Heat Lightning

by Michaela Thompson

  “It’s a small town. But if you’d used a different name, nobody would’ve noticed.”

  “If I’d planned on doing something wrong, maybe I would’ve used a different name,” she said. There was a sharp edge in her voice.

  “Fair point,” Aaron said. He took a swallow of his hot tea. He was an afternoon coffee drinker himself, but this wasn’t too bad. She hadn’t offered any sugar or lemon, but he was hardly in a position to be picky. He said, “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you why you’re here.”

  “Do I have an obligation to tell you?”

  “Not at all. It’s your business, and you haven’t broken any laws that I know about.”

  Clara looked into her mug. “I don’t mind your asking, but I’m not sure I can give you an answer.”

  “I mean— you wanted to stay at the Villas. You wanted unit seven. Why?”

  She gave him a look that said the question was absurd. “Obviously, because this was Ronan’s place. He lived here. I just— I needed to do this. I have to understand what’s happened, Aaron.”

  “I see. But how is this going to help?”

  Clara’s eyes looked intensely blue, and her face was taut. She said, “First, Ronan died— alone, untended, out on Loggerhead Point. And now I’m told he killed a woman I never heard of, a woman he never mentioned to me in all the years we were married. And he isn’t even here to explain what he did, or why.” She swallowed and stopped talking for a moment. Then she went on, “And Ronan’s dead, right? He got away with murder anyway. So what’s the good? What purpose did all this serve?”

  Aaron felt acutely uncomfortable. “I guess I would have to say justice,” he said.

  “Right. Right,” Clara said. “Justice. Closure for the family of Alice Rhodes.”

  “Yes.” Aaron nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Well, Aaron.” She took a breath. “What kind of closure do I get? Did you ever think about that? Even once?”

  Aaron leaned toward her. He wanted her to understand. “I thought about it a lot,” he said. “I knew it would be hard for you. I knew you had gotten a very bad deal.”

  “You know what?” Clara said. “For once, I agree with you. I agree that I got a very bad deal. So maybe I’m here to try to find some closure for myself.”

  “I understand that,” Aaron said.

  “Good.”

  “But I’m not sure other people will see it,” he went on. “Like I said, this is a small town. People talk. You’ve already found that out. There’s resentment in St. Elmo about the murder of Alice Rhodes. It happened a long time ago, but people still remember.”

  “If they still remember, maybe they can help me understand.”

  “But what I’m telling you is, you may not be welcome.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  Aaron tried to choose his words carefully. “Because, Clara, your husband Ronan was an outsider who came in and killed a local girl, and up until recently he got away with it. People here feel like the family deserved to have it settled. They aren’t going to have much sympathy for your need to understand. I believe you didn’t know anything about the killing, but it’s possible not everybody will buy that. They could even think you knew all along. I want you to realize what you’re getting into.”

  Clara took a swallow of tea, tilting her mug far back and then putting it down decisively. “Thanks for the warning, Aaron.”

  He could see that was going to be it. “Thanks for the tea, Clara.” He stood up. “I’m sorry about picking the lock. I was worried that you— I was worried.”

  “That’s kind of you, but maybe I’m not as fragile as you think.”

  She stood and walked with him to the door. He said, “You take care, all right? Call if you need anything.”

  “Good-bye, Aaron,” she said. Then Aaron was outside, and the door closed behind him. There was nothing left to do but go away.

  – 18 –

  By midmorning the next day, Clara was driving through Westpoint on her way to meet with Frank Kirby, one of the poker players at the Gulf Dream Lounge the night Alice Rhodes was killed. After Aaron’s dire warnings, Clara had expected a chilly reception to any overture she made— a refusal to talk, an outright hang-up— anything but the affable phone conversation she had had with a smooth-sounding gentleman whose number was listed in a yellowed area telephone directory she found in a kitchen drawer.

  “Yes ma’am, I was there. I sure was,” Frank Kirby had said. “I told the police about it then, and I’ve told plenty of people since, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you.”

  Clara had mentioned her full name when Kirby answered the phone, but he hadn’t seemed to recognize it. She saw no reason to belabor the point, but set up a meeting with him for ten o’clock in the morning. He gave her an address in Westpoint and said, “I live at the Harbor View Guest House. It’s my daughter’s place. I’ll be the handsome man sitting on the porch.”

  With the help of the smooth tones of her GPS, Clara negotiated the streets, always getting closer to the harbor, where shrimp boats were docked and oyster houses lined the quay. Harbor View Guest House had a modest, comfortable sound, she thought. Probably a pleasant little bed and breakfast.

  As she approached the water, following instructions, she made a left turn and drove up a hill. “Your destination is on your right,” the GPS intoned as she approached the top. Clara put on the brakes. According to the directions, her destination was a magnificent Greek Revival mansion. The house was pristine, gleaming white in the morning sun, with columns supporting a wraparound porch. At the street end of a curving driveway was a discreet sign with the address she was looking for displayed on it along with the words, Harbor View Guest House. The pleasant bed-and-breakfast vanished from Clara’s mind. This was something much more impressive. Clara pulled into a parking area near the house and climbed the wide steps to the porch. Although several rocking chairs were placed in a line near the door, none was occupied. She followed the porch around the corner.

  In the back, she found the view of the harbor advertised in the name. Spread out below were the shrimp boats and oyster houses, a glittering expanse of water, and marshes to the horizon. In a rocking chair sat a portly gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, sandals, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt with “Frankie” on the front. When he saw Clara he gave a jaunty wave and said, “Hello there. You must be the lady that’s here to see me.”

  “I am,” Clara said, offering her hand. “Clara Trent.”

  “Pull up a chair, Miss Clara,” Frank Kirby said. “It’s not every day I get beautiful ladies coming to visit. Can I offer you anything?”

  Clara sat in the rocker next to him. “Nothing, thanks.”

  Kirby waved a hand at the scene below. “Take a look yonder. Did you ever see a prettier sight in your life?”

  “Very rarely,” Clara said.

  “Rarely!” Kirby recoiled in mock horror. “Not rarely, never! That’s the prettiest sight in the whole world, right there. Isn’t it? Don’t you tell me it isn’t.”

  “It is,” Clara said.

  Kirby leaned toward her. “It is what, Hon?”

  “The prettiest sight in the world,” Clara said.

  “There you go!” Kirby leaned over and massaged her shoulder. “Now you got it right.”

  Clara was beginning to wonder if Frank Kirby’s ebullience was induced by some sort of medication. She said, “Mr. Kirby, I asked to talk to you because—”

  “Whoa!” Kirby held up a pudgy hand. “Who are you talking about, Hon? Who’s Mr. Kirby?”

  Clara stared at him, speechless. Had she somehow set up a meeting with the wrong man? “I thought—”

  Kirby pointed at the front of his T-shirt. “It’s Frankie! I only answer to Frankie! Don’t you dare forget it.”

  “All right,” Clara said. He cocked his head at her. “Frankie,” she added.

  “There you go! And your name is—”

  “Clara. Clara Tr—”

&nb
sp; “Clara, pretty Clara!” He shifted his body to bring his head close to hers. “What can I do for you, Miss Clara?” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, his hot breath in her ear.

  It took some effort to maneuver Frank Kirby toward the subject Clara wanted to discuss, but eventually she managed it. When she asked if he remembered the night of the poker game he said, “Hell yes— excuse me, Clara— I remember it. What a night that was. And a girl got murdered that night, right up there at the Villas. I don’t know if you heard about that.”

  “I heard,” Clara said. “What can you tell me about what went on at the game?”

  Kirby leaned back and rocked for a minute. “Not a lot, Hon. Not a lot. Those were the days when I did some drinking. I used to go there to play most every week. Sometimes it was great, and other times it wasn’t so good. Depended on who they got to play. Various ones came and went, you know. And that night was not a good group.”

  “Why not?”

  Kirby rubbed his hand over his mouth, thinking. “Well the one fellow— the airman, I think he was. He wasn’t even interested in the game. What’s the point to play, if you don’t care one way or another? He was losing in stupid ways. Distracted, you know? I finally told him to get his head out of his ass— excuse me— and play cards, but it didn’t do any good.”

  “Would that have been Ronan Trent?” Clara said.

  “Hell, I don’t remember his name. I don’t even remember yours. But now, tell me. What’s my name?” He gave her a sidelong smile.

  “Frankie,” Clara said.

  “That’s it!” He guffawed and slapped her on the back.

  When Clara recovered her breath she said, “So the game wasn’t going well?”

  “Naw.” Kirby seemed lost in thought, and Clara wondered if she would have to get him back on track. But he roused himself and said, “And there was a cheater. Little bastard, excuse me. Some snot-rag from Mississippi or someplace. Thought he was playing with a bunch of hicks who wouldn’t catch on to what he was doing. But we did catch on. And that’s when everything went kerflooey.”

  Clara leaned forward. “In what way?”

  Kirby smiled reminiscently. “Yelling. Cussing. Pushing. And in the middle of it all the little rat bastard took off running, and some of us took off after him, right out the back door and through the damn woods. Oh, lordy lordy. Never did catch him, neither.”

  Clara assumed it was hopeless, but she had to ask. “What was his name?”

  Kirby gave an elaborate shrug.

  “And that’s how the evening ended?” Clara said.

  Kirby chuckled. “That’s how it ended for me. I stepped in a ditch and wrenched my ankle real bad. A couple of the boys had to help me back to the Lounge, and then they called my wife even when I told them not to. That’s when the fun really started. When that woman got mad— whoo!” His face softened. “She was a sweet lady, though, God love her. She passed five years ago.” His eyes pinkened, and he wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara said.

  “It’s life, Hon.” He seemed to perk up. “You married?”

  “I’m a widow.”

  “Aw, Honey.” He reached over and took Clara’s hand. “I tell you what. One of these evenings we’ll go get us a mess of fried oysters, all right? Just you and me. What do you say?”

  “I’d love to,” Clara said. “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure you can. Go right on ahead.”

  “The man who was so nervous and distracted. The airman. Was he around when all the arguing and fighting was going on?”

  Kirby shook his head. “Hon, how do you expect me to remember that? I haven’t got the slightest idea. He could’ve been there, he could’ve been in the can, he could’ve been long gone. The law asked me the same question way back when, and I couldn’t tell them any more than I can tell you today.”

  “I see.”

  “I did hear, though, that he’s the one that murdered that girl up at the Villas. Like I said, his mind surely wasn’t on poker. Maybe he was thinking what he was about to do to that poor young woman. She was a mother, too. It’s a damn shame. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “I don’t think so.” Clara stood up. “Thank you, Frankie.”

  Kirby smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. “Anytime, pretty lady. You come on over one evening and we’ll get those oysters. All right?”

  “I’ll do that.” Clara waved good-bye and walked back toward her car. It’s a damn shame. Frankie Kirby was right. That’s exactly what it was.

  – 19 –

  Vickie Ann Rhodes drove home from the supermarket feeling a little bit better about things. It was a hot morning but not too terrible, and when she had a chance to get away from Daddy Jim, even pushing a wire buggy up and down the aisles seemed like an adventure. In the supermarket, it was always possible that Vickie Ann would see people she knew, classmates or others, who would hug her and say how long it had been and that they should stay in better touch. Nothing like that had happened today, but sometimes it did.

  She felt guilty, because she was running late. She had taken a minute or two to walk through the Modern Miss Boutique, just to look. The clothes in there were so cute it was fun to see them, even though they were way too small for Vickie Ann. She shouldn’t have taken that side trip, though, because it had put her behind the time she’d told Patsy she’d be back.

  She felt her spirits sinking as she got closer to home. These days Daddy Jim was always agitated, asking her for his pistol. He had said if he saw Coby again he would shoot the bastard. Vickie Ann had the key to the gun cabinet around her neck, and Daddy Jim wasn’t going to get it, but she didn’t like to hear him talking that way. What if Coby was coming around? Why shouldn’t he? Maybe he wanted to see his daughter, Vickie Ann. Nobody ever seemed to think of that.

  She pulled in the driveway and turned off the motor. As she started to retrieve her bags of groceries from the back seat, Patsy Orr rushed out the front door. Standing on the stoop she waved frantically at Vickie Ann and said, “Lord have mercy, am I glad to see you!”

  Vickie Ann’s pleasant mood vanished entirely. She said, “What’s wrong, Patsy? Did Daddy Jim act up?”

  Patsy Orr was a friend of Vickie Ann’s— almost a family member, really— and she was willing to come over and stay with Daddy Jim occasionally. She had been a friend of Vickie Ann’s mother, Alice. Patsy and Alice had worked together as secretaries at the air base, and Patsy and her friend Merle had found Alice’s body.

  After that awful occasion, Patsy had quit her job at the base and found work in St. Elmo as the receptionist at the local animal shelter. She always wore clothing printed with animals— frolicking kittens, dogs of different varieties— and bracelets, earrings, and rings with animal motifs. Today she had on a blue dress printed with Persian cats, and her dangling earrings were images of leaping dolphins. Patsy sometimes referred to herself as Vickie Ann’s “other Mama.” Vickie Ann herself had never said that or felt that way.

  Lately, Patsy had been even more attentive than usual, because Alice’s murder had finally been solved. She talked about it every chance she got. Although Vickie Ann was ashamed to admit it, sometimes she felt like even she herself, Alice Rhodes’ daughter, had heard enough about Patsy having a bad feeling, and the dream Patsy had had, and how she and Merle had driven all the way back to St. Elmo Beach to check on Alice, only to find her dead. It was not a story that made Vickie Ann feel good, but Patsy would tell it anyway. Vickie Ann would listen, because it would be impolite to say, “Patsy, you’ve told me about this enough times already.”

  Now, however, Patsy had other things on her mind. She said, “Vickie Ann! Come in right now! I’ve got to tell you something.”

  Vickie Ann felt a tremor inside. “Is Daddy Jim all right?”

  “Sugar, he was absolutely awful. He kept saying that Ronan Trent did not kill Alice, and he yelled at me to get him his gun. But that’s not what I want to tell you,”
Patsy said. Her eyes looked huge and shocked. “Come on!” she said, motioning to Vickie Ann to go through the door.

  Vickie Ann lugged her bags inside and put them down on the floor. “What is it?” she said.

  Patsy grasped Vickie Ann’s arm. “You got a phone call,” she said, in a conspiratorial tone.

  Vickie Ann getting a call was fairly unusual in itself. “Who was it?”

  “It was Mrs. Borden, from the Missionary Society. You know her, don’t you? She sits toward the back of the room.”

  Vickie Ann didn’t get to the Missionary Society as often as Patsy did. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Is she the one that—”

  Patsy shook Vickie Ann’s arm in an impatient way. “It doesn’t matter! The point is, her granddaughter Tina works at Gulf Coast Getaways. You know, that place on the beach?”

  “I’m not sure,” Vickie Ann said again. “Is it out there where—”

  “Vickie Ann! Just let me tell it!” Patsy hissed. “While you were gone Mrs. Borden called and asked to speak to you, but you weren’t here, so I asked if there was a message. And she told me”— Patsy took a breath— “she told me that a Mrs. Clara Trent is in town. She’s staying out at the beach, and guess where?”

  “Clara Trent?” said Vickie Ann. She was completely bewildered.

  “Clara Trent,” said Patsy. “You know the name Trent, don’t you? Ronan Trent is the one that killed your Mama. Clara Trent is his widow. And guess where she’s staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Vickie Ann said. For some reason, her eyes filled with tears.

  “She is staying at the Villas,” Patsy said. She dropped Vickie Ann’s arm and stood back. “She is staying right out there where Alice was killed, Vickie Ann! What kind of nerve does that take? Why would she even show her face in St. Elmo, much less stay at the Villas?”

  “I don’t know,” Vickie Ann said. The tears started rolling down her face. “I don’t know,” she said again.

  “Oh, Sugar, of course you’re upset,” Patsy said. She enfolded Vickie Ann in a hug. “I’m upset, too,” she said, patting Vickie Ann on the back. “It’s an insult to every one of us that loved Alice.”