Heat

by R. W. Clinger

  Chapter 39: The Drift

  Studio 39

  6:55 P.M.

  After leaving Clarissa’s empty condominium, I ended up at The Drift; a line of abandoned fishery buildings that local artists, including Gregg Hofflander, had taken over, creating their studios. Rent came cheap, the studios were large, and the place no longer smelled like shrimp. There were sixty-seven studios in all, most of which were occupied by starving artists of various ages. Gregg’s studio was number thirty-nine.

  Barred windows and three steel doors accessorized the studio’s entrance. Two of the doors were locked. The third wasn’t and gave me the opportunity for an illegal entry, which I implemented with ease and caution.

  Gregg’s studio was vast in size like the others to its left and right. Thirty-foot ceilings were comprised of steel sheets and I-beams. Cement troughs were scattered about its interior and filled with water and clay. Each trough was covered in plastic to prevent the clay from drying out. A multitude of colored clay in pool-table-sized troughs furnished the place. To the far left were two wooden tables covered in sculpting tools: encaustic scrapers, spatulas, magnifiers for detailed work, chrome burnishes, scoops, texturing tools, and modeling stands. To the right of the tables were four more tables, all of which were decorated with clay figurines. Each had similar features to those discovered in Rudy Shower’s apartment on Coral Street. The figurines were all female, of different clay hues and many sizes. Some were skeletal and petite, while others were chubby and round.

  To the right of the sculptures were three tunnel kilns, which were four feet high and nine feet long, multi-level, and probably too large for what Gregg needed to use them for low turnout of product. Next to the kilns sat a wooden box filled with exactly what I wanted to stumble across: Fire paperbacks written by Gregg’s ex-wife, Margo Pagino. All were brand new and unread. I counted approximately thirty inside the wooden box.

  What would an ex-husband be doing with a stash of fluff-enhanced romances? I figured that he didn’t find pleasure from them. Despite their saucy scenes, they had marshmallow plots. Part of me grew surprised because I had now placed Gregg Hofflander as a suspect of arson. Couldn’t he have easily burned down the Flaming Flamingo and Bungalow Fifteen? Hadn’t he worked with fire almost every day of his life involving his kilns? Or was he a low-scale arsonist, still filled with rage for his ex-wife and burning her paperbacks on Hurricane Bay Beach?

  I chose the latter hypothesis like a soft investigator, clearing the man of burning down buildings in Hurricane Bay. Besides, there wasn’t anything else that I uncovered as questionable at the premises. Nothing at all. No cans of gasoline. No list of people to murder. Nothing of the sort.

  As I left, Gregg Hofflander entered through its cement-framed door, displeased to see me. “I see you’ve made yourself quite comfortable while I was out, Axle Dupree.”

  “How do you know me?” I asked. Hurricane Bay had the reputation of being rather small, but not that small.

  I eyed Gregg for the first time and thought him rather odd. Bald, he wore black eyeliner and pink gloss on his lips. His attire consisted of white capris, a hemp shirt with a hood and strings, and leather flip flops the color of a coconut’s shell. Woebegone came to mind, but didn’t every artist at The Drift carry that title?

  “I know you’re working for my ex-wife, and you think Bobby Pagino is my son.”

  Taken aback by his statement, I asked, “If you’re not Bobby’s father, who is?”

  He laughed, shaking his head. The sound erupted like a pissed-off mule’s. “You should already know the answer to that question because of your chosen career and skills. God only knows. Margo was quite the whore two decades ago. She probably slept with a man from Underground Spectacle. Margo has always called Bobby my child, but he isn’t.”

  “Why Underground Spectacle?” I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that he knew of Underground Spectacle, given his reputation as an artist, which probably most of the group’s members were.

  He blinked a few times and waved his index finger in my direction as if he were creating a spell like Harry Potter with his wand. “I’m impressed you know what Underground Spectacle is.”

  “I try my best.”

  “Years ago, before Bobby was born, Margo was obsessed with the cult. She was just about to write Fire’s Magic and lived with Underground Spectacle for six weeks. She took valuable notes and learned about all of their odd skills for her book. In the interim, she met one of the leading men of the group at the time. His name was Warrington High. I believe High was Bobby’s real father. Margo fell for the man and had seen him on and off for seven years, outside our marriage, which inevitably ruined us. We divorced.”

  “What happened to High?”

  “He died from third-degree burns. High was a fire juggler and accidentally caught himself on fire. Ninety percent of his body was covered in burns. His lungs were torched because he ate some heat and burned them to a crisp. He lived for forty-eight hours in Manatee Hospital, which is near the cult’s camp. Margo was devastated. She grieved for years, in love with the man. I believe Bobby was the product of that love affair.”

  Gregg could not be trusted, but I honestly couldn’t put my finger on why. He came across as smooth and virtuous. Everyone had a slew of secrets and various lies, even those men who considered themselves gentleman, like Gregg. I held out my hand for a shake, which he obliged, and thanked him for his time. Spots of dried clay circled his right wrist, which clarified his passion. I decided to leave him to his work, told him goodbye, and left.

  Chapter 40: Bobby Surfaces and Other Matters

  HBIA

  8:06 P.M.

  I realized that I had left my cell phone in my office and decided to fetch the contraption. Once there, while I reviewed a few messages from Rebecca. Then the green phone on my desk rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Dupree?” The voice sounded soft but masculine.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Bobby Pagino. I want to speak to you, if I could.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Where and when?” I expected to hear from him since I had visited Underground Spectacle in the Everglades. If he didn’t make contact with me, then I would have been somewhat concerned. The investigating Gods were being good to me, though.

  “Listen to me. There’s no reason to meet somewhere.”

  I liked his style. He wasn’t afraid to communicate with me and didn’t have a problem with privacy.

  “Say what you need to say, Bobby. I’m all ears.”

  He took a deep breath, paused to clear his thoughts, and said, “It’s about my mother.”

  Just as I figured it would be. Closely-watched sons always had interesting things to say about their mothers. Bobby wasn’t an exception to that understanding.

  “What about your mother?”

  “I don’t want her to find me. We don’t have that type of relationship. My mother can be difficult and a tyrant. I honestly don’t want her in my life. I’m with a new family who cares about me.”

  “The people of Underground Spectacle,” I said, confirming my knowledge of his whereabouts and his association with the bizarre cult.

  “Yes, of course. I’ve learned that my father, the man who was my flesh and blood, was once with the group. I know that he was one of its founding members and of power in the group. My name precedes me here. I’m special because of my father. I’d be lying to you if I didn’t say that I wanted to follow in his honored footsteps.”

  I thought his unintentional pun amusing since he walked over fire. “I understand exactly what you’re saying, Bobby. I won’t speak of your whereabouts to your mother. There is no reason for me to expose you. I give you my word, here and now, that I won’t betray you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I respect you, even if I don’t know you.”

  Our conversation ended, and I listened to dead air on my end of the line. Silence is disturbing, I’ve always felt. I pressed the end button on my c
ell phone. Not even two seconds passed, and the instrument buzzed in my right hand. I studied the incoming number, didn’t find it familiar, but decided to take the call anyway.

  Laura Monigal said into my left ear, “Have I reached Axle Dupree?”

  “You have,” I answered, unable to comprehend the reason she contacted me. “Is this Laura Monigal?”

  “Why on earth would you ask that ridiculous question? Of course, it is. Some men are mongrels and belong in cages.”

  I didn’t reply to her question or take offense to her comments. Instead, I said, “My apology. I should have your incoming number memorized.” Being facetious humored me, but being rude didn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was piss the woman off and have her burn down my lover’s bungalow or HBIA.

  “I advise you to remember our meeting tomorrow evening, seven and no later. Tell me you’re a responsible professional who keeps his appointments. I would hate to think you run a loose ship. So many young people like yourself are similar to that these days”

  Of course she had something of value to tell me. Laura shined with a mysterious aura for all the right reasons concerning the arsonist that was still at large in Hurricane Bay. To not show up for her requested meeting would have been foolish on my part. A strange vibe that squirmed under my skin suggested that what she had to tell me could have been pertinent and worth my time. How could I not agree to keep her scheduled appointment?

  “Count on it, Miss Monigal. I’ll be there.”

  “As I know you will,” she said and ended our conversation without sharing a goodbye.

  * * * *

  Following my call with the wealthy woman, I pulled my tablet out of a drawer, placed it on the center of my desk, and reviewed the concocted list I had created based on the murder of Rudy Shower and the two major fires. Facts began to join together in the strangest formula. My fingers tapped the tablet a number of times.

  Peter Rotunda hires me find out who set his bar, the Flaming Flamingo, on fire and killed his lead bartender, Rudy Shower. Peter could have purposely started the fire and accidentally killed Rudy. Other clients have been guilty of insurance fraud, and I strongly believe that Peter isn’t above having bad ethics and executing illegal doings.

  Margo Pagino hires me to find her missing son, Bobby, but her kid doesn’t want to be a part of her world. Margo writes about fire all the time, perhaps maybe obsessed with it. The main character of her romance novels is named Fire. Can a woman like Margo start fires in Hurricane Bay and accidentally murder a liked bartender? I believe so.

  Bobby is missing. He’s somehow tied to Edgar Sign. Bobby has never been missing, though. Never. Instead, he leads a secretive and quiet life as a practicing member (a firewalker) of Underground Spectacle because of his “alleged” father’s established hierarchy and history with the group. Edgar says that I may not like what I see when I find Bobby. Why? What does Edgar know about Margo’s son that he’s keeping from me? Is Bobby an arsonist? Is he a murderer? It’s obvious that Bobby favors the act of walking on fire, but does he also enjoy setting them?

  Edgar Sign. Again, what does he know about Bobby that I don’t? And why is he hiding Bobby from Bobby’s mother, protecting the young firewalker? The reason surely can’t be serious. Edgar must have something scathing on the young man. Maybe Bobby has an unfortunate history with starting blazes, but never gets caught. Did Edgar start the fires? Did Bobby? Do both know who the arsonist/murder is in Hurricane Bay?

  Rebecca Rexx is seeing Clifton Monigal. Is Clifton exactly who Rebecca says the man is? Is he really a cowboy with ranches in Colorado and Stockton County, Oklahoma? Does Clifton have some of his grandmother’s bad blood and play with fire? And if so, why did he torch the Flaming Flamingo and Bungalow Fifteen? Clifton is visiting Laura Monigal, his grandmother, which is no secret. Is this pertinent information? Could be? Couldn’t be? I’m not sure. No one can really be sure except for Clifton himself, who seems mysterious and with a saddle packed with secrets.

  Laura Monigal, the upper crust of Turtle Bay because of her motel billions, had been tried for arson and declared innocent. Laura couldn’t help herself from being a firebug in her heyday. Has she regressed and caught a fiery bug again? Is Laura behind the mayhem in Turtle Bay’s sister city, Hurricane Bay? It’s obvious to me that she has a shaky history with Margo Pagino. The two women have fought like cats throughout the decades. Both are perceived as suspects until established otherwise. Is Laura dangerous? Will Laura strike again and burn down another building? What role does the woman have in Rudy Shower’s murder, if any?

  Rudy Shower collected M figurines. I don’t believe the art pieces have anything to do with the fires and murder, but I have to leave that thought open, just in case they do. Rudy had very few enemies, if any. Who murdered the young man and why? There’s no way the fire at the Flaming Flamingo could be an accident. No way in hell. The young man had been murdered.

  The clay figurines are created by the artist, Gregg Hofflander. Hofflander knows about fire and heat because of the kilns he uses to complete his clay figurines. Is Hofflander crazy enough to start fires? I doubt very much that he’s behind Rudy Shower’s murder, but it doesn’t hurt to investigate him more. Plus, is he really Bobby’s father, or is another man, one of the founders of Underground Spectacle, Warrington High? Does this have anything at all to do with Rudy’s murder and the two fires, and if so, how?

  A stranger shows up on the beach while I’m swimming and sets a few pages ablaze of Fire’s Delight, which just happens to be one of Margo Pagino’s bestselling paperbacks. Who did this and why? What message are they trying to send to me, the police, fire department, or someone else? Is Margo in their crosshairs for a significant reason, and if so, why exactly? How are Margo and her novels related to the fires at the Flaming Flamingo and Bungalow Fifteen?

  Like her grandmother, Clarissa Monigal also edited two of Margo’s Fire books. I am pretty sure that she and Margo don’t get along. But unlike her grandmother, Clarissa doesn’t have a history of arson. The woman has a clean record involving any petty or severe crimes. Am I reading too much into the editor? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Sunshine Dane admitted to being Rudy Shower’s lover and coworker. What is the young man hiding from me? Does he know who murdered Rudy? Did he learn of a secret affair that Rudy had with another man (or woman) and offed him? Murder is driven by two forces: love or money, or even both at the same time. Had Sunshine been caught in a lover’s quarrel with Rudy? Did infidelity present itself during, and in, their liaison? Did Sunshine do the murder himself, offing his boyfriend in a fire, or did he hire another queen to do it for him?

  Calvin Bow, another one of Bobby’s coworkers, liked men, meth, and hating almost everyone, minus Rudy Shower, who he claimed to love and wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Calvin fought with both Peter Rotunda and Tristen Trintar, and his file on record at the Hurricane Bay Police Department seemed plump. Calvin wasn’t a gentleman. Rather, he enjoyed criminal acts. Was setting fires in Hurricane Bay a criminal act, murdering his wannabe lover by accident? I wonder. How can I not wonder?

  Tristen Trintar is Peter Rotunda’s ex-lover. I’ve gathered that the two men are civil with each other, and they didn’t part with such sorrows. Tristen does have a rap sheet of playing with fire. Arson is a dangerous thrill for the man. Did he cause the blaze at the Flaming Flamingo, paying Peter back for something gone wrong in the lovers’ link, and offing Rudy Shower in the ugly process? Is he also responsible for the inferno of Bungalow Fifteen? Are the answers to those events easy to determine? Should I be investigating Tristen more, pinning him as the antagonist that is running amok in our community?

  Ronny Shower, Rudy’s twin, seems more interested in his schooner and naked men than the murder of his brother. The two had no sibling rivalry going on as far as I have perceived in the last few days. Not an ounce of questionable evidence has surfaced on Ronny. No crimes. No confrontations. Nothing of the sort. But Ronny did tell me that Peter
had dick-like qualities when at work, and Rudy loathed Peter. Did that prompt Ronny to ignite gasoline and set the Flaming Flamingo on fire, not knowing that his brother occupied the place? But what about Bungalow Fifteen? If Ronny is the arsonist-at-large, why did he set the bungalow ablaze? What reason did he have regarding the fire? How were the fires connected?

  * * * *

  10:18 P.M.

  I was done rambling and closed up my office for the day, made the drive to Casey’s bungalow, and decided to turn in. The place was free of smoke thanks to Toxic Mongrels, who cleaned every carpet, pillow, wall, and floor, making it sparkle and smell like the Gulf again.

  Casey was already asleep, snoring. Seconds passed, and a state of drowsiness came over me. My eyes slid closed. It was dreamless night without any REM activity, which was exactly what I wanted.

  Part 5: June 6, 20—

  Chapter 41: Margo Confesses

  The Waterfall

  9:09 A.M.

  “Here is the remaining amount of money I owe you,” Margo Pagino said. “I’ve also given you a copy of my latest paperback, which I signed on the title page.” She looked melancholic with unrested eyes and no energy. Her face turned pale, and the real pearls around her neck looked too tight. She tried to smile at me but couldn’t, which told me that she could have been upset with her life at the moment, or over what she had in mind to discuss with me.

  The Waterfall created an uppity and expensive adventure for one’s taste buds. I honestly couldn’t afford the place, but Margo could, dozens of times over. How could I not be pleased that Margo claimed the tab, calling our meeting “business”? Ruby-colored draperies hung from the walls, all of which were embossed in threaded and gold trim. Morning waiters with tight bottoms were dressed in tuxedoes. The tables were maple triangles with matching chairs. Crystal chandeliers hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the exotic room with shards of soothing white light. The tile floor sported cocoa brown swirls in a misunderstood motif.