When the cup was empty, Leo picked up his ballpoint and looked down at the page. Taking a deep breath, he read the sentence he had been writing when Clara Trent showed up. He had broken it off in the middle. He read the fragment once, then twice. He realized that he had no idea how the sentence should end. He didn’t remember what he had intended to say.
He turned back and read the previous page to get the drift of where he was. It was like the words had been written by a different person. Where had he been going with it?
This had not happened to Leo before. From the time he picked up notebook one, Confessions of a Humble Man had flowed freely from his brain to his ballpoint to the page. There had been so much to say! Now, suddenly, there was nothing. Or so it seemed, but surely that couldn’t be true. Leo clicked his pen several times and forced himself to write a few words. Then he stopped.
A customer came in, and Leo put his pen and notebook under the counter to sell the man a couple of six-packs of beer. When the customer left, Leo sat back in his chair. He didn’t retrieve his notebook and pen.
– 16 –
When Clara woke up, she knew she had been dreaming about Ronan. Groggy, she opened her eyes slowly. She was looking at a print hanging on the wall— three seashells with skinny arms and legs were holding hands and cavorting in rolling surf. Above them, in bright, bouncy letters, were the words, Fun at the Beach! She was lying on a couch, wearing the clothes she had worn yesterday. A curtain was pulled over the big front window, but judging from the amount of light seeping in, it was well into the morning.
OK, she was at the Gulf Dream— or Sunset— Villas. That explained the dream about Ronan. She wished she could remember the details, but she couldn’t. And why was she lying on the couch, still dressed? Oh, right. About two a.m. she’d gone out shopping at Margene’s MiniMart. She had not expected to sleep at all after she returned, but obviously she had been sleeping soundly for hours. She sat up and checked her watch. It was after ten in the morning. Her head felt heavy, her limbs even heavier. Did she need a cup of tea? A shower? Both? Maybe she needed to check out of this place and drive back to Luna Bay. Either that, or figure out what she was doing here.
When she finally got herself moving, Clara decided getting out of yesterday’s clothes and into the shower was the priority. Afterward, she dried herself and wandered around the bedroom, brushing her hair, putting on fresh clothes. She opened the top dresser drawer. There, where she had put it yesterday, was The Book of Alice. Next to it, the carved wooden box that held her pill supply. Next to that, the file Aaron had given her on the Alice Rhodes case. Clara had read the file several times, but she took it out and carried it into the living-dining room to look through while she had breakfast.
She felt hungry, she realized. This was an unexpected, almost an unfamiliar, sensation. She searched through the available pans and utensils, came up with a skillet and spatula, and scrambled some eggs and made toast to go along with her morning tea. As she ate, she read the file again.
She had the feeling, which she had had from the beginning, that the information here had been truncated and edited by Aaron, especially to be presented to her. It was in the form of a narrative, not raw data. The outlines were familiar— the body of Alice Rhodes discovered by two co-workers (Patsy Orr and Merle Evans), the drunken poker game the night before at the Gulf Dream Lounge, the fracas about accusations of cheating at cards, the ever-changing story of the prime suspect, Ronan Trent. As for other suspects, the only strong candidate seemed to be Alice’s estranged husband, Coby Rhodes. There was a notation that Alice’s father, Jim Tuttle, had claimed he saw Coby Rhodes on the day of the murder. According to Jim Tuttle, he was returning alone in his boat from a day up the river fishing. He pulled into Luton’s Landing and spotted his son-in-law, Alice’s estranged husband Coby Rhodes, “creeping around in the woods,” and the two had exchanged heated words.
Aaron noted that an extensive search had been undertaken for Coby Rhodes, but that he hadn’t been located. Nobody else had reported seeing him. Aaron also noted that there was known to be bad blood between Coby Rhodes and Jim Tuttle.
An addendum from Aaron, written after the case was reopened, said that of the seven poker players who had been tracked down at the time, four had died; one, Frank Kirby, had moved to Westpoint to live with his daughter; and the other two had left the area and were untraceable. The addendum also contained the names of Alice’s two remaining survivors— her daughter, Vickie Ann Rhodes, and her father, Jim Tuttle, who had been mentioned previously.
Clara had finished eating. She rinsed and stacked the dishes. The laminated map of the area she had bought last night lay on the counter. She had no plan for the day. She thought she would take a walk.
By the time she left, the previously bright sun had disappeared. A damp, humid wind was blowing, and gray clouds were moving overhead. After considering the matter and checking to make sure her folding umbrella was in her handbag, Clara decided to continue. There were no sidewalks, but a narrow path had been worn through the weeds beside the road. Rather than turning left toward the highway and the beach, Clara chose to go in the opposite direction and continue past the Villas, heading inland.
Directly behind the Villas was a small concrete area with a blackened barbeque pit and a rusting swing set. Beyond that, grasses and weeds gave way to a forest of spindly pines interspersed with oaks and magnolias with spiky palmettos growing beneath.
Clara walked on the side of the road, keeping to the path between the road and the pines. There was no sign of human habitation, and no cars passed. Evidently, once you got away from the immediate vicinity of the beach the population density dropped. The wind picked up, and the sky was getting darker. Clara took out her map, wondering if she should continue or give in to her nagging suspicion that it might be time to turn back. Wind pulling at her hair and clothes, she studied the map. Here was the highway. Here was the road she was on, heading inland. Nothing much to see, as she’d already discovered. According to the map, however, there was a road up ahead, leading off to the right and ending at a canal. The name of the road was— she squinted— Luton’s Landing Road.
Luton’s Landing Road. Only because she had just read the file, she remembered that Alice’s father, Jim Tuttle, had seen Alice’s estranged husband, Coby Rhodes, at Luton’s Landing on the day Alice was killed. Stepping more briskly, Clara continued, and within five minutes she had reached Luton’s Landing Road, which was marked by a green street sign. Just for good measure, there was also a rustic-looking log sign with an arrow pointing down the road, and on it was incised Luton’s Landing. Clara started down the road.
After the first few yards of pavement, the road became rutted clay. Although there was no walking path through the weeds, Clara moved to the verge and kept going. The wind picked up and the trees were swaying. The clouds above were darkening to steel-gray. She got her umbrella out, ready to deploy, and kept walking.
She reached Luton’s Landing about twenty minutes later, just when the fat drops started to hit her head, her shoulder, the tip of her nose, the red clay of the road. Nobody was around. There were a few cars parked in the clearing, and boats were moored at a basin along the edge of the canal, near a roofed but open-sided shelter, which was just what Clara was looking for. She ducked in as the deluge started. There was even a rough wood bench to sit on. Although the wind blew moisture around, and she was hardly staying dry, it was better than being out in the middle of it.
Clara sat on the bench and watched the rain. It drummed on the roof, made runnels in the clay, pocked the muddy water of the canal, sluiced through the ditches.
As she waited it out, she thought that really, Luton’s Landing was not that far from the Villas. If Alice’s husband Coby had been here at Luton’s Landing, he would have been able to make his way to the Villas pretty easily. There might even be a path through the woods, instead of around by the road. Nobody had seen Coby at Luton’s Landing except Alice’s father, but that didn�
��t mean he wasn’t there.
His DNA wasn’t found at the scene of the crime, she heard Aaron say. Ronan’s was.
Clara gazed across the canal. Gray sheets of rain almost obscured the trees on the other side. All right, I accept the DNA, she told herself. It’s Ronan’s and it was at the scene of the murder. But I need to know what happened. I need to know why. And nobody has explained that.
She listened to the drumming of the rain. She thought: I have a right to know.
Suddenly, it was settled. Clara had been acting, and feeling, as if she herself was guilty, but she hadn’t killed anybody. She hadn’t chosen to be involved in this situation, but she was involved. So she was going to find out what happened, and she was going to find out why.
How would she do that? Well, she was here, and she could try to talk to the people mentioned in Aaron’s file. Approaching Alice Rhodes’ father and daughter might be problematical, so she should start with somebody else. Maybe the man from the poker game, who had moved in with his daughter in Westpoint. Westpoint was only twenty miles away, an easy drive. Clara would try to contact the man— Frank something— or his daughter, and arrange to talk with him. He might even remember Ronan from that night. After she talked to him, she would move on from there.
The deluge continued. Clara sat on the bench, looking at the half-obscured trees across the canal, listening to the rain. She had a plan.
– 17 –
“She put in a special request for unit number seven,” said the voice on the phone.
Aaron Malone, sitting at his desk, leaned back and rubbed his hand over his face. “She did, huh?”
He was talking with a young woman named Tina. Tina worked at a St. Elmo Beach rental agency called Gulf Coast Getaways. Although Aaron didn’t remember meeting Tina, she now told him she had been in the same high school graduating class as his daughter. “Unit seven at the Villas. She knew what she wanted,” Tina said. “It didn’t strike me at first, because I was real busy, you know? But just now I was doing some paperwork, and I noticed that her name was Trent—”
“Clara Trent,” Aaron put in.
“Right. And then I remembered she wanted unit seven, and somehow it brought to mind the story in the paper about that murder you solved from way back when. I went online and found it, and I saw the killer’s name was Trent and I thought ‘Omigod, what is this about?’ And I thought I ought to tell you. You don’t think she’s dangerous, do you?”
“It’s her husband that killed somebody, not her,” Aaron said. “And he’s dead. And no, I don’t think she’s dangerous.”
“I just wondered,” Tina said. “It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it? That she asked for that particular unit? I mean— why?”
Aaron agreed it was kind of creepy, but he wasn’t going to go into that with Tina. He said, “I don’t know why, but I appreciate you telling me, Tina.”
“Are you going to do anything?” Tina said. “I mean, if there’s going to be difficulties, I have to tell my boss, because—”
“There’s no need to tell your boss,” Aaron broke in firmly. He added, “I don’t foresee any difficulties,” which wasn’t strictly true but it had to be said. “I’m glad you passed the word along, but I don’t want you to worry about a thing. Just go on about your business.”
“All right.” Tina sounded dubious. “Do you want me to keep an eye on her for you?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all.” Aaron wasn’t sure who he’d like to choke first— Tina or Clara Trent. “I’ll take care of whatever needs to be looked after. There’s no need to mention this to anybody else, either. All right?”
“Absolutely,” Tina said. Aaron could tell by her tone that she would be spreading the story all over town before the day ended. He thanked her again, and they hung up.
Now Aaron rubbed both hands over his face, and as a bonus pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids. After that he looked out his window, which had a view of the parking lot. It was raining like a bastard, bucketing down. Aaron had a rain poncho, but he thought he looked stupid when he wore it. He searched, but couldn’t find his umbrella. The department secretary let him borrow her spare, but she informed him it was a Campbell tartan pattern and she wanted it back. As he walked out Aaron wondered which looked stupider— a clear plastic rain poncho or a Campbell tartan umbrella. He had chosen to use the umbrella, and when he stepped out on the courthouse porch he opened it and ran for his car.
As he drove toward the beach (in impaired visibility with the wipers slashing back and forth on “high”), Aaron wondered how he could have hoped that Clara Trent was not going to turn up again. Of course she was going to turn up. And she was going to create disruption right up to the time Aaron cleared out his desk and got dressed for his retirement party. Why did he think that? Because he knew. He had known the minute he saw her level gaze and the set of her chin. An interesting-looking woman, but stubborn as a mule. She had suffered, he admitted that, but she showed no sign of collapsing. And that meant Aaron was going to have to deal with her.
The rain started slacking off when he was halfway to the Villas, and by the time he arrived it had stopped entirely and the sky was brightening. He turned into the parking lot and saw Clara’s car parked in one of the two allotted spaces in front of unit seven. He pulled into the other space. Unit seven. Ronan’s place.
He got out of his car and knocked firmly on the front door. She was likely to be there, since her car was. He doubted she would have been walking around in the downpour.
Nobody answered his knock. He could hear no sound at all in there. Nobody walking around, no radio or TV, no running water. He knocked again, more loudly, and put his ear to the door. Nothing. He knocked yet again, and called, “Clara! Mrs. Trent!” There was no response.
He stepped back. All right. She wasn’t there. Probably. Unless she was, and she was sick or something, couldn’t come to the door. Unconscious, maybe.
The front window was partly covered by a curtain, but there was a gap big enough to peer through. Aaron put his eyes up to the glass, shielded by his hands. The room was dim. He could see a couch, a dining table and chairs. Nothing moving, no sign of anybody.
Aaron mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Why in the hell would she come down here and check into the place where Ronan had lived? Why would she do such a strange thing— unless she was planning something drastic? She had been through enough to flatten a lot of people. Aaron hadn’t thought of her as the type to commit suicide, but he could always be wrong. This could be some kind of gesture, some kind of statement.
Aaron had been holding the thought at bay, but when it surfaced he felt adrenaline flowing through his body. There was another room. A bedroom. She could be in there. He pounded on the door again, but not expecting any answer, he jogged down the walkway between the cabins to the back of number seven. There was another window, the bedroom window, on the back wall. He looked in.
He could see a neatly made bed, covered by a light blue bedspread with a pattern of seashells. Against the wall was a white wicker dresser, with a matching chest of drawers in the corner. Again, there was no sign of anyone, but in both rooms there were floor spaces he couldn’t see. Plus, the door standing ajar across the bedroom must lead to the bathroom. She could be in the tub. Or in the kitchenette. Or wherever.
He returned to the front and looked around again. Maybe she had been on the beach and got caught in the rain, took shelter somewhere to wait it out. Or she could be down at Margene’s. Or she could be right here, in number seven. In a bad way.
Aaron glanced back and forth. The Villas seemed completely deserted. There were a few cars in the parking spaces, but where the other tenants might be Aaron couldn’t imagine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Swiss Army knife.
Kicking the door in would be excessive, and Aaron had never been able to get the credit card maneuver to work. On occasion, though, he had had luck with his Swiss Army knife. If he was quick, he could get the door open, take a qu
ick look around, and put the whole thing back together again. No muss, no fuss. Trying to look like he was fiddling with a key, he set to work.
This lock set-up was a bit more complicated than others he’d dealt with, and he had to concentrate harder as his fingers became more slippery. Finally, finally, he got it to work. He wiped his feet on the outside mat and gave the door a tiny push.
A voice behind him said, “Aaron?”
Aaron stood still. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then he turned to see Clara standing behind him, looking astonished and bedraggled. Her sandals, and for that matter her feet and pants legs, were caked and smeared with red clay. Her shirt and pants looked damp and limp, and so did her hair. She looked at the door lock, at the door standing ajar, and said, “I took a walk and got caught in the rain.” She hesitated and went on, “Would you like to come in?”
Within ten minutes Aaron had restored the lock. Clara had found an outside hose and used it to wash the clay off her feet and sandals, and had made each of them a mug of tea. They sat at the dining table, sipping. Aaron, feeling like an idiot, said, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was worried about you.”
“Back up for a minute,” Clara said. “How did you know I was here? You didn’t put a tracking device in my handbag, did you?”
Aaron smiled briefly. “The department couldn’t afford to do that, even if it was justified,” he said. “I’ve got something better.”
“Which is?”
“A young lady named Tina who works at Gulf Coast Getaways went to school with my daughter. She recognized the name Trent from a story about the Alice Rhodes case in the St. Elmo Dispatch. She remembered you insisted on unit seven. She gave me a call.”
“In other words, you heard it through the grapevine,” Clara said.
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