Burning Heat

by David Burnsworth

  She patted his head, a diamond tennis bracelet sliding down her thin wrist. “He misses you.” For a woman twenty years older than me, she carried herself well. I was pretty sure she indulged in little or no extra maintenance work other than personal-trainer appointments.

  Brushing myself off, I stood and shook her hand. “Thanks for taking such good care of him.”

  “We were just about to have some lunch. Would you care to join us?”

  “Chauncey home from the office?” I asked.

  “No. I was referring to Shelby and me.”

  Her two labs barked at us through the wrought iron fence that enclosed the backyard. I figured they were jealous. I could relate.

  Inside, Trish set another place at the kitchen table and served ham and cheese sandwiches with Dijon mustard, a really nice egg salad, and potato chips. Not the diet I expected her to have, but I suspected that Shelby might have been her taste tester. He munched innocently on Eukanuba while we talked.

  “Are you aware of anything that happened last summer?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Anything involving call girls and the Gardners or other powerful Charlestonians?” I swallowed half a sandwich and washed it down with sweet tea.

  Chauncey and Trish were Charleston socialites. They ran in the right circles, went to all the right parties, concerts, and other events, and were regularly photographed for the city magazine. If anyone knew something that might have rocked the boat, Trish would.

  She nibbled on a chip. “Nothing comes to mind. I’ll have to think about that.”

  Back in the Audi, I drove to the Pirate’s Cove. I hadn’t been here in almost a week and it felt even longer. From the deck, Paige watched me pull into my parking spot and get out. She’d last seen me drive a rental. Now my wheels were an Audi. I hoped I wouldn’t have to explain the change.

  She said, “We need to talk.”

  This wouldn’t be one of our better conversations, I sensed. Without meeting her glare, I walked into the bar and didn’t stop until I entered my office. Easing into my uncle’s chair, I sighed.

  She closed the door. “How long are we going to run this place with no liquor license and no customers?”

  “Are we out of money yet?”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “That’s not the point.”

  “We’re not closing.”

  “The girls are getting restless.”

  “Have them clean and paint the place.”

  She banged the desk with a clenched fist. “Look around! We’ve already done that.”

  Her eyes were puffy like she was on the ragged edge.

  “We’re not closing.”

  She asked, “What are we supposed to do to keep busy?”

  An idea came to mind. A male sexist pig of an idea. It was perfect. “Have them suit up and play some beach volleyball.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  I stood and rested my hands on her shoulders. “I am. With advertising and prizes. The girls’ll love it.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sure that’s what you had in mind.” She looked past me as if in thought. Then she said, “What are we going to sell to the customers? We can’t serve them anything besides sodas and iced tea.”

  “Nothing. Call our distributors and see if any of them want to bring a truck and trailer and sell beer by the cup. And find out what kind of permits we need for that.”

  She gave me a weak slap on the cheek. After a smirk, she said, “That’s really not that bad of an idea. We’ll still make money on T-shirts and food.”

  Backing out of the office, I said, “Call Lester Brogan and make sure he doesn’t see anything illegal with it.”

  “Lester Brogan?” she asked. “I thought Chauncey was our lawyer.”

  “Long story.”

  I explained the situation to her, which was painful because it made me realize how truly impulsive I’d been. She let me off easy by just listening.

  And then we discussed the volleyball match. Paige and the single-mom army would do a bang-up job with the whole thing, which was good because I wouldn’t be around for it. When I told her that, she got quiet again.

  As long as the beer truck showed, every able-bodied male within fifty miles would come. We’d barely break even on trinkets and hamburgers but the publicity and the town council annoyance would be priceless. If we were going down, it was going to be in a flaming fireball. And it would keep them busy so I could keep looking for Willa Mae’s killer without too much disturbance.

  Rosalita called, upset that I hadn’t informed her of what happened with Caroline and Rafe. She agreed to meet me for dinner, but I could tell she was reluctant. Following a shower and change of clothes, I drove downtown and found a parking spot on Church Street. The restaurant was only a few short blocks away but with the heat, I still broke a sweat. At least the parasitic insects weren’t bad downtown. Just the crunch of palmetto bugs underfoot.

  I noticed my date waiting for me at the hostess station. She wore a nice blue dress and black heels and looked down when I approached.

  We were seated and the hostess had taken our drink orders and left.

  I asked, “Everything all right?”

  A faint smile. “Not really.”

  The waitress, a twenty-year-old with big eyeglasses and tattoos on the underside of her wrists, brought our drinks and told us the specials.

  “I think we’re going to need a few minutes,” I said.

  She smiled and said she’d come back.

  Rosalita said, “Aren’t you going to look at your menu?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Avoiding my eyes, she said, “Why don’t we at least order first?”

  “I already know what I want.” And it probably wasn’t what Rosalita was going to tell me.

  Our eyes met.

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “I don’t know how to say what I need to say.”

  “I ignore authority, put myself in danger, and beat up people.”

  “That’s part of it. The other part—”

  The waitress returned to the table. I said we needed a few more minutes.

  Rosalita said, “I need some time to think.”

  There it was.

  After a peck on the cheek from Rosalita, I was alone at the corner of Calhoun and King and felt an internal tug for a drink. The vodka Mickey Finn from the night before had reopened that door. And the rooftop bar where Mutt and I had taken Kali seemed like a good place to be since I didn’t want to go home or anywhere else at the moment. I found an open stool at the end of the bar.

  A tall brunette with easy eyes and a name tag that read “Sheila” took my drink order and left to make it. I really wanted a cigar but decided to save it for a walk on the beach later. Sheila brought me my drink and asked, with a nice smile, if there was anything else I needed. A difficult question at the moment, but I declined. She left to serve her other customers.

  A tumbler with ice and Maker’s Mark rested on a napkin in front of me. Drinking had never been a friend of mine. More of a crutch and a downfall. Aside from having friends, I’d been alone since Jo’s passing. There’d been other women, but they were better forgotten than remembered.

  I took a long pull on the whiskey. It burned going down. Before long, I asked for another. And another.

  An effeminate male voice broke my downward spiral. “Hi, detective guy. Who you spying on now?”

  Despite my numbness, I recognized the spiked-up hair as belonging to the kid from the soap and body lotion shop on King Street.

  “Take your pick,” I said.

  He waved at someone down the bar and said, “Hey, Elizabeth? Look who’s here.”

  The noise of the bar dissipated as the blond beauty from the shop strolled to where my effeminate friend and I sat. Her dress, this one yellow, fit as perfectly as the last one. I tried to hold her gaze, but came up short.

  She said, “Come here often?”


  “Apparently not often enough.”

  Her coworker said, “He’s smitten. I’ll see you later, sweetie.”

  I stood and offered my seat and she sat.

  Sheila returned, smiled at me, and took Elizabeth’s drink order. While Sheila poured the glass of white wine for Elizabeth, she asked me if I needed anything.

  “No thanks.” Not at the moment, anyway.

  Elizabeth touched the side of my face and said, “It looks like I’m not the first one to get hold of you tonight.”

  “Huh?” I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the bruises I’d accumulated.

  Smiling, she dabbed a napkin in her wine glass, rubbed my cheek, and showed me a white napkin with a shade of color very similar to the lipstick Rosalita wore when she gave me the farewell peck.

  Just great.

  I opened my mouth to speak but Elizabeth placed a finger on my lips.

  “No need to explain. Leon and I saw you come in and go through several drinks by yourself. We debated on leaving you alone but I couldn’t help myself.” She took a sip from her wine. “So I’m guessing the lipstick on your cheek is the reason I haven’t received a call.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She giggled. “That was a movie, silly.”

  “Also an understatement.” My drink tasted mostly of whiskey-flavored water.

  “I heard you’re having problems with your bar.”

  “You did, huh?”

  “Yeah, I asked around. Pretty impressive how much trouble one person can cause in such a short amount of time.”

  Elizabeth crossed her legs and I tried not to notice.

  “I’m just getting started.”

  “Did you really shoot those men last year?” she asked, a little too loud.

  Two guys standing next to us glanced my way.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “All I know is your first name and that you look lovely in the dresses you wear.”

  A pink blush colored her cheeks, then left. She said, “Compliments will get you only so far, mister. You also know where I work.”

  “Don’t dodge the question. How long have you lived in Charleston?”

  “All my life.”

  “A local girl. I thought so. Have you ever been in my bar?”

  Another grin. “Have you seen me in your bar?”

  “Touché.” I could feel my face redden.

  “Sorry. That was unfair. I have been to your bar but it was a long time ago. An old man ran it then.”

  “He was my uncle.” And the memory of him made me want another drink. I signaled Sheila.

  Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I did read about what happened to him.”

  Sheila brought me my whiskey and Elizabeth ordered another glass of wine.

  “Okay,” Elizabeth said, “you want to know about me? I grew up in Mount Pleasant and am in my senior year at College of Charleston.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Good field. You interested in solving other people’s problems or your own?”

  Another grin. “Double touché, Mr. Pelton. You’re probably referring to my bad choice in men.”

  “I only know of one so far, maybe a second in the making.”

  “The night is still young,” she said. “I guess that means I have more self-evaluation to do.”

  My turn to grin.

  She set her glass on the bar. “Jon-Jon was rich and I was stupid.”

  Into my glass, I said, “We all have baggage.”

  “So what happened between you and the owner of the purple lipstick?”

  “I was rich and she was stupid.”

  That made her laugh. The bar seemed to get brighter, or was that just me focusing on her perfect teeth?

  She said, “Okay, you’ve earned yourself a slow dance. What do you say we go find one?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The sound of my phone vibrating across a wood surface woke me. Squinting, I had to take in my surroundings, which were pink and unfamiliar.

  A mound of blond curls snuggled next to me. “Tell them to call back later.”

  Picking up the phone, I stared at the caller I.D. It was Darcy. I shut the phone off, and turned to go back to sleep but couldn’t.

  The apartment was small and tidy. And really pink. My headache informed me I’d once again had too much to drink and that I was getting too old for this.

  An hour later, Elizabeth awoke and got ready for an early class. She walked me to the door. Instead of a quick peck on the cheek and a promise to call, she gave me a hug and a kiss. “I had a really good time last night.”

  “Me, too,” I said and meant it. Unlike the rest of my life, there was no drama with this girl. I liked that.

  “If you don’t patch things up with purple lipstick, give me a call.”

  Her words reminded me of everything I’d gotten drunk to forget.

  I drove my Audi to the Church of Redemption. Brother Thomas was in a counseling session with a couple and I waited in the sanctuary. After an amount of time sufficient for me to take a much-needed nap, he came out and woke me up. In his office, I told him how I’d messed things up with Rosalita and used Elizabeth to nurse the wound I didn’t want to deal with. It felt like confession, and I needed to confess. Mutt would have cheered and demanded more detail. Brother Thomas simply listened and then said a prayer for me.

  Walking out of the church, I heard Witchy Woman buzz from my phone and I answered it. “Hey, Darcy. I was just about to call—”

  “Do I have to remind you I’ve got sources all over this town? You’ve been in the paper too many times not to be noticed.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “I thought we had an understanding.”

  Not really sure what that meant, or not really wanting to think about the implications, I kept quiet.

  “Since you’re not talking, I’ll tell you what I know. Her name is Elizabeth Powell and she used to date our friend, Jon-Jon.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Meet me at the paper.”

  Ten minutes later, I parked in front of my aunt’s office and got out of my car. Darcy emerged from the Palmetto Pulse headquarters.

  Pointing to the Audi, she asked, “Didn’t you have one of these before?”

  With the key fob in my hand, I pressed the unlock button and opened Darcy’s door.

  Without any tell as to what she was thinking or what kind of mood she was in, she said, “This doesn’t get you off the hook.”

  “Of course not.”

  She sat and swung her legs in, and I shut her door.

  Getting in my side, I buckled up, hit the start button, and asked, “Where to?”

  Darcy and I watched Gardner the candidate’s office from the front seats of my car while parked in the back of the lot. I tapped the steering wheel and periodically checked the rearview mirror in case we were attacked from behind, like a previous mission when one of the bad guys had shot Darcy.

  Two figures exited the Gardner building, Gardner and someone I hadn’t seen before.

  “Who’s the black guy?” I said.

  “His name is Ernest Brown and he’s who I think killed Willa Mae and Camilla.”

  This man was far different from the four goons in the Caddy I’d put down. From this distance, Ernest Brown appeared to be about my size. He seemed fit and walked with a military posture. Even in this heat, he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  Darcy reclined in her seat and stretched her legs.

  I asked, “How long were you going to hold out on me?”

  “It’s not my fault you’re too busy being led around by your penis to do any real investigating.”

  I locked in on Ernest Brown. As if sensing he was being watched, he turned and looked in our direction. A little unnerved, I asked, “Who is h
e?”

  “Daddy’s fix-it man. He used to work for Jack Towler.”

  “The guy who won the election that everyone said was rigged last year?”

  She nodded.

  Ernest Brown most likely could not see us. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as he shook Gardner’s hand, then got in a nineties black Impala SS. It boasted large chrome wheels and twin exhaust pipes sticking out underneath the bumper. He drove away and I pressed the Audi’s start button.

  Darcy said, “I know where he’s going.”

  We followed the Impala at a distance. The last thing I wanted was to tip off this Ernest fix-it guy that he had company. If he was actually a killer—and Darcy thought he was—then two more names wouldn’t matter much to him. Ours.

  At the entrance to an upscale nursing-home community, he pulled in.

  “Bingo,” Darcy said.

  “Bingo what?”

  “He’s a creature of habit. Every day at lunchtime he comes here to visit with his mother.”

  I passed the entrance and kept going. “You don’t expect to sneak in there and hide behind the potted plants to watch him feed her split-pea soup, do you?”

  “No, Brack. I expect you to contribute to this investigation.”

  Shooting around a slow-moving van with ladders tied to the roof, I asked, “Like how?”

  “I just gave you his schedule for the next hour. Drop me off at the Pulse and come back here. We need to know what he does next.”

  Sometimes, and this was one of those times, I could be the dumbest man in the world. When I pulled up to the front entrance of the paper, Darcy got out of the car. She turned and ducked her head back in.

  “Paige got another job offer,” she said. “Get your head out of your pants and figure out how to save your bar before you lose her.”

  She walked away. I let out a long breath and gripped the steering wheel tight.