Burn

by John Lutz

  Carver shook his hand. “Not bankers’ money, though.”

  He invited Brant inside, then unlocked the office door and stood aside for him to pass. The temperature outside was already in the mid-eighties, and the inside temperature was catching up fast. Carver moved the thermostat down enough for the air conditioner to start humming, then closed the drapes partway to block the morning sun from pouring in and warming the place. It didn’t help much. The sun was sparking silver off the ocean visible between the buildings across the street, its rays entering through the window at a low angle. He leaned his cane against the wall and sat down behind the desk. “Hot this morning,” he said.

  “The tropics,” Brant said, lowering himself into the small, padded chair in front of the desk. “Thank God for air-conditioning, or nobody would live here and I’d be out of business.” He crossed his legs and laced his hands together in his lap, actually twiddling his thumbs nervously. He was wearing prefaded Levi’s today, and a blue-checked short-sleeved shirt with a pen and some kind of slide rule sticking out of the breast pocket. Dressed for business at a construction site, Carver supposed, though he didn’t think people used slide rules anymore, in the age of minicalculators that could compute what you needed to know in seconds and remind you when it was time for lunch. Brant had slept in one position too long and his hair stuck out in a clump on the right side of his head. It made him look boyish. And not at all the sort of lad who’d stalk and murder a woman.

  Brant drew a pack of Camels from the same pocket the pen and slide rule were in and glanced at Carver questioningly. Carver nodded, and Brant got out his silver lighter and touched flame to the tip of a cigarette. Then, eyes narrowed to see through the resultant smoke, he looked at Carver inquisitively again.

  “I followed her last night,” Carver said.

  And he told Brant about Marla Cloy’s evening.

  Brant snuffed out the butt of his cigarette in the sea-shell ashtray Carver had pulled from a desk drawer, then lit another immediately. The light streaming through the window invested the smoke he exhaled with a faint but colorful rainbow before the cool breeze from the vent caught it and dissipated it, not quite chasing away the heat and moisture that had permeated the office during the night and early morning. The tropics.

  “She got her restraining order,” Brant said.

  “Was it in effect last night?”

  “No. This morning. I’m not supposed to go anywhere near her or contact her in any manner.”

  “Should prove no inconvenience,” Carver said. “I’d give you the same advice.”

  “But you must see how this is part of her strategy. The next time she accuses me of threatening her, I’m in deeper trouble. It’s a more serious offense.”

  “I don’t think the law will take action unless she has corroboration,” Carver said.

  “Hah! Don’t kid yourself. When a woman cries wolf, there’s an immediate hunting party.”

  “I was just hearing the opposite argument.”

  Brant let out more breath than was necessary to exhale smoke. He glanced around the office as if suspecting the walls were about to close in and crush him. “What am I gonna do, Mr. Carver?”

  “It’s Fred. And don’t feel defeated. I’m going to find out more about Marla Cloy and discover why she’s doing this to you.”

  Brant bowed his head and studied his cigarette, then looked up at Carver. “You do believe me, don’t you, Fred?”

  “I believe you.” But Carver wasn’t certain, the truth being the amorphous and slippery beast Beth had described. As soon as he discovered Marla Cloy’s motive, he’d know for sure that Brant was leveling with him.

  Brant reached around for the wallet he carried in his hip pocket and got out a business card. He scribbled something on it with his ballpoint pen, then he stood up and laid the card on the corner of Carver’s desk. “My cellular phone number is on there. I’m going to be out of the office and in the field most of the day, where we’re grading for the extension of Brant Estates. Please call if you have anything at all to tell me.”

  “I will,” Carver assured him. “And it would be a good idea for you to stay around people as much as possible, so they can verify your whereabouts in case Marla says you were someplace you weren’t.”

  “That isn’t easy to do, with my work,” Brant said. “I spend a lot of time alone, either at the office or driving between construction sites. Anyway, the woman is devious. When she’s ready to accuse me again, I’m sure she’ll make certain it’s for a time when I won’t have an alibi.”

  “That won’t be easy for her. And she’ll probably wait a few days before making another accusation, knowing you’re on your guard.”

  Brant snuffed out his second cigarette, began to light a third one, then changed his mind and replaced it in the pack. There was a rustling sound as he stuffed the crinkled, cellophane-wrapped pack back in his shirt pocket behind the slide rule or whatever it was. “Stay on this, Mr. Carver—Fred. Find out why she’s doing this to me!”

  Carver told him to try not to worry, he’d ferret out Marla’s motive. He thought that right now he’d settle for discovering “if” rather than “why.”

  He knew “why” was a tough one.

  Nobody knew much about motive, even if they thought they did.

  6

  CARVER PARKED THE OLDS in front of number 21 Cenit Street, picked up the brown vinyl folder containing a yellow legal pad from the seat beside him, then levered himself out of the car with his cane.

  He’d bought the folder and legal pad ten minutes ago at a drugstore on Shell to use as a prop. As he stood alongside the car in the sun, he bent the folder back and forth a few times so it appeared well used, then tore out a sheet of lined yellow paper and folded it so it stuck out of the top of the folder, as if it had been hurriedly poked inside. Carver would be a busy insurance agent on his workaday rounds.

  Cenit Street ran parallel to Jacaranda Lane, a block east. The backyards of houses on each street were separated by what looked like a long, curving ditch overgrown with weeds but was actually an electric and phone company easement. The backs of the houses on Cenit and Jacaranda faced one another.

  As Carver crossed the street to number 21, the morning sun felt heavy and warm on his shoulders. The houses on Cenit looked much like those in the next block on Jacaranda, small, in various stages of recent repair or decades of decay, most of them with the faded red-tile roofs that the builder, years ago, must have gotten at a discount and used as a selling point. A few of the houses made a pass at Spanish architecture, an arched window here, an exposed beam and some curlicued ironwork there. Not at all convincing.

  Number 21 had a small porch like Marla Cloy’s house. Around its foundation were rhododendron bushes and a lush and colorful flower bed. Peonies, hollyhocks, and violets were all seemingly planted in no particular order. When Carver got closer he could see bees circling above the blossoms. There were a lot of bees, but they ignored him and concentrated on their task, flying tight patterns then dipping to hover briefly at blossoms before rising and circling again. They had a job to do and so did Carver. It was a world of task and toil, all right.

  He was pleased to see a name lettered on the black mailbox affixed to the cream-colored stucco next to the front door: Mildred Fain. The back of number 21 looked directly out on the back of 22 Jacaranda Lane. Mildred Fain might have logged a lot of collective hours glancing out her windows at the house behind her. If Carver got lucky and she was the nosy type, she might have seen quite a bit. She might know something that could give him insight into Marla Cloy and her motives. That was the idea, anyway.

  He pushed the button near the mailbox and waited, in the shade but still warm. Out in the bright sunlight, the bees still circled and swooped. He could hear them in the quiet morning, a soft but discontented buzzing whenever the background rush of nearby traffic faded.

  There was a creaking noise behind the door, then it opened and a small woman in a pin-striped blue
and gray housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers peered out at Carver. She was in her late sixties and had wispy gray hair and sharp, wizened features. The sunken line of her thin lips and the jut of her jaw suggested she wore dentures but didn’t have them in. She seemed wide awake, though; Carver didn’t think he’d rousted her from bed.

  “Mrs. Fain?”

  The woman nodded, bright blue eyes fixed on him.

  “My name’s Frank Carter, with American Mutual Benefit.” By using an alias close to his name he could always claim she’d misunderstood. “I’m making some routine inquiries about a neighbor of yours who’s applied for a policy.”

  “Neighbor?” She said it as if surprised anyone lived nearby.

  “That’s right, a Miss . . .” Carver opened the kinked vinyl folder and peeked inside. “. . . Cloy. Marla Cloy.”

  “Don’t know her.”

  “She lives in the house directly behind you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Her. Well, I seen her. Talked to her a few times.” No teeth were visible when she spoke, but she enunciated clearly. “Don’t know much about her, though.”

  “Well, we only ask some very basic questions.” Carver pulled a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and clicked out the point. “You say you’ve spoken to her. How many times?”

  “Not more’n three or four. Once just to pass the time of day when we was both out in our backyards. ’Nother time about some stray dogs kept getting into people’s trash around here. That’s not much of a problem anymore, though. City animal control people came out and—”

  “Do you recall if Marla Cloy smokes?”

  Mildred Fain rubbed a small, arthritically gnarled hand over her jutting jaw. “No, can’t say as I do. Why’s that important?”

  “Life expectancy. You’d be surprised what the actuarial tables demonstrate. If everybody read them, nobody would smoke.”

  “Well, I smoked like a smudge pot for forty-nine years, and I’m still here.”

  “Some of us are lucky,” Carver said, “or have the right parents.” He smiled. “You look like you come from good stock, Mrs. Fain.”

  She returned the smile. Still no teeth. “Dutch-Irish,” she said.

  “Oh-ho,” Carver said, as if that meant something. “What about Miss Cloy’s lifestyle?”

  “Lifestyle?”

  “Yes. For instance, does she seem to entertain a lot?”

  “Hardly ever, near as I can tell. And my kitchen sink’s got a window over it looks out on our backyards, so I can see her house. She seems a good woman that minds her own business.”

  “Good woman?”

  “I never saw any wild goings-on, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Uh-huh.” Another smile for Mrs. Fain. Carver was beginning to enjoy this. “No men coming and going at all hours?” He winked. “Nothing that would delight the devil and displease the Lord?” Too much? he wondered. Naw, this was Florida, the excess reach of the Bible Belt dangling south from the buckle to form a peninsula.

  “Heavens, no! She keeps pretty much to herself. Works at home, I think. Said she was some kind of writer, is my recollection.”

  “That’s what she gave as her occupation,” Carver confirmed.

  “Humpf! Can’t be much money in that.”

  “Probably not. Is there any one man in particular you’ve seen visiting Marla Cloy?”

  “Nope. You seem stuck on that. I told you, she didn’t have men coming and going.”

  “That’s right, you did. How long has she lived there? Just approximately?”

  “ ’Bout three months, maybe a little less, I’d say. Said she moved here from Orlando.”

  “Does she own?”

  “Nope, that house is a rental. Had several people move in and out the last few years. Man who repaired computers lived in it before Marla Cloy. He got into some kinda trouble, I hear, had to move away in a hurry. Something to do with child molestation in Seattle followed him here because of his ex-wife’s accusations. Bitter divorce. He abused her and the woman wanted to get even, though she did get the house and full custody of the two children, and all he got was the family car, his computer tools, and some personal possessions. Don’t know much else about him, though. Got little time for gossip or keeping tabs on the neighbors.”

  “More people should think that way. Did anyone help Marla Cloy move in, or did she hire a mover?”

  “Hired a mover, but there wasn’t much big and heavy to move. Then she drove back and forth in that old car of hers, with loads of boxes and clothes on hangers. She don’t have much that looked like good furniture or expensive clothes. But young people don’t these days. Things are hard for them.”

  “Would you describe her as a woman of moderate habits? I mean, she doesn’t drive crazily or drink to excess . . . that sort of thing.”

  “Seems to drive like everybody else. As to drink, that I wouldn’t know about one way or the other. Never seen her take a drink when she was out in the yard or visible through her windows. Wouldn’t mean much anyways. Drinking’s no sin. Bit of alcohol every day’s good for the nerves and heart.”

  Carver was beginning to suspect that Mildred Fain had a secret life. But then, everyone did. “You have a sensible slant on things, Mrs. Fain.”

  She grinned. “Never believed in life insurance, either.”

  Carver put on a serious expression. “Oh, Mrs. Fain, you’re making a big mistake there.”

  “Mistake I’d be making, Mr. Carter, would be standing here letting you talk me into buying some. You seem like a pretty good salesman.”

  “I’m really more of a field agent than a salesman,” Carver said.

  “Well, then the company oughta be utilizing your real talents. Been nice talking to you.” She started to close the door.

  Carver thought for a second about sticking his foot between it and the doorjamb. But surely insurance agents didn’t do that anymore, did they? Certainly not field agents who weren’t salesmen.

  He thanked Mildred Fain and let the door close all the way. A dead bolt clicked into place. A chain lock rattled faintly.

  He was standing alone in the heat again, watching the bees intent on collecting nectar, the job for which they were by ability and instinct ideally suited.

  Probably Mildred Fain was observing him through her window. On the way back to his car, he suddenly paused in the middle of the sun-washed street, as if jotting something in his notepad before he forgot it.

  Faking it with conviction.

  Utilizing his real talents.

  7

  MARLA WENT OUT for lunch that day. McDonald’s again. Carver followed her, but this time instead of going inside he went up to the drive-through and got a Big Mac and a vanilla shake, then found a parking space where he could sit in his car and eat and keep an eye on her Toyota.

  She must have read several chapters of the Rendell book while eating. It was over an hour before she came out and walked across the parking lot toward her car. She had her purse strap slung diagonally across her body in the same cautious manner. Today she had on a sleeveless gray SEA WORLD sweatshirt, jeans, and white jogging shoes with what looked like red lightning streaks on the sides.

  Her luck held. Nobody attacked her or tried to snatch her purse on the way to her car. She unlocked and opened the driver’s side door, unhitched the purse from around her and tossed it over onto the passenger seat. She glanced around, but not in his direction, then got into the battered little maroon car. Carver started the Olds and followed her out onto Shell Avenue.

  She stopped at the drugstore where he’d bought his note pad that morning and went inside. He didn’t follow her. One of the disadvantages of a man with a cane was that he was especially memorable. Carver could risk being seen by Marla only so often before recollection might kick in.

  She emerged from the drugstore within fifteen minutes carrying a paper bag. As she was juggling the bag and her purse and trying to open her car door, the bag dropped to the pavement and split open. A large plastic bottle of P
epsi-Cola rolled beneath the car.

  Marla stood with her hands on her hips for a moment, then she stooped and picked up the other items that had been in the bag: A package of notebook or typing paper, a bag of potato chips, a box of tampons, and a new paperback book. She placed them inside the Toyota behind the seat, then bent low and groped beneath the car with her hand. It took her a while to find and get a grip on the errant bottle. When she had it, she stood up and held it out at arm’s length to examine it, as if it were a fish she’d just caught. It wasn’t a keeper. After locking her car, she carried the apparently leaking bottle back inside the drugstore.

  A few minutes later she came back outside with another bottle wedged beneath her arm, got into her car, and drove away. Carver followed, thinking the protective way she carried her purse and was always locking and unlocking doors suggested that maybe she really was fearful of attack. Beth would no doubt interpret it that way.

  After she’d driven home and gone inside, Carver parked on Jacaranda Lane, figuring he’d be there for a while.

  But half an hour later Marla was back in her car and on the move again. She’d changed to a red blouse, black slacks, and high heels, and she had her hair pulled back and fixed with a bright red ribbon or barrette. She was carrying her purse and a small blue canvas carry-on or attaché case.

  Carver followed her to the Holiday Inn on Magellan, about half a mile from his office. It was a newer luxury hotel that backed onto the sea. Marla parked near the entrance to the cocktail lounge and strode inside, still carrying the blue canvas case. Judging by the slow, abbreviated arc of her arm swing as she walked, it was fairly heavy.

  With the Olds’s windows cranked down, Carver could hear the surf rushing and slapping at the beach. A man and woman and three small children were strolling along the plank walkway toward the sand. The man and all three children were wearing swimming trunks. Only the woman wasn’t dressed to go in the water. She was wearing shorts and carrying a blue-and-white plastic cooler and a wad of folded beach towels. She and the man had on dark sunglasses, and all three of the kids had globs of white sunblock on their foreheads and the tips of their noses so they looked like miniature clowns only partly made up. Family life. Carver had experienced it once, but it had come unraveled. Now his son was dead and his wife and daughter lived in St. Louis, half a continent away. Laura had remarried and now had another family, one that didn’t include Carver. He’d once heard his daughter call Laura’s new husband “Daddy.” When moved by self-pity or masochism, he still probed that wound.