Too Darn Hot

by Sandra Scoppettone

  “What’s your name, Sister?” Marty asked.

  “Sister Margaret Agnes.”

  “Well, Sister, we’d like some help. We’re lookin for a child that mighta been left here by mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “Terrible thing,” Marty said.

  “That would be terrible if a child were left here by mistake. But I’ve never known it to happen.” She sugar-smiled and cocked her head to one side.

  This nun was no sitting duck. It wasn’t gonna be easy. “There’s always a first time,” I said. And smiled back at her.

  “Tell me the tale,” she said.

  So I told her what I’d cooked up.

  “Sometime in the last year a girl had a baby boy out of wedlock. A few days later her sister kidnapped the child and we’re pretty sure she brought him here. Then the mother died.” I tried to work up some tears. “Now the father wants him back. And Detective Mitchum and I have been hired to find the boy.”

  “I hope you know I can’t show you any records.”

  “Of course. See, the sister knows the father is tryin to get the boy back. We think she may’ve been here in the last week and tried to take the boy.”

  “If she did, I can’t tell you that, either. But it’s doubtful because we don’t hand over babies to just anyone.”

  “No. I didn’t think ya did. What we really wanna know is if anyone tried to get a child back in the past week.”

  Marty said, “That wouldn’t be breakin any rules, would it, Sister Margaret Agnes?”

  “Are you a Catholic, Detective Mitchum?”

  Marty’s face started flushing. “I was raised a Catholic, Sister.”

  “But you’re not a practicing Catholic now. Is that it?”

  “Yes, Sister.” He looked like a little boy who’d been caught stealing.

  “And you, Miss Quick? Are you a Catholic?”

  “No, Sister, I’m not.”

  “I see.”

  I had no idea what that I see meant. “So can ya tell us if a girl was askin about a little boy in the last week?”

  She closed her eyes and kept them closed. I looked at Marty. He put his hands in the prayer position to let me know what the sister was doing. Finally her eyes opened.

  “I don’t see what harm it will do to tell you. Yes. There was a girl here asking for a boy. Now, that’s all I’m going to tell you so don’t try to get more information from me.”

  “No, we won’t,” Marty said.

  “That’s a real big help, Sister Margaret Agnes. We can’t thank ya enough.”

  “Oh, you probably can.” The smile again.

  “How?”

  She shifted her eyes to look past my shoulder. I turned around. But since I didn’t know what I was looking for I was in the dark.

  Marty said, “Yes, sure, Sister. We’d be glad to. Thanks for everything.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” I said.

  Marty put his hand on my arm as we turned to leave and guided me to the left. On the wall was a locked box. A slot in the center had DONATIONS painted on it in white.

  I dug in my purse and came up with the loot. Marty took his from his pant pocket. We slipped our donations into the box and left the orphanage.

  We didn’t say a word to each other until we were back in the car.

  “Do ya think the girl was Lucille?” Marty said.

  “I’d bet anything on it.”

  “She mighta gotten the kid, but maybe not. I don’t think it’d be a cinch.”

  “Kid or no kid I think she’ll be in Point Pleasant.”

  “Me, too.”

  Marty started the car.

  “Can we look for a place to eat along the way?” I said.

  “I’m already lookin.”

  The summer was in full swing. We passed lots of people in bathing suits and kids carrying rubber rafts. All of them had tans. I got a load of the beach and water in flashes and wished I’d brought my suit.

  Asbury Park hadda be the big city around here cause after it the towns got smaller. When we hit one named Belmar, we spotted a little restaurant across the road from the beach.

  Marty slowed down. “Whaddaya think?”

  “I think I’m hungry and it looks fine.”

  He parked in front. Loy’s Lobster looked like a buncha other joints I’d eaten in, but inside it was decorated with fishnets, lifesavers, and big stuffed fish hanging on the walls. We didn’t look like we belonged cause everyone else was in beach clothes. I’d dressed to be cool and Marty was wearing a short-sleeve shirt. Still, we were pasty next to the other customers.

  We took a table near the big plate-glass window; across the street between two houses I could see a strip of beach and patch of water. A waitress brought us menus.

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Ya got beer?”

  “Why wouldn’t we have beer?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll take a Rheingold. How about you, Faye?”

  “If ya got lemonade, I’ll have that.”

  “Rheingold and lemonade comin up,” she said.

  We both fired up cigs before we looked at the menus. I saw what I wanted right away. Fried clams. I’d never had them, but I’d read about them in books more than once. They came with fries, which was fine by me.

  When the waitress came back with our drinks, she took out her pad and pencil. I gave her my order.

  “Burger,” Marty said. “Well done.”

  She looked at him and shook her head in disgust. “Loy’s is famous for its seafood, ya know.”

  “Burger,” he said again.

  “Okay, but ya don’t know what yer missin.”

  “I’m missin a pain in my gut.”

  “Fried bother ya?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “It don’t have to be fried.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t like fish.”

  “Sometimes,” she said, and walked off.

  Marty took a swig of his beer. “So how’re we gonna find her?”

  “Real estate agents.”

  “Faye, she coulda rented a place from anywhere and she coulda rented it under a different name.”

  “I know it’s not gonna be easy, but ya got a better idea?”

  “Nope.”

  “So then that’s what we try first. And as for her rentin from an agent in another town besides Point Pleasant, I don’t think so. Why would she?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “If ya wanted to live in Point Pleasant, wouldn’t ya start by goin to a real estate place in that town?”

  “Yer right. At least that’s where we should start. But here’s what I don’t get, Faye. Say we find her, what then? I mean, what’s she done besides move?”

  “Maybe nothin. But why move at this time? Why ditch yer place, leave yer job, and take a powder at the exact same time yer sister is killed after deliverin a ransom for the kidnappin of the mug that maybe raped ya?”

  “She left before Claire was killed.”

  “Don’t pick nits with me, Marty. I’m makin a point here. It’s all too much of a coincidence and it doesn’t stack up with me.”

  The waitress was back with my clams and Marty’s pathetic-looking burger.

  I forked one of the fried clams, dipped it into a tartar sauce, and popped it into my mouth. Delicious. How could I have missed these little darlings? While I ate my lunch, all my problems seemed to vanish.

  Back in the car we headed for Point Pleasant. I liked how everything looked. Maybe someday I’d settle down in a beach house. On the other hand, I’d miss the beat of New York. But when I was old, without Johnny, it might be nice to get away from the noise. At a town called Brielle we went over a little bridge across the Manasquan River—so said a sign—and then we were in Point Pleasant.

  “So now we start lookin for real estate agencies?”

  “Right.”

  We saw one almost immediately, but it was no help. By the time we were on our third I had a ghost of an idea cooking, but I did
n’t say anything to Marty. I thought I’d wait to see what happened.

  Inside the agency, a man too old for the war sat behind a desk. He wasn’t old old, maybe in his fifties. The nameplate on his desk said MR. CLARK ANDREWS. His hair was receding and his chin had already doubled. His brown eyes were wide apart and unmemorable.

  “May I help you nice people?”

  Now how in Hades did he know if we were nice or not?

  “We’re lookin fer a person, not a place, Mr. Andrews. Well, that’s not quite right. We’re lookin fer a place somebody mighta rented in the last few weeks.”

  “I don’t follow,” he said.

  “We’re from the New York Police Department,” Marty said.

  Andrews backed his chair into the wall as if one of us had given him a big push. “What do you mean? Why are you here? If something’s wrong, why aren’t the New Jersey police here?”

  Marty and I exchanged a fast glance and I knew we were thinking the same thing. Mr. Andrews had something to hide. I didn’t care what it was cause it was gonna be helpful to us.

  “The New Jersey police have turned it over to us.”

  “Omigod.”

  “Just relax,” Marty said.

  “Relax?”

  “Have a smoke.” I offered him one of mine, which he took. Marty lit it for him. Mr. Andrews took a huge drag and released it in a trickle like he could put off whatever was coming as long as there was smoke in his lungs.

  “We’d like to know if you’ve rented any bungalows to a woman alone, or with a young child?”

  “I have to . . . I have to look at my records. Is that all you want to know?”

  “That depends,” Marty said.

  “On what?”

  “Let’s stick to my question,” I said.

  Andrews looked like he might faint. He opened a large journal and ran his finger down the page. “Yes. Yes, I thought I remembered this. A woman did rent a bungalow on the beach but not with a child.”

  “That’s okay. What’s the address?”

  “Well, there’s no real address. There’s a sign outside that says Lion in the Sun. L-i-o-n.”

  “Cute.”

  “Everyone names their place. I don’t make up the names.”

  “Didn’t think ya did.”

  “You just keep going on this road and you’ll find it.” His fingers were going so fast on his desk he coulda been beating out the story of his life in Morse code.

  “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “She was very lovely. Her name was Lana Tierney.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Marty and I knew that runaways or criminals often kept their own initials when they gave themselves a new name. Lana Tierney. Lucille Turner.

  “It’s her,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go get her.”

  Marty started the car and I began looking on the beach side of the road for Lion in the Sun. It was hot and humid with a fog cover coming in over the water. We didn’t see a lotta people walking along cause they were probably on the beach. Mr. Andrews had been right. Everybody named their cottages: Paradise Found; Hook Line and Sinker; Coffey Grounds. I wondered what it was that made people name their houses and their cars.

  There was plenty of space around each house for privacy. It did look appealing. What would it feel like to wake up and look out at the ocean? But what would you do after a few days of lying on the beach and swimming? It was quiet and peaceful and I knew I’d grow to hate it.

  “There it is,” I said.

  “Lion in the Sun.”

  There was a sandy driveway so Marty turned in but parked the car close to the road. The cottage looked more like a regular house to me. It had dark brown shingles, two stories, and a small screened-in porch. The front, which we couldn’t see, faced the ocean.

  We walked up the driveway along the side of the house to the front. She was sitting on the porch like she was waiting for us, but I knew she wasn’t.

  “Lucille,” I said.

  She glanced up from the book she was reading then almost knocked over her drink when she recognized me and jumped to her feet. Her book dangled from her hand. She was wearing blue shorts and a white blouse, with gym shoes on her feet and the beginnings of a tan.

  “What’re you doing here?” she said.

  “Looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  We walked around the porch to the three steps up.

  “Can we?” I asked.

  “Can I stop you?”

  She gestured to two white wooden chairs. We took them. Even though it was shady it was still hot. Even the wind coming off the ocean didn’t help much.

  I introduced Lucille to Marty.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Lucille asked. “I’m having a Tom Collins.”

  As thirsty as I was, I didn’t want her to leave my sight. “No, thanks.”

  “Not right now,” Marty said.

  “It’s no trouble,” she said.

  I remembered the back door and as she kept asking I thought that might be what was on her mind.

  I said, “Lucille, what’re ya doin here?”

  “I’m on vacation,” she said.

  “Ya didn’t let Mr. Mostel know ya were takin one. How come?”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Yeah. He did. Said ya didn’t show up.”

  “He’s getting senile, I think. He must’ve forgotten.”

  “And how come yer house’s been cleaned out?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  I tapped a Camel from my pack and lit it. “Do we have to play this game? We know ya took a powder from yer job and yer house, okay?”

  She bit her lower lip and her eyes got misty.

  “Why don’tcha tell us about it,” Marty said.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I got tired of working and tired of that place. That’s all there is to it.” She lit up with her Zippo.

  “Did ya get tired of yer sister, too?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why’d ya kill her, Lucille?”

  Her mouth fell open and her shock looked genuine.

  “Claire? Claire’s dead?”

  Marty and I kept our traps shut. I listened to the sound of the waves hitting the shore. It had a soothing effect on me.

  “Tell me. Is Claire dead?”

  “I think ya know the answer to that question, Lucille,” I said. “But yeah, she’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Murdered? You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand. Why?”

  “What is it ya don’t understand?”

  “Why anyone would kill Claire. Do you think it had something to do with Charlie Ladd’s kidnapping?” She killed her cigarette in a small tin can on the table next to her. The hiss told me there was liquid in it.

  “First off, Ladd was never kidnapped. Second, Claire went off to make the money drop and was never seen again until she turned up dead.”

  “What do you mean, Charlie was never kidnapped?”

  “Why don’t you tell us,” Marty said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Miss Quick, when you came to see me last week, you told me Charlie’d been kidnapped.”

  “That’s what we thought then.”

  “What changed your minds?”

  “Charlie takin a potshot at one of my neighbors.”

  “Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ya might not. It all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How much ya were let in on the whole deal.”

  “What deal?” She lit another cig.

  “Let’s put it this way, Lucille. If you didn’t kill Claire, who did?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes told me she did know. “I can’t believe Claire’s dead. I don’t mean I don’t believe you, I mean, she’s my baby sister.”

  “Yer baby sis
ter ya no longer talked to?”

  “I, I lied about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Listen, Lucille, Detective Mitchum can take ya back to New York and book ya for yer sister’s murder, ya don’t start comin clean with us.”

  “I don’t know anything about Claire’s murder. I don’t.”

  “Why’d ya say ya hadn’t talked to her?”

  “I told you. I can’t tell you that.” She took a quick glance at her wristwatch, trying to seem casual. It didn’t work. “I think you’d better go now.”

  “Is that right?” Marty said. “Suppose I tell ya we ain’t goin until we’re good and ready. Unless ya wanna come with us.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”

  I was caught off base by this one and I couldn’t imagine that Marty wasn’t, too.

  “You’ll come with us?” I asked.

  “Yes. You want to arrest me for Claire’s murder. Let’s do it now.” She stood.

  I got it. Someone was about to show that Lucille didn’t want us to see. “But ya said ya didn’t kill her.”

  “I lied. I lie about everything. Haven’t you caught on to that yet, Miss Quick?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re pretty slow on the uptake.”

  Marty said, “Are ya tellin us now that ya killed yer sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “How?”

  “Yeah. A simple enough question. Ya can even lie about it if ya like. But if ya want us to believe ya, ya’d better tell us the truth. So how’d ya kill her, Lucille?”

  She stared at us, then at the floorboards. Finally she raised her head. “I stabbed her.”

  “Where?”

  “In her heart.”

  “Ya sure of that?”

  “Well, that was the most serious place. I stabbed her everywhere. I was in a frenzy. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Temporary insanity?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So ya just kept stabbin her all over, huh?”

  She brought her hands up to her face and I heard her starting to cry. I didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did Marty.

  Finally she dropped her hands. Her face was a mess of mascara. Tears kept running down her cheeks. They were real.

  “Nice try,” I said. “Claire was strangled.”