Heat Lightning

by Michaela Thompson

  Clara said, “Are you Vickie Ann?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Vickie Ann seemed apprehensive. Talking with her might prove a challenge. Clara said, in as reassuring a tone as she could muster, “I’m Clara Trent. Thank you for seeing me.”

  Vickie Ann ushered her into a living room with a sofa and two chairs upholstered in a navy blue plaid and a couple of matching end tables topped by matching lamps. The room had an atmosphere of not being used very often, and Clara thought the real life of the house must take place elsewhere. In fact, there was a television playing not far away.

  At Vickie Ann’s invitation Clara took a seat on the sofa. Vickie Ann said, “Can I get you some iced tea?”

  Clara shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Vickie Ann said, but without urgency. When Clara declined a second time, Vickie Ann sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at Clara, waiting.

  Clara cleared her throat. “I want to tell you how sorry I am about— what happened to your mother. This tragedy has been a big shock for me, and I guess I’m trying to comprehend what happened. I never had any idea about it until after my husband died. He had never discussed it with me, or even mentioned it.”

  Vickie Ann was silent so long Clara wondered if she would respond at all, but at last she said, “I wasn’t but three years old at the time. I was living here with my grandparents, Daddy Jim and Mama Sissy, and my brother Donnie. I don’t really even remember my Mama, except to see pictures.”

  “You were very young,” Clara said.

  Vickie Ann nodded. “My brother Donnie, he remembered, and he used to tell me things about her— and my daddy, too. But Donnie died in a motorcycle accident years and years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Silence fell. Vickie Ann looked down, making pleats in her skirt with her fingers. Eventually she said, “Are you talking to some other people?”

  “I want to talk to as many as I can,” Clara said. “I understand that there are people who aren’t willing to talk to me at all, so I’m really grateful to you.”

  “Some people don’t understand,” Vickie Ann said. “They think you’re coming here just to bother us, and remind us of what happened. But I never forgot what happened. You can’t remind me, if I never forgot.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Clara said. “I don’t want to make you or anybody else unhappy, though.”

  Vickie Ann was silent for a minute. Then she said, “Where do you live?”

  Clara reached into a pocket of her handbag, pulled out one of her business cards, and handed it to Vickie Ann. “I have an art gallery in Luna Bay.”

  Vickie Ann took the card and studied it. Without looking at Clara she said, “I heard you were staying out at the Villas. Why are you staying there?”

  Clara shook her head. “I’m not even sure,” she said. “It’s part of trying to comprehend what happened. I thought staying there would bring me closer to the past, help me figure things out. I mean, that’s all I want. To understand.”

  “And has it helped?” Vickie Ann said. “Helped you to understand?”

  “No,” Clara said. “At this point, it really hasn’t.”

  “Who in the hell are you?” an angry voice said.

  Clara, startled, turned and saw a very old man with floating white hair leaning on a cane. He was standing in the doorway to what she guessed was the kitchen, and he was staring at her.

  “Oh, Lordy,” Vickie Ann said. She stood up and said, “Daddy Jim, you’re missing your program! Don’t you want to go back and see how it comes out?” To Clara she said, “That’s my grandpa. He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  Ignoring Vickie Ann, the old man made his laborious way further into the room. When he was closer to Clara he fixed his eyes on her and said, “What’s your name?”

  Clara was vaguely aware of Vickie Ann making a shushing gesture, but she looked directly at Jim and said, “My name is Clara Trent.” She wanted to be as clear as she could, so she added, “I’m the widow of Ronan Trent.”

  Clara heard Vickie Ann say, “Oh Lord,” and in the next moment Jim Tuttle started swinging his head back and forth in a very large No.

  “It was not no Ronan Trent!” he cried. “How many times have I told you it wasn’t no Ronan Trent.”

  “Daddy Jim—” Vickie approached him, but he swung his cane at her. “It wasn’t no Ronan Trent! It was Coby! I told you it was Coby!”

  “Oh, Daddy Jim, why do you keep saying that?” Vickie Ann sounded very near tears.

  “This is my fault. I’m sorry,” Clara said. She stood up, with a vague idea of helping Vickie Ann subdue him.

  At that moment, the doorbell rang.

  Vickie Ann looked like a trapped animal. A moment later there was a strident knocking on the door. Vickie Ann said, “Lord, help us,” and went to open the door.

  The woman who walked in was tall and heavyset, with bouffant hair dyed a brassy blonde. She wore elaborate gold-rimmed glasses and a leopard-print dress. She engulfed Vickie Ann in an embrace and said, “It’s all right, Vickie Ann. I’m here with you now.” To Jim, who seemed to have forgotten his rant, she said, “Hello there, Mr. Jim! I came around to see how you were doing today!” Jim, leaning on his cane, stared at her and said nothing.

  The woman advanced on Clara. “My name is Patsy Orr,” she said.

  Clara remembered the name. Patsy Orr was the co-worker who, along with Merle Evans, found Alice’s body. Clara had tried to call her. “I’m Clara Trent,” she said.

  Patsy nodded. “I heard you were in town, Mrs. Trent. When I saw a strange car in Vickie Ann and Jim’s driveway, I had a feeling it was you. They’re too polite to say this, but I will. You have no call to prey on Vickie Ann and Jim.”

  “Patsy, listen—” Vickie Ann said.

  Patsy ignored her. She leaned toward Clara with a confidential manner. “Mrs. Trent, I’m the person that found Alice Rhodes’ body. All these years it has been a nightmare.”

  Already, Clara didn’t like the way this was going. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’d better be—” She leaned down to pick up her handbag for a judicious retreat.

  Patsy said, “I even had a dream predicting what would happen. I was walking up to Alice’s front door at the Villas, and a man opened the curtain and looked out. I told Alice about that dream and said she should be careful. She laughed at me. But the dream was right. It haunts me to this day.”

  Clara edged sideways. “I really think I’d better go,” she said.

  As Clara approached the door Patsy raised her voice: “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Trent. Are you trying to find some justification for what your husband did? Trying to say he’s innocent, or he didn’t mean to? Because people have suffered.”

  “Patsy, I invited Mrs. Trent to come here!” Vickie Ann cried in an anguished tone.

  This was a disaster. Clara had no interest in further conversation with Patsy Orr. She started for the door, murmuring, “Thank you, Vickie Ann,” on her way out.

  As she was leaving, Jim Tuttle came to life again. “It wasn’t no Ronan Trent!” he cried as the door closed behind her. Clara rushed to her car, imagining Patsy Orr in pursuit.

  Still, on the drive back to the beach it wasn’t Patsy Orr but Jim Tuttle who lingered in Clara’s mind. It wasn’t no Ronan Trent. It was Coby. I told you it was Coby. Jim Tuttle, Clara remembered, had always believed Coby Rhodes, Alice’s estranged husband, had killed her. And even now, although his mental faculties were obviously impaired, he seemed to believe it still.

  Clara pulled into her parking space at the Villas. The sun had come out and the humidity had settled in. It was time to change out of her good clothes and get into shorts. Her encounter with Vickie Ann, Jim, and Patsy Orr had worn her out. It seemed to her now, more than ever, that things were happening beneath the surface that she did not understand. It was time to have a talk with Aaron.

  – 27 –

>   Sitting at Clara’s dining table at the Villas, Aaron was still processing what she’d told him. Her visit to Vickie Ann and Jim’s ranting about Coby were par for the course. So was Patsy Orr horning in and acting like the busybody she was. But on the table in front of him was something entirely different— the Warning from a Friend Clara had found in The Book of Alice, and, just as dumbfounding, The Book of Alice itself.

  The sketchbook was open to a drawing of Alice Rhodes, her hair tousled, sitting up in bed with a sheet pulled to her chin, smiling broadly. “That’s Alice Rhodes, all right,” he said to Clara, who was sitting in the chair next to his. “And I guess you’re sure that Ronan drew these pictures.”

  “Absolutely,” Clara said. “There’s no doubt at all.”

  “Given these pictures, there’s also no doubt they knew one another.”

  “I would say there’s no doubt they were lovers.”

  Clara seemed pretty calm about it, Aaron thought. Curious, he said, “It doesn’t bother you?”

  Clara shook her head. “Not really. I believe Ronan was in love with Alice before he met me.”

  “But back in seventy-five he lied to us about knowing her.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would say he lied to us because he killed her.” Aaron watched Clara closely.

  Clara leafed through the sketchbook before meeting Aaron’s eyes. “I know it seems that way,” she said. “These pictures are obsessive, I can see that. He was in love with Alice, obsessed with her. They were lovers. Lovers are obsessed. Aren’t they?”

  Aaron was taken aback at the question. He had worked on a lot of domestic violence over the years, and the people involved were usually obsessed. But were they lovers? Not by any definition he could summon up. He thought back on his personal experiences, which were limited. There were high school crushes, and then there was Stacey. He had loved Stacey, he was pretty sure. He had loved her enough to marry her. But obsessed? “I don’t really know,” he said.

  Clara turned another page of the book. “This is just my opinion, but I knew Ronan and I know his work,” she said. “Ever since I’ve known him, his paintings have been powerful but disjointed. Full of— well, full of anger, you could argue. Very different from these images. There’s love in these drawings, passion. But they’re gentle. It’s hard for me to imagine Ronan harming Alice Rhodes.”

  “Maybe she did something that made him mad. It happens.”

  “Maybe she did.” Clara’s voice had a hollow sound. She went on, “I know you think these pictures make it worse for Ronan. That’s why I didn’t want to call you— because for me, it’s the opposite. The pictures make it harder for me to believe he killed her. I don’t doubt the DNA. I don’t doubt they made love that night. I just— it’s difficult for me to go that additional step.”

  “I understand,” Aaron said, and was surprised to realize that he did. She wasn’t taking such a big leap. She wasn’t denying the obvious. She was making a rational argument, which— although he didn’t agree with her— he thought was worthy of consideration.

  He turned to the anonymous message. “What about this, then? What do you think?”

  Clara bit her lip. “It’s disturbing. How did Ronan get that message? They are going to come after you for the murder of Alice Rhodes. Who could’ve sent it?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Everybody in the department knew I was reopening the Alice Rhodes case. So did Vickie Ann and Jim, and whoever they might’ve told. There aren’t any secrets in St. Elmo. I wouldn’t say we broadcast it, but quite a few people probably knew.”

  “But— why send this to Ronan? Do you have an explanation?”

  “Not yet I don’t. But I intend to find one,” Aaron said.

  Clara gave him a sideways glance. “There’s an explanation that occurred to me, but you won’t like it.”

  Aaron sat back and crossed his arms. “You’re thinking this warning means that Ronan didn’t kill Alice and somebody else did, and the real killer doesn’t want you stirring things up. Does that about cover it?”

  “That covers it.”

  “Well, you said I wouldn’t like it and I don’t,” Aaron said. “But I don’t like anonymous messages either.”

  “Neither do I.” In a softer voice Clara went on, “I hate to admit this, but I’m scared.”

  Aaron was surprised. That kind of remark was not like Clara. If she told him she was scared, she must be really scared. He was saying, “Maybe we can—” when his cellphone rang. He said, “Sorry,” and checked. It was the rehab place in Tallahassee. He looked an apology at Clara and she nodded to go ahead. He stood and walked a few steps away to take the call.

  It was a short conversation. His mother had taken a turn for the worse. The nurse on the line advised him to get there as soon as he could.

  Aaron put his phone away and took a deep breath. This was the call he’d been expecting and dreading. To Clara, sitting at the table looking up at him, he said, “It’s an emergency. I’ve got to go to Tallahassee, right now. My mother is very sick, going downhill.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Aaron wanted to get out the door and on the road, call in and let the department know, but he didn’t feel right leaving Clara here on her own. The situation was volatile, and she didn’t really know anybody else. What if something happened to her? A jolt of emotion went through him that he didn’t have time to identify. He said, “I think I can get somebody to keep an eye on you while I’m gone, check in and make sure everything is all right.” The department was short-handed, and he wondered if he was even telling the truth.

  Clara said, “It’s all right. Don’t worry. Just go.” She stood as if to usher him out.

  Aaron took a step toward the door. His legs felt leaden. He said, “Listen. Why don’t you ride up there with me?”

  She looked astonished. “I can’t do that. Your mother—”

  “You can sit in the waiting room. Read magazines. I have to let my daughter know, but she lives in Colorado.”

  She looked at him without saying anything. Her expression was unreadable. He said, “It’s all right. Really. Let’s go. I’ll be glad for the company.”

  She shook her head, but then said, “If you’re sure.”

  Within five minutes, they were on the road. The Book of Alice and the Warning from a Friend were in a plastic bag on the back seat. Clara drove while Aaron made calls to the department, to tell them he had been summoned to Tallahassee, and to his daughter, who would stand by and wait for more information. When this was done Aaron leaned back in his seat and looked out the window. He said, “I can drive now if you want me to.”

  “I’ll go for a while. Take a minute to catch your breath,” Clara said.

  That wasn’t a bad idea. Aaron let the scenery flow by, thinking about what was probably waiting for him at the rehab place. They wouldn’t call if the situation wasn’t extremely serious. He’d been planning to go back there in a couple of days anyway.

  Clara didn’t seem to be the chatty type. She didn’t ask questions, make comments, or ask if she could turn on the radio. She kept her eyes on the road and drove. For the first time, it occurred to Aaron that if people in St. Elmo found out he and Clara had gone to Tallahassee together, it could cause gossip. To Clara he said, “I appreciate you coming with me.”

  “It’s better to have company.”

  She was right. It was better. He said, “We’ll get this sorted out. I promise you.”

  She nodded sadly. “You were right to warn me about upsetting people in St. Elmo. I don’t think I took you seriously enough before.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life. I know how it goes,” Aaron said.

  After a brief silence Clara said, “What surprised me was how gracious Vickie Ann Rhodes was. She invited me to come talk with her, even though she didn’t seem to want to do it very much.”

  Aaron said, “Really? Normally, Vickie Ann wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

  “She was very pleasant. Bu
t like I told you, everything fell apart. Patsy Orr showed up, of course. And Jim Tuttle was yelling that it was Coby and not Ronan Trent.”

  Aaron sighed. “Yeah. That’s some kind of kick Jim is on.”

  Clara gave him a momentary glance. “There’s no chance that it really was Coby who killed Alice, is there?”

  Aaron mentally cursed Jim Tuttle and his Coby fixation. “I don’t think so. The only person who ever claimed to see Coby in the area then was Jim himself, and Jim despised Coby. We never found him, or any trace of him.”

  As they lapsed into silence, Aaron thought about the investigation. His father, Woody, had been in charge. Woody was getting old by then. Forgetful, maybe? Had the lead on Coby been followed up as it should’ve been? Aaron would have to check.

  About an hour into the two-hour trip they stopped for a gas and bathroom break, and Aaron took the wheel. Clara leaned back against the passenger seat headrest and closed her eyes. In ten or fifteen minutes, when Aaron glanced over, he saw that she had fallen asleep. In relaxation, her face looked sad, the circles under her eyes deeper, her mouth turned downward. She looked vulnerable, undefended. It was clear, he thought, how much recent events had worn her down.

  When they reached the outskirts of Tallahassee, she woke with a start and rubbed her eyes. “I can’t believe I slept. Where are we?” she said.

  “Almost there.”

  She nodded, yawned, and patted at her hair. She said, “I’ll go in with you and find a place to wait. Don’t think about me, all right?”

  Aaron took the familiar route, I-10 to the north side of town, then the exit to the rehab place. He parked in the lot and he and Clara went inside. He looked around for somebody to tell him what was going on.

  – 28 –

  Vickie Ann gave Coby Clara’s business card. “I didn’t find out much, but I got this,” she said, handing it over.

  Coby took the card, glanced at it, and put it in his pants pocket.