Dust in the Heart

by Ralph Dennis

  “I never was one for the dashes. You’ve hardly got started and it’s over.”

  At first, he thought the talk about dashes and distance racing was a sexual game talk. Then he wasn’t sure. Maybe she was talking about something else: a relationship that lasted, the staying power over a long period of time.

  Before he could follow up on the metaphor the radio crackled at him. “Car number one, you there, Sheriff?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I hate to bother you. Joe says to call you. We got a phone call. It’s a possible on the composite. Joe says to meet him at the Station.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  Diane rolled down the window on her side and poured the last of her beer onto the ground. He took the can and placed it in the bag.

  “You think this is important, Wilt?”

  “It better be. We need a break on this.”

  He started the engine and backed down the road until he saw the space where he could turn around. He headed for the highway.

  “You’re always on the edge,” she said slowly, “but you never walk over the bridge.”

  “I never cared much for making out in cars.”

  “You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

  He felt a hard core of anger in her and he kept his eyes on the road. He reached the highway and turned in the direction of the Blue Lagoon.

  “You misunderstood me on purpose,” she said.

  “You’ve got my head all scrambled.”

  “One day it would be nice to have all your attention. When your mind’s not chasing after killers and child molesters.”

  “That my work.” He said.

  “I guess I’m being childish.”

  “A little, but it’s flattering.”

  He pulled into the Blue Lagoon parking lot and circled until he was close to the entrance. He braked and got out and walked around and opened the door for her.

  “Damn you,” she said softly as she brushed past him.

  “You can’t damn the already damned,”

  She came back and stared at him, close up, and leaned forward and kissed him, “I know it’s important, Wilt.”

  He waited until she entered the club.

  A different music in him now. A sadness but a sweet sadness in him. He drove the miles to the Station without noticing much of the night. Her perfume, her scent, teased him.

  Pure crazy or pure happy, he couldn’t decide where or what he was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  The sprawling grounds around the house looked like they’d been landscaped to resemble those at some English manor house or a summer place at Newport where the rich spent their leisure time. The lawn was about the size of three football fields edged together and, except for the fact that it seemed to roll downward toward the highway, it was as flat and even as any football field in the country.

  Thick stands of pine bordered both sides of the drive that ran, straight as a plumb line, from the highway to the house, which was in the center of a large tract of land. The blank, even face of the home was what Wilt thought they called Federalist architecture. There was no decoration, no frills, and it lacked a porch. A number of steps led to a large door and there was only the barest suggestion of a landing.

  And the house was white, white, white. Nothing but white except for the rows of windows. Even the curtains that covered the windows were white.

  “Like this?” Joe asked as he pushed the cruiser forward and inserted it between a dark blue Mercedes and a tan late model Ford station wagon. Joe braked and nodded in the direction of the station wagon. “Probably belongs to the hired help.”

  Wilt punched open the glove compartment and raked around until he found a package of breath mints. He popped one into his mouth and, on second thought, added a second. He dropped the rest of the pack into his tweed jacket pocket.

  Joe watched him. “Ready?”

  “My breath is,” Wilt said.

  “I ruin your evening? I got that feeling.”

  “Don’t get sensitive on me. It doesn’t suit your style.”

  They climbed the smooth stone steps to the narrow landing. Wilt gave the brass door knocker a couple of sharp raps. “Who is this again?”

  “Charlotte Winters. Money, stock and real estate. A heavyweight in all of those.”

  “She’s got so much money, you’d think she could afford some do-dads on the outside of her house, wouldn’t you?”

  “On this style of house, that would be bad taste,” Joe said.

  “You seem to know a lot about this lady.”

  “I read the society pages.”

  “Bless me,” Wilt said.

  “The Edgewood paper, if you don’t read the society pages, it’s so thin it won’t last through breakfast.”

  “You didn’t say anything about what the husband does.”

  “She’s a widow,” Joe said.

  “Ahhhh …”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You wouldn’t be interested in this lady?”

  Joe stiffened. “I can’t say I’ve met her.”

  Wilt could feel the resistance, the pulling away, as Joe tried to find a comfortable position and an answer that would cover him. “Like my daddy said, it’s as easy to love a rich woman as it is to love a poor one.” His laugh was nervous. “Only you live in better surroundings with the rich one.”

  “You’ve seen this lady before?”

  “Once or twice at the polo matches.”

  The door opened. A slim, light-skinned black girl in a movie set maid’s uniform, a black dress with white trim, a white apron and a frilly cap, asked them in. Wilt leaned towards Joe as they followed her through an entranceway and into a large reception area. “What the hell were you doing at a polo match?”

  “You remember,” Joe said, “it was that BMW that was involved in the hit and run. I thought this polo business, the fans and such, showed more BMW’s than an Atlanta dealership.”

  The maid stopped in the high-ceilinged reception area and took Joe’s topcoat. She made a move toward Wilt before she realized he wasn’t wearing an outer coat. There was a moment’s wait while she put the topcoat on a wooden hanger and placed it on a rail in a small closet below the stairs. While that was being done, Wilt looked up the stairs. The same bare functional look to the stairs and the hallway there.

  Quaker architecture? He wasn’t sure.

  He wasn’t even sure there was such a thing as Quaker architecture.

  “This way, gentlemen.” The maid led them from the reception room into a large book-lined room. Here it was different. The wood panels were dark and polished, the rug a heavy oriental and the furniture looked comfortable and slightly over-padded.

  There was a stonework fireplace and a roaring fire in it. Wilt rubbed his hands together and drifted in the direction of the warmth.

  “Miss Winters wants you to make yourself at home. She’ll be right down.”

  Wilt leaned over the fire and soaked in the heat. “You never did catch that hit and run driver in the BMW.”

  “But I discovered polo.”

  “Anything else?”

  Joe shook his head. He stood next to a heavy oak desk with brass fittings. A hand, almost as if he didn’t know what he was doing, slid across the smooth patina of the wood.

  “Yes, you did. You discovered the high life and a rich widow.”

  “Hell, Wilt, that isn’t fair.” Joe colored and looked away.

  Got to tell that boy the high price of upward mobility. It ain’t free.

  There was a tapping of heels in the reception area outside. Wilt gave his hands a final rub before the fire and straightened and turned to face the doorway. In that sudden movement, he caught Joe in the process of preparing himself, putting on his serious working face. That and a puffed-out chest and a squaring of his wide shoulders.

  Charlotte Winters entered the room at a walk somewhere between a glide and a float. She wore a gray knit dress that pushed out at the r
ight places and had the proper tucked-in lines at others. Angles and half-circles, Wilt thought. All the right ones.

  She was certainly attractive. Wilt guessed her age somewhere in the early forties but she might have passed for the mid-thirties in the right light or in the shadows in a bedroom. Her blonde hair was shaped and cut short. What that did, Wilt realized, was draw attention to her firm throat. There was no sag to the jawline. Her eyes were green and the full mouth had a girlish pout to it.

  When she seated herself, her dress rucked a bit and not a lump or a blemish showed on the slender legs or the portion of revealed inner thigh.

  Wilt did the introductions. With those completed, she asked in a husky voice if she could offer them a drink.

  “Not for me.” Wilt backed toward the fire.

  “Thank you, no,” Joe said.

  Wilt stared at Joe. He couldn’t believe that Joe had said that. The stiff formality of an English drawing room conversation didn’t mesh with what he knew about his deputy.

  He nodded at Joe. It was Joe’s game. He might as well let Joe play it any way he wanted to, even if he ended up sounding like a fox hunter. One thing was certain to Wilt: a look from Charlotte Winters and her reaction to him had been an immediate rejection. Her eyes buffed and polished Joe. That was where the real meat was and she knew it.

  “I believe I’ve seen you» before, Mr. Croft,” she said.

  And she remembered his name. Wilt would bet a month’s pay that she didn’t know his last name was Drake. Hell, make it six month’s pay.

  “I didn’t know you’d seen me.”

  Charlotte Winters raised an eyebrow toward Joe. Wilt, watching her, realized that she damned well knew where she’d seen Joe but it wasn’t a woman’s role to admit it.

  “At the polo matches,” Joe said.

  “Yes, that’s where it was.” A blinding smile. “At the Mayor’s Cup match?”

  “I believe it was.” Joe’s nod was almost a bow toward her.

  “Do you play?”

  “I ride,” Joe said. “However, I’ve never played.”

  “Too bad.” Her voice was almost a purr. “I’m certain you could pick up the game in no time at all.”

  “It’s harder than it looks.” Joe was as close to blushing as Wilt had ever seen him.

  The blush was just the right touch. Wilt squirmed and wanted to look away. Joe’s reticence brought out the hunter in her, her strength against what appeared to be the weakness in his modesty.

  Wilt decided that was just enough small talk and courtship. “Mind if I smoke, Mrs. Winters?”

  “Not at all.” Her eyes shifted toward Joe. “You may smoke, Mr. Croft, if you like.”

  “I don’t smoke,” Joe said.

  Joe’s answer seemed to please Charlotte Winters. To hell with them. Wilt got a Chesterfield burning and blew the smoke toward them. Might as well get the train on the right track. “I understand you think you might know the man in the composite drawing that was in the newspaper. Is that right?”

  “A drawing isn’t exactly a photograph,” she said. “There is, however, a resemblance to a young man I’ve met a few times through a friend.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “I wouldn’t want him to think I’ve accused him of anything, Sheriff.”

  “You’re not making an accusation,” Wilt said. “Your name won’t come into this at all. It’s not as if you have any evidence that connects him with a crime that’s been committed.”

  “If you’re certain …?”

  Joe took a step forward. It was then that Wilt realized Joe was wearing a new tailored uniform, one that Wilt hadn’t seen before. Now, when the hell did Joe have time to dress himself in high style for this encounter? Then he remembered. Joe had been at home when the call came through the switchboard at the Station. Floyd had routed the call to Joe for screening. When Joe heard who the caller was, he’d unwrapped his new uniform and probably waxed and buffed his shoes. The question was: if the call hadn’t brought Joe and Charlotte together, how had Joe planned to use the uniform? Had he planned to lurk around the highway near the Winters home and give her a speeding citation? The way Joe was acting, that was as likely a script as any Wilt could devise.

  Joe leaned over Charlotte. “All we need is a name. From there on we do our own checking. Our investigation will tell us if this is the man we’re looking for. If he’s innocent, we’ll find that out. If he’s the man we’re looking for, then we put the proof together and arrest him. Your name won’t be mentioned at all. It won’t even appear in our reports.” Joe looked at Wilt.

  Wilt nodded.

  “I know him because he is a friend to a girlfriend and her husband.”

  Joe opened his notebook.

  Charlotte wasn’t ready to end the guessing game yet. “He seemed, at first, to be a rather nice young man. But lately he seems nervous and high-strung. And I’m not certain that this relationship is a healthy one for my girlfriend.”

  “His name?” Joe waited.

  “Raymond Thorpe.” Charlotte released a sigh. “He likes to be called Ray.”

  Joe had written the name. Now the pen was still poised. “What does he do?”

  She gave Joe a puzzled look.

  “For a living.”

  “I believe he is somehow involved in insurance. Yes, I remember she said it was insurance.”

  “You know which company?”

  She shook her head. “He’s rather a newcomer to our area and certainly a newcomer in our group. What a person does for a living isn’t usually a matter that concerns us.”

  It was a lesson in class. Of course, he and Joe, because of their upbringing, would always ask. A lady or gentleman of Charlotte’s class wouldn’t. Information about money and money matters was between a person and her lawyer or stockbroker. Between members of the group such information was always given indirectly.

  Wilt took a last draw from the cigarette and tossed it in the fireplace. “This girlfriend of yours …?”

  Charlotte looked at Joe, as if to ask if she had to answer the question. Joe nodded, encouraging her.

  “Missy Plowden. Melissa Plowden. Her home is on Old Oak Terrace Road.”

  That was fancy. No number, just the road. Anyone who lived on the road would know the Plowden home. Wilt knew the road pretty well. There were only six houses on the road. Each one was almost an estate.

  “This Raymond Thorpe,” Wilt said, “where does he live?”

  “At Missy’s.” Charlotte stopped and pressed her lips together. “In the Plowden guest house. Not in the main house.”

  Of course not, Wilt thought. That would be too obvious.

  “It was a gardener’s house,” Charlotte said. “Missy redecorated it and transformed it into a guest house.”

  “You said Thorpe is a friend to both Mrs. Plowden and her husband?”

  “They’re my closest friends. Missy and I have known each other since college. Jonathan … well, Jonathan has been ill for several years.” Charlotte hesitated, as if she realized she hadn’t answered his question. “Thorpe and the Plowdens are friends but I have trouble understanding exactly what they see in him.”

  “I have a feeling you don’t approve of Mr. Thorpe.”

  “He’s charming enough, at times. But his influence on poor Missy seems to be much stronger than I think it should be.”

  That attitude. Protection for the woman her age who was in the position where she might be used, or was already being used, by a younger man. When there was money there was always a young man who knew where it was and how to get his hands on it.

  Wilt looked closely at Joe. He wondered if Joe thought of himself in the terms that Charlotte had used. That if he got close to Charlotte, he might be considered a “user” by Charlotte’s friends. It was not a pretty position for a man. Wilt wondered if Joe was perceptive enough to realize what the dangers were.

  Another close look at Joe and Wilt realized that Joe was still innocent enough not to notice or
consider such a possibility.

  Joe closed his notebook. “Thank you, Mrs. Winters. You’ve been a great help.”

  Wilt nodded.

  “I’m pleased that I could be helpful. But I’d hate to think that this might involve Missy in any scandal if Raymond is implicated in any crime.”

  Wilt shook his head. “I’m sure that this can be handled so that it doesn’t reflect unfavorably on Mrs. Plowden.”

  Wilt headed for the door that led to the reception area. He reached the doorway before he realized Joe wasn’t with him. He turned. Joe stood close to Charlotte. She’d stood and Joe towered over her.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Wilton.”

  Wilton? That was fancy. He dipped his head and left them. The maid waited beside the closet at the foot of the stairs. As he moved past her, she reached into the closet and turned and offered him the uniform topcoat.

  “His,” Wilt said.

  He stopped on the narrow landing outside and stared at the sky. The stars were bright and icy. It was a clear cold night when the wind had blown the clouds away.

  He limped to the cruiser and got into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and slid across the car and settled into the passenger side. The air from the heater was cold. He switched it off and hunched forward and stretched his back muscles to get the warmth flowing. He closed his eyes.

  The cruiser door opened. The overhead light flared. Wilt opened his eyes and blinked into the glare. He leaned forward and switched on the heat. The air was warm now and he held his hands over the grill until the chill was gone from them.

  “Going riding with her, huh?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “A lucky guess. She’ll want to see what kind of seat you have in a saddle. And I’ve got one more guess.”

  “What’s that?” Joe backed the cruiser and made his turn. He pointed it down the drive toward the highway.

  “That you’re not rich enough for this one.”

  “Funny thing about money,” Joe said. “It don’t make a man’s dick stiff.”

  “And wanting money does?” Wilt said.

  At the Station, Floyd saw them enter and he made a sprint for the restroom. Joe waved at him and moved behind the counter to cover for him. Wilt remained on the other side of the counter.