inside longer than he’d thought. The sun was dropping fast and the house’s interior was already dim. He’d better finish here soon as possible.
The rest of the house was much like the office. The essential furniture was there, chairs, end tables, pieces far too large to pack, even a few knickknacks. But the place was like a recently vacated hotel suite; all signs of its previous inhabitants had been removed.
In the master bedroom Carver slid open a mirrored closet door and found that Dr. Sam’s clothes had been removed as well as Millicent’s. There was some indication of previous occupancy here, however. A wire hanger on the floor. Another wedged where it had fallen into an old pair of rubber boots. In a dusty corner lay some wadded panty hose. Carver ran his hand over the closet shelf, hoping something there had been overlooked, but found nothing but a dog leash. It was leather and looked almost new. He tossed it back up on the shelf and was about to leave the house when he remembered another door off the hall. A third bedroom. In the fading golden light he limped to the door and opened it.
The room was small and contained no furniture other than a straight-backed antique wooden chair of the sort designed by puritans to entertain nonbelievers. The window faced west, so this room was brighter than the main bedroom. Carver checked its closet and found it empty. Even its shelf had been removed. He was about to close the door when he noticed two thick steel eye hooks mounted on the back closet wall. A few inches beneath them the paint had been scraped from the plaster. Near the floor were similar scraped areas, and two more eye hooks.
Carver shut the closet door and looked around the room carefully. There were no marks from picture frames or decorative hangings on the pale beige walls, but a few feet from the ceiling were areas of scratched paint, and several round holes about a quarter inch in diameter, approximately the diameter of the eye hooks in the closet. Carver noticed plaster dust on the brown carpet beneath the holes. Something had recently been unscrewed from the walls. He found similar round holes, and more white dusting of plaster, down low along the baseboard. In this room there were numerous stains on the carpet that weren’t in evidence anywhere else in the house, a few stains on the walls. Considering it contained no furniture, the room showed a lot of wear.
Carver limped back to the master bedroom and looked around for similar holes and plaster dust, but found none. Then he examined the brass headboard of the king-sized bed.
He remembered a Key Montaigne phone directory on top of the oak file cabinets in the office. He got it and looked up Katia Marsh. Her number was listed for an address on Kale Avenue in Fishback. He tore the page from the directory and stuffed it into a pocket, then he got out of the dim and stifling house, leaving by the front door and letting its lock click loudly and decisively behind him. Millicent Bing must have heard that same sound, her past locking shut as she walked away from it. No going back; a new life lay ahead, ready or not.
He drove down Shoreline and turned the Olds into the research center driveway. Dusk was dying, and a gigantic tropical moon had taken over the sky. There were no lights showing in the low, angular building, and the Fair Wind rode darkly at her moorings.
Carver sat for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the ocean fading from green to black, breathing in the scent of the sea brought to him by the warm breeze wafting in through the car’s open windows. Around him nocturnal insects had begun their constant and cacophonous scream that might last till dawn. Down near the shore tall palm trees were swaying their fronds like lean, elegant women tossing their hair to dry it in the wind. He didn’t like the suspicion that was taking root in his mind. It only served to make matters more complicated and mystifying. Or maybe simply less related.
He drove from the parking lot and aimed the moonlit hood of the Olds toward Fishback.
34
Kale avenue was a narrow street that ran off of Main two blocks down from the Key Lime Pie. Katia’s address turned out to be a huge gray Victorian home that had been converted to apartments. The darkly shadowed face of the three-story house was almost invisible behind banana and oleander trees.
Carver limped up onto the wide front porch. Two old women were perched on a long bench that was probably an ancient church pew, but neither of them looked at Carver. On the porch ceiling a paddle fan with a schoolhouse light slung below it slowly rotated, creating a slight breeze and enough illumination for Carver to study the bank of brass mailboxes and find Katia’s apartment number. Dozens of moths circled the light beneath the fan, their frantic arcing and darting causing faint shadows to flit over the porch. He opened a screen door and climbed a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, found a door marked 2-C, and turned a brass crank that made a rasping noise inside the apartment. He stood waiting. Someone was cooking Italian somewhere in the house. The garlicky aroma prodded Carver’s appetite.
Floorboards creaked, and light in the door’s fish-eye peephole rolled like a wild pupil, then was steady. He knew Katia was studying his distorted image in the hall.
Then the door opened and she smiled out at him. She was wearing a faded pink robe and was barefoot. He saw that her toenails were painted bright red. Her features seemed puffy and her hair was mussed, as if she’d been sleeping, but her blue eyes were alert. “Mr. Carver!” she said in a surprised voice, as if he were an unexpected gift.
“Evening, Katia.” He returned her smile. “I know it’s past business hours, but I drove by the research center and you weren’t there, and I need to talk to you again about Dr. Sam’s death.”
She appeared doubtful for a moment, then she said, “Well, I don’t see why not.” She opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in.
Her apartment had high ceilings but was small. The living room was crowded with Victorian furniture suited to the house. Some of it was threadbare, but other pieces had been refinished or reupholstered. Oval mahogany frames hung on the walls f
rom gold-braided cord hooked over crown molding. Each of them held antique photographs of the sort that made their subjects appear either hopelessly stern or zanily cross-eyed. Either way, people you’d just as soon not meet. On a coffee table with Queen Anne legs that were no compliment to Queen Anne, half a dozen glossy Smithsonian magazines were scattered about, but not for show; they were dog-eared and well read. In a tall window, a round-cornered air conditioner that might date back to Victorian times was spitting out cold air along with flecks of ice that caught the light from an ornately shaded marble and brass floor lamp. The room smelled musty but was cool, almost cold.
Katia motioned with her arm, inviting Carver to sit on a plush maroon sofa with a lot of carved wood on it. He sat down, finding it comfortable, and leaned his cane against the wood and velveteen arm. From where he sat he could see into a tiny kitchen with yellowed stove and refrigerator. The refrigerator had round corners like the air conditioner.
Katia lowered herself into a dainty chair across from him. Her robe rode up on her bare legs, better than Queen Anne’s. She asked Carver if he cared for anything to drink, but he declined. That took care of the amenities.
He said, “I had a look around inside the Bings’ house this evening.”
She arched a surprised eyebrow. “Millicent was there?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She nodded, understanding. “Is that legal?”
“I found the door unlocked.”
Katia smiled, knowing he was lying and an unlocked door wouldn’t make trespassing legal anyway, but she didn’t press him on it. She looked like a teenager in the soft lamplight. “I imagine Millicent cleaned out most everything but the furniture.”
“She did a good job of that,” Carver said.
“But you found something, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I didn’t exactly find anything, but I saw evidence of something. Why do you suppose Millicent left so abruptly, and in such a way that she wouldn’t have to return?”
“Well, she had to go north to her husband’s funeral, so why shouldn’t she try avoiding another trip down here to settle her affairs? Makes sense to me.”
Carver watched the light play over the flecks of ice shooting from the air conditioner, wondering if a rainbow might be possible. He said, “You touched on another reason last time we talked.”
Katia didn’t have to search her memory. “You mean when I said she seemed scared?”
“Uh-huh.” Carver waited.
“That was just a feeling I had. Nothing definite.”
Time to broach the subject. “Katia, would you have any idea if Dr. Sam and Millicent engaged in what might be called kinky sex?”
She looked surprised but not shocked. Then she laughed nervously. “Well, they sure wouldn’t tell me about it, would they?”
“Not intentionally. What I mean is, do you remember anything slipping out about the subject during conversation?”
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, this is a conservative part of Florida, so what exactly do you mean by kinky sex? Anything other than the missionary position?”
“Sadomasochism. Chains, whips, leashes, that sort of thing. Happens even in Florida.”
An incredulous expression passed over her young face. “Dr. Sam? Millicent? You’ve got to be kidding!”
Carver gave her a minute to let the idea settle in. “People tend secret flames, Katia, and sometimes the heat consumes them. They lead private lives that are often unlike the ones they present to the world. Sort of existing on two levels. You get a little older you’ll realize that, if you don’t know it already.”
“Sure. And whatever two consenting adults do, especially if they’re married, is their own business.”
“Couldn’t agree more. I’m a little kinky myself.”
She squinted at him, unable to quite figure him.
“We’re not talking about a crime here,” he told her.
“We might be, in Florida,” she said. “But that doesn’t matter a fig to me. It’s just that with Dr. Sam and Millicent I think the idea’s way, way off the mark. He was obsessed with his work and there wasn’t room for much else. And Millicent never struck me as … well, the carnally adventuresome type. I don’t recall Dr. Sam ever saying anything even remotely sexual. God, this was a middle-aged couple, Mr. Carver.”
Ah, the young, he thought. He said, “Maybe their sex life had gone stale and they were experimenting.”
“Oh, sure, maybe. But how would I know, even if it was any of my business? And how would you know?”
“I don’t know,” Carver said. “Not for sure. I found some eye hooks, and some holes drilled in the wall that were spaced as if they were used to constrain somebody. There were marks on the paint that might have come from chains or manacles being scraped over the plaster. Discoloration from perspiration. I found a leather leash in the closet.”
Katia pressed her knees together tight enough to whiten the flesh. She looked thoughtful. Said, “The Bings didn’t have a dog.”
“You wouldn’t guess it by looking at the carpet where I found most of the drilled holes,” Carver told her.
She seemed confused, and passed a hand down her cheek vaguely, as if feeling for an injury, and shook her head. “Listen, even if what you found does mean anything, so what? I mean, Dr. Sam and Millicent’s sex life couldn’t be relevant to what you’re investigating: Henry Tiller’s death, whatever you think’s going on over at the Rainer place.”
“Don’t forget Dr. Sam’s suicide,” Carver said.
She frowned. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Could be there isn’t any. That’s one of the things I’m trying to determine.”
Katia stared at the dark window as if she could see out of it. Then she stood up and clutched her robe around her. “I keep getting images of Dr. Sam and Millicent,” she said, making a face as if she’d found a roach in her stew. “I don’t like what I see. If you don’t mind, I think I’ve had about enough of this conversation.”
Carver set his cane in the flowered Victorian carpet and gained his feet. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I don’t like asking you about it, but you were the one who might know.”
“Well, I don’t know. I mean, neither Dr. Sam nor Millicent ever said or did anything that gave me any insight into their sex life. They simply didn’t talk about that kind of thing. Not that I was curious. I didn’t consider it any of my affair when Dr. Sam was alive, and I consider it even less my business now that he’s dead.”
“I wouldn’t argue,” Carver said. “Whatever they did in the privacy of their home, it’s most likely irrelevant.” He limped across the faded flower pattern to the door and opened it.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” she said behind him.
He braced with the cane and twisted around to face her, one foot out in the hall. The pungent scent of spicy Italian cooking wasn’t so appetizing now. “I don’t know what to believe,” he said. “I honestly don’t know.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t dirty Dr. Sam’s memory by speculating with the wrong people about his sex life.”
“You have Chief Wicke in mind?”
“Yes, among others. Talking to him might make any nasty rumor sort of semiofficial and lend it credibility. I mean, the idea’s nauseating. It isn’t dignified, and Dr. Sam was a dignified scientist. Let’s leave him with that.”
“And Millicent’s still alive,” Carver said. “We wouldn’t want to drag her private life out for everyone to see.”
“Of course not.” Katia looked angry for a moment. “I wasn’t forgetting Millicent.”
“I trusted you to tell me the truth,” Carver said. “You can trust me to do what I can. But I can’t promise, because I don’t know where this’ll lead.”
“What you suspect about Dr. Sam and Millicent,” she said confidently, “won’t lead anywhere at all. It’s simply not them.”
“I expect you’re right.”
She gave
him her young, naive smile, the girl who knew more about sea life than life on land.
35
Beth was in the kitchen eating a tuna salad sandwich and drinking beer when Carver got back to the cottage. He pulled a Budweiser from the refrigerator and sat down across the table from her. She was wearing a gray Florida State T-shirt and faded Levi’s, dressed to take her turn in the blind and keep up surveillance on the Rainer estate. He didn’t want her back in the blind, was getting worn-down from fearing for her. Obstinate, heedless woman.
A hard-shelled bug of some kind flew against the window and bounced off, sounding like a thrown pebble. Carver took a sip of beer and said, “There’s no point in watching the Rainer place any longer. We’ve seen all we’re going to see.”
She swallowed a bite of sandwich. “I wasn’t sure what you had in mind. Thought I better be ready.”
The sandwich smelled good. He noticed a brown ceramic bowl containing tuna salad on the sink counter and limped over to it, got two slices of white bread and set about constructing a sandwich of his own. “Call Forest, Ohio?”
Beth nodded. “Turns out to be a little town out in the middle of farm country. Everybody knows everything about everybody. Key Montaigne north.”
“Only without Walter Rainer.”
“Yeah. Anyway, there’s only one Sandy listed, and her last name’s Bing. I called a gas station near Forest, said I was looking for the address of somebody named Bing to send some money lent me to get a flat tire repaired some weeks ago. Guy at the station liked to hear himself talk, so I kept quiet and let him run on fast-forward. He told me there were lots of Bings in and around Forest, family’s prominent in the town. There used to be a large Bing farm, but now it’s been parceled out for homes and a feed store. Sandy and Sam Bing are the daughter and son of Bings who still work the land. That was just the way the gas station guy put it, ‘work the land.’ Dr. Sam’s death’s the talk of Forest, as you might expect; his funeral’s tomorrow and most of the locals are attending. Sandy was married to a guy named Merchant, but they got divorced last year and she’s back to using her maiden name.” Beth drained beer from her glass. “I got her phone number and the number of the Bing farm.”