Hot fc-6

by John Lutz

  Carver grinned, amazed as he often was by her ability to ferret out information. “You did better than okay.” He sliced the sandwich in half diagonally and sat back down at the table, hooking the crook of his cane over the back of the chair next to him.

  “Thanks. Speaking of cars, some bastard went at mine under the hood and made a mess of the engine. I got a call in for Effie’s father to tow it to his station for repairs.”

  “Davy or Hector,” Carver said. “Trying to decrease our mobility. Or maybe just more fun and fright tactics. The Olds’ll probably be next, if they get a chance at it.” He subdued the heat of his anger so he could eat.

  “I didn’t figure it was mischievous kids,” Beth said. “How’d you do at the house?”

  Between bites of sandwich, he told her about what he’d found in the Bing house, and his conversation with Katia Marsh.

  “Katia’s right,” Beth said. “The fact the good doctor and his wife were likely doing S and M probably doesn’t have anything to do with anything. Lotsa uptight conservatives and fundamentalists in Florida. They’re heavy into this kinda thing, but their consciences won’t allow them to get involved in honest crime. A night now and then with ropes and nipple clamps is all they need to let off steam.”

  Carver studied her, trying to figure if she was putting him on. He decided she was serious. Not for the first time he wondered about her life with Roberto Gomez. Maybe it was best she hadn’t told him everything and never would.

  “You think you’re getting anywhere with all of this?” Beth asked.

  “Either that or I’m being taken somewhere.” Carver finished his sandwich, then looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Not too late to call Ohio. “You got those numbers handy?”

  “They’re written on the tablet by the phone.”

  Carrying his beer can, he limped into the living room and sat down by the phone. The air conditioner was off in there, and the ratchety clamor of cicadas in the lush foliage outside was shrill and loud, almost as if it were coming from inside the cottage. He decided to punch out Sandy’s number instead of that of the Bing farm. She’d written to Millicent and inquired about her brother; Sandy and Dr. Sam had been at least that close at the time of his death.

  She answered on the third ring. Her voice was slow, dragging, as if she might be tired or drugged. Grief pulling her down.

  Carver told her his name, said he’d been a friend of Dr. Sam’s and that he sure hoped he hadn’t gotten her out of bed. He was assured he hadn’t.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said.

  “We all are. Everybody who knew him’s sorry.” She spoke with a slight midwestern lilt, not unpleasant.

  He said, “I’m trying to get in touch with Millicent.”

  “She ain’t here.”

  “Oh? She said she was flying in for the funeral.”

  “Yeah, but she ain’t got here yet. Had a long layover in Atlanta. Plane had a mechanical problem and couldn’t take off till it was fixed. Dave drove to the airport to pick her up.”

  Carver didn’t ask who Dave was. “When Millicent gets there,” he said, “will you give her a message from me?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Ask her to phone me about Dr. Sam. Tell her I’m a friend, that this has to do with his work and how he’ll be remembered here in Key Montaigne and it’s vitally important. She needs to talk to me for his sake and for hers.” He gave her the phone number of the cottage.

  “That the entire message?” Sandy asked, obviously curious.

  “That’s it. She’ll understand.”

  “Wish I did.” She sounded wistful, not as if she was just talking about his message for Millicent, but maybe life in general. And death.

  He told her again he was sorry about Dr. Sam, then hung up. Millicent Bing would probably phone Katia first, then, if he’d read Katia right, she’d urge Millicent to call him. Then maybe he could find out why Millicent was frightened when she left Key Montaigne. It must have to do with Walter Rainer. Maybe, Carver thought, if he promised her anonymity and the chance to bring Rainer down, she just might confide in him. He was sure she knew something, knew what Dr. Sam had known. And maybe she wasn’t as sure as everyone else seemed to be that her husband’s death was a suicide.

  “Think she’ll call?” Beth asked from the living room doorway. She was leaning with a shoulder on the doorjamb, her fingertips inserted into the pockets of her tight Levi’s.

  “She might. She’ll be curious, and the phone call’s no risk to her. When the funeral’s over tomorrow and she leaves Forest, she probably plans on dropping from sight.”

  “What now?” Beth asked.

  “Bed.” He wiped a hand down his face, starting high on his bald forehead. Ouch! Hurt his nose again, still tender from too much sun. “Jesus, I’m tired!”

  “Too tired?”

  He thought about it, looking at her there in the doorway. “Well, maybe not.”

  She hip-switched over to him and gracefully settled down on his lap. His cane clattered to the floor as she draped a long arm around his neck and bit his earlobe, flicked her tongue in his ear.

  “Definitely not,” he said.

  Smiling, she swiveled from his lap, bent low and retrieved his cane. He enjoyed watching that.

  The screaming of the cicadas was deafening as he limped beside her to Henry Tiller’s bed.

  36

  The morning sun punched through the parted curtains and bisected the bedroom with a golden brilliance thick as syrup. Carver blinked sleep from his eyes and looked over at Beth. She was lying on her stomach, her face scrunched into her pillow so the morning glare wouldn’t disturb her. He remembered last night, and his hand reached out for her, almost touched the smooth curve of her bare back, softened by sunlight.

  Then he caught a glimpse of his watch and withdrew his hand. It was ten minutes to eight. Dr. Sam would be put in the ground soon in Ohio. Millicent was probably up and dressed.

  She hadn’t returned his call last night. If she’d decided to call this morning, it would happen after the funeral. That gave him a few hours to do something other than sit by the phone. A few hours he should try using to his advantage.

  He carefully worked himself out of bed so he wouldn’t wake Beth, located his cane, then limped through the dustmoted pattern of sunlight into the bathroom, feeling warmth on his bare calves and feet.

  By eight-thirty he’d showered and dressed and was in the kitchen sipping steaming black coffee from one of Henry’s smiley mugs. At twenty minutes to nine he carried his coffee into the living room and called Effie Norton’s home number. The phone at the other end of the connection rang five times, and Carver was about to hang up when a man answered with a mumbled unfriendly hello. He had a deep voice that suggested a bear disturbed during hibernation.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” Carver said. “I’d like to talk to Effie.”

  “S’who is this?”

  Carver told him.

  “I’m Vic Norton, her father,” the man said. “And you didn’t wake me up. In fact, I was meaning to get by this morning and talk with you. Effie’s mom and I don’t think it’s a good idea, her getting involved in whatever it is you’re doing here on the island.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell Effie that myself,” Carver said.

  “Then why you calling? Gonna try telling her again? Or do you need the place cleaned?”

  “Neither. I just wanna ask her one question. There’s no danger in her answering, believe me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She still in bed?”

  “Naw, she’s awake. Out in the yard helping her mother trim hedges. We was all doing yardwork, trying to get done early and beat the damned heat.”

  “If you call her to the phone, I’ll only keep her a minute,” Carver said. “Not even that long.”

  Vic Norton didn’t answer for quite a while, letting Carver know he was mulling it over. Well, Carver understood; if Effie were his daughter, he’d w
ant her helping around the house or marching in the school band instead of mixed up with hit-and-run murder and narcotics.

  “Neither of us wants to get Effie hurt, “Carver assured Norton. A bead of perspiration ran down his forehead, menaced the corner of his eye, then tracked down his cheek without veering. “All I need from her is some information.”

  “I’ll go get her,” Norton said. “But I’d like your promise you’ll keep her outa your business from here on in.”

  “Done,” Carver told him.

  Distant plastic clattered as Norton laid down the receiver.

  Carver waited and sweated, wishing he’d switched on the air conditioner. Finally Effie came to the phone.

  “Dad said you had a question to ask me.”

  “Your friend Bobby who works at’the Texaco station on Marathon Key, would he be on the job today?”

  “Should be. Other’n Sundays, he works every day from eight to five. It’ll be that way till school starts.”

  “Thanks, Effie. That’s all I needed.”

  “How come you didn’t just call Bobby at the station?”

  “I like to talk with people face to face, and without advance notice. I learn more that way.”

  “Bobby wouldn’t mind talking if you called, and he wouldn’t run out on you. I told you, you can trust him.”

  “I’m more concerned with whoever else might know I’d called.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. You don’t trust many people, do you?”

  The question made him feel unaccountably ashamed. “A few. Only a few.”

  “Mr. Carver, what’d Dad say to you?”

  “We talked,” Carver told her, “and we decided you getting involved in what I’m doing isn’t a good idea. Your dad and I agree on that.”

  “Yeah, well, you would.” She sounded petulant, as if she’d been denied permission to watch MTV.

  “You’ve already been a help, Effie. You’ve done enough.”

  “The other day you asked me not to go snooping around, and I promised I wouldn’t. No need to lie and say I solved the case.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t exactly say that. Or even that anything was solved.”

  “Guess you didn’t. You want me to come by like usual and clean today?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’ll be a while. They got me working in the prison yard here.”

  “That’s okay, Beth’s still asleep. She was up late last night, so the later you get here the better.”

  “She stayed awake trying to help you figure everything out, I bet.”

  “That’s it. I’ll be gone part of the morning. Maybe you’ll still be at the cottage when I get back. You can have lunch with Beth and me if you want.”

  “Sounds super. And don’t worry, I won’t wake Beth up if she’s still asleep when I get there.”

  After Carver hung up, he wondered if Effie’s father would mind her staying at the cottage for lunch. Then he shrugged. Bullets didn’t figure to fly over sandwiches and potato chips.

  He left Beth a note, switched on the window unit so the cottage would be cool when she woke up, then limped outside and got in the Olds. The sun was already on a rampage, so he set the car’s air conditioner on High and left the canvas top up for shade. The moody air conditioner decided to do its best today. In his bubble of cool air, he drove fast along Shoreline, past the Oceanography Research Center, then across the narrow bridge to Duck Key and on to Marathon Key.

  Carver remembered the Texaco station from his drives north. It was equipped with over a dozen pumps, half of them under a slanted fiberglass roof. All the pumps were self-service, and the cashier was inside a little square brick building that doubled as a modest convenience store specializing in canned soda and packed snacks. There were two bays for oil changes and repair work. One of the overhead doors was open. Carver could see an old white Cadillac up on the rack, the kind with tail fins. A boy in blue work uniform with baggy pants was bustling around beneath the car, giving it a lube job. Every few seconds Carver heard the snakelike hiss of the air gun forcing grease into the fittings.

  After parking the Olds alongside the building, near a Dumpster piled high with trash, he walked to the service bay with the open door. The air gun’s intermittent hissing was surprisingly loud now that he was so close, echoing in the barren brick and cinder-block bay.

  The boy doing the work looked about sixteen, not fourteen, as Effie had said. He was short and stocky and had a wild thatch of blond hair above a round, guileless face with grease stains on it like Indian war paint. His blue uniform shirt was spotless, but his darker blue pants looked stiff with accumulated grease and oil. He noticed Carver, wiped his free hand on the front of his leg and smiled. He had teeth that were bad beyond redemption.

  “Help you?”

  “Maybe,” Carver said, limping into the shade of the service bay. The smell of oil was strong. A long, viscous strand of it was draining darkly from the Cadillac’s crankcase down into a wide, flat pan on a metal stand. “You Bobby?”

  The blond boy nodded, held the grease gun to a balljoint fitting, and braced his legs as if he were about to open fire with a machine gun. Sssst! Sssst! Sssst! The car’s owner was getting his moneys worth; a tubular glob of grease oozed from the overflowing fitting and dropped to the painted concrete floor, where it lay like an inert snail.

  “I’m a friend of Effie Norton.”

  The boy’s eyes flicked to the cane. He seemed more curious than pitying. “Carver?”

  “Right. I wanted to talk to you about the black van.”

  Bobby resumed his work. “The one that creepy Davy guy drives?” Ssst! Ssst!

  “That’s the one. How often’s he stop in for gas?”

  “I’d say around the middle of every week, usually. Fills up the tank, always pays cash, goes on his way.”

  “When he pulls outa the station, does he always turn north on the highway?”

  Ssst! “Seems to, the times I can recall watchin’ him.”

  “This station must do a lotta business. What would make you watch him in particular?”

  “I dunno. I suppose ‘cause it’s such a neat van. Then there’s his tattoos and all. And once he gave Linda at the register a hard time cause she couldn’t change a hundred. Then I noticed the way, after he fills up, before he walks inside and pays, he always drives the van to the far end of the lot, like he don’t want anyone to peek into it. He does that, he has to walk a couple hundred feet in the sun to pay for his gas. Not that it’s that big a deal, but nobody else parks away over there before payin’.” He made a vague motion with his greasy right hand.

  “Effie told me you sneaked over and looked in the van one day when Davy was inside at the register.”

  “Yeah.” Bobby continued working while he talked. “After she talked to me”-Ssst!-“I got curious, figured what the heck. So when I saw there was four people waiting to pay in front of Davy, I kept the number-five pump between me and him in case he happened to look outside, and I got around the other side of the van and got my nose right up to a window.” Ssst! Ssst! “Couldn’t see much, though. It was a bright day, and those windows are tinted so dark it’s hard to see inside.” Again he made the motion with his arm, as if half-heartedly pointing. “Just the rug and the big wood box, like Effie told you.”

  “Better not try anything like that again,” Carver said. “Davy’s a rough man with rough friends.”

  “Effie told me that. I ain’t scared, but don’t worry. She said you didn’t want me or her nosin’ around any of them Key Montaigne people. She was plain on that.”

  Carver was pleased Effie had delivered the message.

  The crankcase was finished draining. Bobby laid down the lube gun, wiped his hands on his thighs, and went over to replace the drain plug.

  “When was the last time you saw Davy gassing up the van?” Carver asked.

  “You mean before today?”

  Carver’s grip tightened on his cane. “Davy was in here today?”<
br />
  “Not was,” Bobby said, “he’s inside payin’ Linda now.” He motioned with his arm again. “Hey, I thought you knew that.”

  This time Carver looked in the direction of the arm movement and saw the back of Davy’s van at the far side of the lot. There were no other cars within fifty feet.

  “Thanks, Bobby,” he said. “Don’t mention I was by and we talked, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Bobby said, deftly screwing in the drain plug with blackened fingers. A dark rivulet ran down the back of his hand.

  Careful not to place the tip of his cane on grease or oil, Carver left the service bay and got back in the Olds. He started the engine and switched on the air conditioner. The vents pulled in the sweet rotting stench of whatever was in the Dumpster.

  A few minutes later Davy emerged from the square brick building, swaggered to his van and climbed inside. The van rolled slowly to the exit drive and stopped. When there was a break in traffic, it pulled out onto Route 1 and turned north.

  Carver waited until another few cars had passed, then followed the van, figuring, Back to Miami. The thought made his burned nose hurt.

  Not Miami this time, though.

  Davy didn’t even leave Marathon Key. Half a mile from the station, he pulled off the highway and parked in front of a low clapboard building with a sign that said: bait, beer, boats.

  Carver stopped on the gravel shoulder and watched.

  Davy got out of the van, puffed out his chest and tucked in his sleeveless T-shirt. He didn’t enter the building. Instead he walked around it, underneath a thick cedar trellis enmeshed in vines with pink blossoms.

  Carver shifted the Olds to Drive and let its idling engine roll him closer. He guided the car into the lot of a souvenir shop, found a parking slot between two other cars so the Olds wouldn’t be noticeable, then braced himself for the glare and heat of the sun and climbed out. The Olds was angled nose toward the shop, its rusty rear bumper only a few feet from the highway.