Hot

by Julia Harper

  “Still”—Shannon shook her head—“I can’t see Fish and Nald coming up with the idea on their own. Eileen says they’re lucky if they can figure out how to get out of bed most days.”

  “Is that what they’re saying in town? That they had help?” Wonderful. Just what he needed. He tasted the hot dish on his plate and suppressed a sigh. She was using the low-fat cheese again. She might as well cook with orange plastic and have done. He reached for the salt shaker in the form of a pig face and shook salt from its snout.

  “Sure. They must’ve had help.” Shannon shrugged. “Of course, we won’t know until Dick catches them. But that shouldn’t be too hard, knowing Fish and Nald. All he’d have to do is stake out the porn section in the video store.” She giggled at her own joke.

  Calvin stared at his plate, thinking hard. “Maybe that’s why the FBI men were so interested in Turner.”

  “Turner Hastings?” Shannon set down her pig mug. “What about her?”

  “She stole the stuff out of my safe deposit box after the robbery.”

  “The safe deposit box!” Shannon shrieked, nearly taking out his ears. “Why didn’t you say so before? Did she get my sapphire earrings? My mother’s engagement ring was in that box!”

  “Hush,” Calvin moaned, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. It was way too late at night for this. “The safe deposit box was mine—”

  “Calvin Hyman, when we got married you said you’d share all your worldly possessions with me. What do you need your own safe deposit box for?”

  “It’s for business papers. Nothing more.” Thank God. Turner couldn’t have possibly been after his papers, could she? Unless—

  “Why would Turner want to steal your papers?”

  Calvin stared at his wife a moment. True, he’d not been interested in her brains when he married her, but if he’d had an inkling of how dim she was . . . “I doubt she knew what was in it before she opened it.”

  “Oh. Well, then why would she do such a thing?”

  He shrugged. “Revenge?”

  “Revenge? She couldn’t still be—”

  “She took Rusty’s arrest pretty hard four years ago.”

  “But you gave her that job at the bank!” Shannon was scandalized. “I just can’t see it.”

  “They caught her on the surveillance tape, hon. Clear as daylight. She broke into the safe deposit box.” And maybe she really had waited all this time for revenge. Extraordinary. He never would have guessed. Did she know enough to look for evidence? Had Rusty known? He shivered in the chill of the air-conditioned house. Calvin got up to put his plate on the counter near the sink. Surely Rusty had never suspected—

  “Oh, I wish I could call Eileen!” Shannon exclaimed.

  He glanced at the kitchen clock, which had pigs where the numbers should be. It used to grunt on the hour, but he’d disabled the sound. “It’s already one-thirty. You’ll have to wait for the morning.”

  “Well, darn it.” Shannon put her mug in the sink.

  A sudden mournful howl came from outside.

  Calvin jumped. “Christ, Shannon. Did you forget to bring Duke in again?”

  “He’s your dog,” his wife shot back. “I wanted to get a cute little Shih Tzu, but nooo, you had to get that big ol’ thing.”

  “He’s a purebred—”

  “He smells. And he cost way too much. I don’t know why we couldn’t have got something pretty, like a Chin. Or a Pug. Have you seen Eileen’s Pug? It’s the most darling thing. We should trade that monster in.”

  Calvin sighed. Shannon was right. The dog, despite its impressive pedigree, had turned into a burden he just didn’t have time for. Maybe he could leave him out for one night—

  Another eerie howl broke the silence.

  “Don’t take too long,” Shannon chirped. “We’ve got church in the morning, then that dinner where you can shake hands with local voters, and Monday the auditors come, don’t they?”

  “No.” Calvin hesitated, hand on the doorknob. “I called them today. We’ve had to put back the audit.” Thank God. The audit delay was the only thing that had gone right today. “The bank will probably still be a crime scene Monday, and we’ll have to fix the doors and the skylight before we reopen.”

  “Still. Best get to bed,” Shannon said, her voice drifting back down the hall to him. “I just can’t believe little Turner Hastings could do such a thing.”

  Neither could Calvin. But obviously, he’d better start believing. Little Turner Hastings might just turn into a great big pain in the ass.

  Chapter Six

  I still can’t believe Turner Hastings could’ve robbed the bank.” Larson shook his head, looking bewildered in the glow of a streetlamp. “She’s the town librarian.”

  John knocked on the door of the little white cottage. “Hard to argue with a surveillance tape.”

  They’d split up the work. Torelli was with Sheriff Clemmons, interviewing family and friends of Yoda and SpongeBob, while John and Larson had come out to talk to Turner. It had taken a couple of hours to get the search warrant, and now it was close to two in the morning. He’d bet anything that this street was usually quiet as the grave at this time of night. Tonight, however, at least four houses had lights on, and a couple of people were standing on their front porches watching him. John rapped on the door again for the benefit of the neighbors. No one answered. Not a surprise. He hadn’t expected her to be home after what he’d seen on that tape. He tried the handle for luck.

  What do you know? The door was open. He was conscious of a bizarre anticipation at the prospect of penetrating this woman’s home. Maybe it was lack of sleep. On the other hand, maybe it was the aftershock of the sexual turn-on he’d felt before when he’d watched her steal from that safe deposit box. That feeling had truly come out of left field, and he was still trying to analyze it.

  “She usually lock her house?” he asked Larson as he pulled out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one pair to the deputy.

  “Don’t know.”

  John nodded. “Okay. You know not to touch anything, right?”

  Larson looked insulted. “Yes, sir.”

  John snapped on his gloves, pushed open the door, and flicked on the overhead light. The cottage couldn’t be much more than eight hundred square feet all told. The front door opened directly into a living room with an old green couch, a nice bentwood rocking chair, a TV that was at least ten years old, and a couple of plants. The couch was one of those two-seaters with stiff cushions. It didn’t look big enough to be comfortable for a man, at least not a large man. There was a faint, tantalizing aroma in the air that he couldn’t quite place.

  “She got a boyfriend?” John wandered over to the bookshelves on the other side of the TV. His boot heels echoed on the hardwood floor. Maybe the interest was simply because she was a woman and a fugitive. But that wasn’t right. He’d dealt with plenty of female criminals before and never been turned on. Shit, he wouldn’t be a law officer if crime made him hard.

  “I don’t think so,” Larson said slowly. “No. Somebody’d know in Winosha if she was dating. I don’t think she’s seen anyone since she broke up with Todd Frazer.”

  “When was that?”

  “Four years, maybe? He’s married since.”

  “Yeah?” John cocked his head to read the titles in the bookshelf. Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe, Faulkner, Barbara Kingsolver, a whole row of Graham Greene. Huh. He took out Our Man in Havana, one of his own favorites. The pages were worn at the edges, and the edition was fifteen years old. She’d obviously read it more than once.

  “What’re we looking for?” Larson asked from behind him.

  John put the book back. “Dunno.”

  The little cottage wasn’t air-conditioned, and even this late at night it was stuffy from the daytime heat. He could feel the sweat start at the small of his back and trickle down his spine under his shirt and jacket. He glanced around the room. By the door was a small table with a mirror over it, pro
bably so she could check herself before going out. He’d passed it when he’d walked in, but now he sauntered back to it. On the table was a blue-and-green-painted vase and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. John frowned. They looked like the ones she’d worn on the bank surveillance tape. She must have more than one pair. He picked them up and peered through them, grunted, then handed the glasses to Larson.

  “See anything?”

  The deputy looked through the glasses, as well. “No. Should I?”

  “They’re clear.”

  Larson glanced again. “So?”

  “Most people have prescription lenses in their glasses.”

  “Oh.”

  Why had she worn them? To make her look more intelligent? He’d heard that some women did that when they were working in male-dominated professions, but she was a librarian, for God’s sake. He was conscious again of that heat stirring in his groin. Maybe it was the fact that she was so obviously playing a part. But he’d run across con artists before—that didn’t jazz him. What was it about this woman in particular? He went back to the TV area. On the couch was a Chicago Tribune folded into a rectangle around the Saturday crossword puzzle. He bent to examine it without touching. She’d filled in the whole thing—in ink.

  Larson was looking at the books now, his eyebrows knit over the titles.

  John flicked on the TV. PBS. No surprises there. He turned it off again and went into the kitchen, turning on lights as he went. The kitchen was tiny, as expected, but neat. There was a colorful rag rug near the sink. A small white-painted wrought-iron table and two chairs stood against the wall. And a calendar with a European landscape hung next to the wall phone. John flipped through the calendar pages. Nothing was written on them. He picked up the cordless phone and pressed the redial button. The other end rang thirteen times, and then someone answered.

  “What?” an old voice growled.

  “This is Special Agent MacKinnon of the FBI. Please identify yourself, sir.”

  The line clicked off.

  John raised his eyebrows and put the receiver back.

  He opened the fridge door. It was full of mostly estrogen food: yogurt, lettuce, apples. But the milk was full-fat, which was interesting, if unhelpful. Not many people drank whole milk anymore.

  “Check the call log on the phone for the last numbers she dialed and the last calls she received. You can try seeing if any of the numbers match ones she has in her speed dial. After that, search the cupboards and freezer,” he ordered Larson. “I’ll do the bedroom.” For some reason he didn’t want the other man with him while he was rifling through Turner’s panties.

  “Okay,” the deputy said behind him.

  John walked into the small bedroom and turned on the only light—a bedside lamp. There wasn’t an overhead fixture in here. The bed was single. That made him smile. It was covered by what looked like a handmade quilt in all different colors. The odor was faintly stronger here, although he still couldn’t place it.

  He opened the closet door and took a small flashlight from his inside jacket pocket to illuminate it. Rows of dark dresses and skirts, the twins of the thing she’d worn in the tape. On the floor were five pairs of flat, dark shoes that all looked the same to him but undoubtedly would have subtle differences for a woman. He parted the dresses to look in the back. Way in the corner was a pair of red high heels.

  He pursed his lips in a silent whistle and hunkered down to pick up one of the red shoes. The toe was cut away, the heel was thin and long, and the back was nothing but a tiny strap. ’Bout the most impractical pair of shoes he’d seen in a long time, and they were sexy as hell. He turned the shoe over, shining the flashlight on the sole. On the arch was the size, six and a half. He checked one of the plain Jane flats. Same size, so they were definitely hers.

  He tapped the heel thoughtfully against his thigh. The shoes were at odds with the image Turner projected. From the little he’d heard and observed about the librarian, he couldn’t see her wearing the red shoes in Winosha. What did she do, sashay around her house in them when she was alone at night? The mental image had him shifting uncomfortably. He’d always been a sucker for puzzles—for figuring out how people thought and what made them do the things they did—and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what Turner was up to. Maybe it was simply that: she was a challenge to him. John frowned, put the shoe back next to its mate, and straightened. There was something more. Something he was missing.

  Beside the bed was the usual small table. On hers were a utilitarian lamp, a clock, and a photo frame. John picked up the frame. The snapshot inside was obviously an amateur one—it was slightly out of focus. It showed a man in his sixties, a wide grin splitting his red face. In one hand he held a fishing line with a nice-sized walleye dangling on the end. The background was a lake. John slid the photo out of the frame and turned it over. Sometimes the developer printed the date on the photo, but not on this one. He slipped it back into place.

  The bedside table had a single drawer. It contained a tube of hand lotion, some cough drops, a couple of pens, and a slim paperback book. John took out the book. The glossy cover was illustrated with the folds of a red satin sheet. He flipped a few pages and his eyebrows shot up. Good God, female porn. He had a sudden image of little Ms. Hastings curled in her narrow bed, reading this very book. She’d have on a man’s T-shirt, and her hand would be creeping up under the hem to her—

  “Find anything?” Larson called from the kitchen.

  John nearly dropped the book. As it was, he had to clear his throat. “Nope. You?”

  “Not unless you consider ten cans of sardines a clue.” Larson sounded disgusted.

  John smirked, dropped the book back in Turner’s drawer, and closed it. “What about the call log?”

  “The last call was from Tommy Zucker. Old guy, lives north of town.”

  “Good work.”

  John ambled across the room to her dresser. On it was a jewelry box with a few inexpensive necklaces and a tarnished silver charm bracelet. He pulled out a drawer and found cotton panties and plain white bras. Another drawer held socks, all neatly paired and rolled. He ran his hand under the clothes and around the sides of the drawers. In the sock drawer, his hand struck a cold piece of metal. John drew it out. It was a man’s steel watch, the band expandable. He turned it over. On the back was engraved “Russell Turner, 1955.” John walked back to the photo on Turner’s bedside table. Sure enough, the guy holding the fish had a on a steel-colored watch. ’Course, it was impossible to tell from the small photo if the watch was the same one, but he’d be willing to bet a month’s pay that it was ol’ Russ holding that fish.

  Larson appeared in the doorway. “Should I do the bathroom?”

  “Yeah. Wait a sec, though.” John flipped the photo around to face the other man. “Know him?”

  “Yes, sir.” Larson took a couple steps into the room. “That’s Rusty Turner. He was Turner’s uncle.”

  “Was?”

  “He died about three, no four, years ago.” The deputy scratched the back of his neck. “It was a big scandal. Mr. Hyman caught him embezzling from the bank and had to fire him.”

  “Really.” John’s eyebrows raised. “But Hyman didn’t mind hiring Turner part-time?”

  Larson shrugged. “Wasn’t Turner’s fault. Besides, it happened four years ago. Mr. Hyman’s a forgiving man.”

  “But is Turner Hastings?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” John put the photo back. “You finished in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get to the bathroom.” The younger man backed out of the room.

  John returned to the bureau and pulled out the second row of drawers. He found sweaters and jeans. At least she owned some casual clothing. The next drawer had pajamas—all in flannel. This woman was in dire need of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. At the back of the drawer was a little denim drawstring sack. John opened the strings. Needles spilled into his palm from the sack. Pine needles. And all at
once he identified the smell in her house: pine. Not the overwhelming artificial scent found in household cleaners, but the faintly acid green smell of fresh pine. He held his palm up to inhale, and suddenly he could picture the blue mountains of Wyoming. Carefully, he slid the pine needles back into the little sack, retied it, and replaced it in the drawer.

  John looked around the room. The only thing left unsearched was a small desk in the corner. He pulled out the wooden straight chair and sat in front of the desk. It was an antique, made of dark wood on turned legs, with two small drawers on either side and a wide drawer across the bottom. The middle section folded up and back to reveal a writing surface that could be pulled out, along with a row of pigeonholes.

  John pulled out the bottom drawer. It was filled with loose snapshots, scattered like leaves beneath a dead tree. He stirred the pile with his index finger. Here was a black-and-white of a woman with a baby and a small boy. There, a young man in the black robe and mortarboard hat of graduation. Russell Turner was in several, his face always red, always smiling. John stirred the pile again and found a small photo of Turner herself. She looked maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed in shorts and a halter top, sitting on the wide wooden steps of a house. She smiled shyly at him from the photo. Her eyes were tilted at the corners and green, like a cat’s. John looked at the snapshot for several seconds, rubbing his thumb lightly over Turner’s small face.

  He replaced the snapshot, shut the bottom drawer, and pulled out the right-hand drawer. Inside were her checkbook and a box of blank checks. He turned to the balance in the checkbook. She was the type to meticulously balance her checkbook as she wrote a check. According to the last line, she had $1,056.73 in her checking account. He found a savings account, as well, with over five thousand dollars in it.

  The pigeonholes held a box of paper clips, some pens and pencils, a calculator, and two unpaid bills, one from Visa and one from a gas station. On both credit card accounts the previous balance had been paid off. Unless Turner had a lot of outstanding debt not apparent here, she hadn’t robbed Hyman’s safe deposit box for the money. Interesting.