Vickie Ann felt choked. She tried to move away from Patsy’s embrace. “But why is she here?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“There is only one reason why she could be here,” Patsy said. “That is to cause trouble. There is no other possible reason. And she’s doing it already. See, look at how upset you are!”
“What in the hell is going on?” a voice said loudly.
It was Jim, standing in the kitchen doorway. Vickie Ann, sobbing, dug into her bag for a tissue as Jim approached. “What the hell are you boo-hooing about?” he said.
Vickie Ann was crying too hard to talk. Patsy said, “Mr. Jim, the widow of the man who killed Alice has come to town. She’s staying out there at the Villas! Can you beat that?”
Jim stopped walking, and seemed to let the information sink in. To Vickie Ann he said, “I want that pistol, girl! You get it for me right now!”
He brandished his cane, and Patsy said, “If he gets his hands on a gun I’m getting out of here.”
Tears dripping, Vickie Ann shook her head. “The gun is in there,” she said, nodding toward the cabinet. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it locked up.” She pulled out her neck chain and displayed the dangling key.
Jim, standing by, said, “My daughter is murdered, and you think I’m going to just sit here?”
Patsy said, “They caught the killer, Jim. His name was Ronan Trent.”
Jim turned on her and shouted, “It wasn’t no Ronan Trent!” He swung his cane, and Patsy jumped back out of the way. She said, “Vickie Ann, I think I’d better go, don’t you? I’ll call you later, when we can talk about this.”
Vickie Ann, hiccupping and wiping her nose, didn’t answer. Patsy picked up her handbag from a loveseat by the door and slipped out.
A silence followed the click as the door closed. Vickie Ann blew her nose. Jim stood leaning on his cane, looking dazed. Vickie Ann put the used tissue in the pocket of her dress. Pointing at the grocery bags on the floor she said, “Daddy Jim, look at all the good stuff I bought. Why don’t I get started right now, and I’ll make us a real good lunch!”
– 20 –
Aaron was driving to Tallahassee again. His mother was not doing well, and the doctor wanted to talk to him. Aaron was not looking forward to the conversation, but he was on his way.
Aaron had hoped, assumed, really, that his mother would be able to go to his retirement dinner. She would be bent and frail, but she would be there, in the lavender dress that was her Sunday best, wearing an orchid corsage he had already planned to buy for her. Then came the stroke, and— bam. Would she even be alive when the dinner happened? Aaron had not needed another lesson in how tough life could be, but he thought he was going to get one anyway.
He was approaching Luna Bay, and his thoughts turned to Clara Trent. He was thinking about Clara a great deal. For one thing, he was burdened with guilt about his part in the nasty turn her life had taken. Had he really thought beforehand about how revealing Ronan as a killer would affect Clara? He told Clara he had considered it, but considering a situation in the abstract was not the same as seeing the human being whose life had been altered— a tall, blue-eyed woman who had been, on the whole, pretty sensible. At least until she came to Luna Bay and checked into the Villas.
The other thing that bothered Aaron, though he wasn’t sure why it should, was his suspicion that Clara thought he was a total jerk. She had caught him breaking into her place at the Villas, for God’s sake. Aaron’s face heated up at the thought. And on top of that she had brushed his warning about negative sentiment in St. Elmo aside, as if she had already made up her mind what she was going to do. On the other hand, what did he care if she respected him or not? To hell with her.
Aaron knew that in the Sheriff’s Department he was considered a plodder— a reliable investigator, but without much inspiration, imagination, or whatever you wanted to call it. Overall, he accepted that assessment. He took things step by step, and went by the book. But he was about to retire, and he wanted to retire with a good feeling about his work. He had been written up in the paper for reopening the Rhodes case, for getting a result. It had been a very positive story, with a photo of Aaron to accompany it. That was the note he wanted to end his career on. And since Stacey had dumped him for another man and his mother was declining, didn’t he have a right to that much?
Aaron was cruising through Luna Bay, coming up on the River County Courthouse. On an impulse, he slowed down and pulled into a parking place in front of the building. The dashboard clock told him he still had plenty of time to get to Tallahassee before his meeting with the doctor. He crossed the sidewalk, went up the steps and inside, and turned left toward the double glass doors that led to the River County Sheriff’s Department.
As luck would have it, the man he was looking for was standing at the front counter, drinking a cup of coffee and laughing about something with the switchboard operator. Ernie Watts was a young investigator, a freckled-faced, redheaded kid with the eager vitality of a beagle. When he saw Aaron he said, “Aaron! Didn’t you retire? I thought you’d be up the river fishing.”
“Don’t rush me out so fast,” Aaron said.
“No sir! I know you’re still around, because I haven’t been to your party yet. What can I do you for?”
A few minutes later Aaron had a mug of coffee also. He and Ernie had settled in the office Ernie shared with two other investigators, neither of whom were on the premises. Ernie said, “What’s up?”
Aaron took a swallow of coffee. What was up? Good question. He said, “I’m finishing some details on the Alice Rhodes case—”
Ernie gave him a thumbs-up. “Good job on that one.”
“Thanks. I’ve looked into this already, but I wanted to know any details you can give me about the death of Ronan Trent, the guy that killed Alice. It’s just a matter of dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”
Ernie nodded. “It was a weird deal,” he said. “One of those things that when you look back you see it was bound to happen, but you never expected it until it did.”
“What do you mean?”
Ernie thought for a moment or two. “Ronan Trent was basically a local character,” he said. “People said he was an artist, and I guess he was. He lived here for years, but he was not a sociable man at all. He would walk around town with his head down, not speaking to anybody. And a whole lot of the time he went over to Loggerhead Point in this little boat he had. You’d look out and see him heading that way, and it was just something you got used to seeing. He had a campsite, and camping over there wasn’t against any regulations, and he never caused trouble or started any fires. He came and went in all kinds of weather, stayed over there for weeks at a time. And you know, he had gotten to be an elderly guy, and maybe somebody should’ve thought about his health, but truthfully people were just used to him, and I guess nobody did.”
“What about his wife? Clara?”
“Mrs. Trent?” Ernie shrugged. “I think she just didn’t make any fuss. He came and went as he pleased. She’s a real good artist herself, and she was well-respected around here. She taught some classes and all, but she kind of kept to herself too. They weren’t from around here, if you know what I mean.”
Aaron definitely knew what he meant. Being from “around here” counted for a great deal in these parts. “Did she never even report Ronan missing?” he said.
Ernie took a swallow of coffee and nodded. “She did, but hell, he’d been gone for about six weeks at that point. We went over there looking for him, and man— You wouldn’t want to see that if you didn’t have to. He’d been dead for a hell of a while. Putrefied, decayed, the whole nine yards. And animals had been messing with him, too. Not to mention the bugs. It was ugly.”
“What was the cause of death?”
Ernie shrugged. “Could have been a heart attack, some other medical condition that overtook him. Best guess, natural causes. Like I say, he was no spring chicken. Plus, it turned out he had a heart condition, but he was
cantankerous and didn’t always take his medicine.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
Ernie gave a short chuckle. “Sort of. Didn’t surprise anybody that the results were inconclusive. And then Mrs. Trent had him cremated, and that was that.” He put his mug on the desk. “That what you need?”
What had he needed? Aaron wasn’t even sure. “I guess.”
“What else, Bro? Spit it out.”
“It’s just— nothing. Clara Trent is staying in St. Elmo right now. I’m trying to get a better handle on her.”
“What’s she doing over there?”
“I’m not sure. I’m hoping she isn’t going to stir around in the Alice Rhodes business. Get people excited.”
“Uh oh,” Ernie said. “I wish you luck on that one. Maybe you should put in your paperwork sooner than you planned.”
“Ha ha,” Aaron said. He patted Ernie on the shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Aaron.”
On his way down the hall Aaron checked his watch. Now he’d have to hurry if he wanted to be on time to meet the doctor.
– 21 –
Clara, back at the Villas, sat at the dining table with Aaron’s file and the telephone directory in front of her. She had been trying to decide what, if anything, she had learned from her talk with Frank Kirby in Westpoint. There had been no revelation, no piece of unexpected information casting a new light on the murder or the poker game. Even so, Clara had found it informative. Her conversation with Frank Kirby— Frankie— had given her a more vivid picture of events than the descriptions she had read and heard before. The very idea that Frankie had been sitting at the poker table with Ronan, that he had told Ronan to take his head out of his ass and play, was fascinating for Clara. She thought of Ronan that night— nervous and distracted, losing money— and the picture it created in her mind affected her deeply. It didn’t prove that Ronan was guilty, as Frankie had surmised, but it didn’t prove he was innocent, either. All it meant was that Frankie Kirby had thought Ronan was nervous and distracted that night. As far as Clara was concerned, that was interesting enough to make the trip to Westpoint worthwhile.
Which meant, she reasoned, that she should continue her plan of talking to the people named in Aaron’s file. Clara still didn’t feel prepared to try Alice’s father and daughter, but the reaction she’d gotten from Frankie encouraged her to proceed. Alice’s body had been discovered by two of her co-workers, Patsy Orr and Merle Evans. Clara leafed through the phone directory. There were three listings under Evans, and none of them was Merle or initial M. Merle could be married, so Clara would have to try them all. Before launching into that, however, she checked for Patsy Orr. There was a listing for Orr, P. She picked up her phone and dialed the number.
It rang six or seven times before the recording kicked in: “This is Patsy. Please leave a message,” and then the beep. Clara hung up without speaking. Trying to explain herself would be complicated enough without doing it on a machine. She’d try Patsy Orr later.
That left the other co-worker, Merle Evans. The three Evans listings were Wilson T., Willie B., and James. She started with Wilson T., and got no answer and no message machine. A woman answered the phone at Willie B.’s but said, “No ma’am, you’ve got the wrong number.” She went on to James and dialed the number. A woman answered.
Clara said, “Is this Merle Evans?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling, please?” Merle Evans sounded like a no-nonsense individual.
Clara gathered her wits and said, “My name is Clara Trent. I’m hoping you’ll be willing to speak with me about the Alice Rhodes murder case, Mrs. Evans.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. At last Merle Evans said, “Who did you say you were?”
“My name is Clara Trent.”
Another silence. “And what exactly did you want to speak to me about?”
Merle did not sound friendly, or even cordial. Clara clutched her phone, her hand sweating. “I’m the widow of Ronan Trent. I’m in town because I want to understand— I want to— ”
“I have nothing to tell you, Mrs. Trent,” Merle said.
Clara pushed on, “I need to understand what happened. I knew nothing about the murder. It has come as a terrible shock.”
“I can imagine,” Merle said, her voice dry.
“I don’t mean to impose, but if you could spare me a little while, anything you have to say would be helpful.”
An almost inaudible sound, maybe a sigh, reached Clara before Merle said, “Mrs. Trent, as I said before, I have nothing to tell you. To put it another way, I am not willing to talk with you about this.”
She sounded as if her mind was made up. “I see,” Clara said. “I’d like to give you my phone number, in case you change your mind.”
Clara gave her number to silence on the other end, and then Merle went on. “There is one thing I will tell you,” she said. “There is nothing to be gained by you digging into this matter. There’s nothing to be gained for you, and you may well cause pain to others. There are people here in St. Elmo who were devastated by the murder of Alice Rhodes. I would urge you to think of them and not yourself. And most of all, I would urge you to leave us alone.” She hung up.
Clara put her phone down and leaned back in her chair. The thought went through her head: You can’t say Aaron didn’t warn you. He definitely had, damn him. The thought of Aaron, his sincere brown eyes, his rumpled clothes, was infuriating. He had picked the lock on her door because (although he hadn’t actually said so) he was afraid she’d tried to kill herself. Why should he be concerned? He should’ve left her alone in the first place. Yes, he had tried to warn her that she might not be welcome in St. Elmo. And he had been right, at least as far as Merle Evans was concerned.
So Clara had talked to two people— Frankie Kirby, who was loquacious and helpful, and Merle Evans, who was stern, punitive, and not helpful.
Clara sighed, and got up. She went to the bedroom, took The Book of Alice from the top dresser drawer, and brought it back with her. She sat down at the table again and started to leaf through it— distractedly at first, and then with growing absorption. Where had these drawings been done? Aside from the depiction of Alice herself, there was very little detail in most of the pictures— part of a window, a bed, a half-open doorway. Many of the works could have been done right here, in the living room or the bedroom. The thought made Clara sad. It seemed so clear to her that Ronan had depicted Alice with overwhelming love. Could he have killed this woman? Clara closed the book and put her head in her hands.
– 22 –
Between two and three a.m., Leo Swain was sitting behind the counter at Margene’s MiniMart. His notebook was open in front of him, his pen was in his hand. He was staring at a blank page and wondering what he had done to deserve this.
In truth, Leo knew what he’d done to deserve it. That’s why he was writing his autobiography, Confessions of a Humble Man. Leo was willing to face up to what he had done, and what he had not done, but he was not willing to face this page and realize he had no idea what to write on it.
He had hoped tonight would be different. He had come up with a couple of possible strategies to get the flow of words going again. He considered having a shot of bourbon before work, but he hadn’t touched alcohol in years and the thought didn’t appeal to him. As a substitute, he had picked from the shelves a cellophane-wrapped apple turnover with sugar frosting (Just like home-made! the label said) and eaten it with his usual cup of coffee. It was an unaccustomed luxury, and he thought it might relax him, or give him a spurt of energy, or both, but although it had been delicious, it had had no effect on getting his writing going.
Leo knew what was wrong, of course. The problem could be summarized in two words: Clara Trent. Clara Trent had shown up, and all Leo’s hard-won peace of mind had gone out the window. Leo had spent years, under very difficult circumstances, building a life for himself. The life he had constructed wouldn�
�t suit everybody, but it had come to suit Leo. He didn’t even imagine he had a right to anything better. He had, however, found a measure of solace by telling his story in Confessions of a Humble Man.
At first, the book was going to be short and sweet. Once Leo got started, however, he had not been able to stop. He realized he needed to fill in the background, tell some of the stories he remembered from his childhood. And one story reminded him of another, and then another. Before long he was lost in the past, and he could see that working up to the present day was clearly going to take a while. Since he had nothing but time, that was all right. Leo had been getting there, page by page. Until Clara Trent showed up to buy groceries at Margene’s. And then she had asked some “casual” questions about the Gulf Dream Lounge and the Gulf Dream Villas. And he saw her name on the slip.
It was disturbing. Clara Trent comes sashaying in, getting her groceries, looking like something special, asking him wide-blue-eyed questions about didn’t this used to be the Gulf Dream Lounge. And when she was going out the door, and Leo asked if she was into local history, she gave a smart answer, flung back over her shoulder: Something like that.
Yeah. Something like that. Staring at the page, Leo felt the stirring of anger. He hadn’t been angry in years, hadn’t allowed himself to feel that way. In the life he had constructed, anger was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He worked the night shift at Margene’s MiniMart. He lived alone, out in the woods, in his trailer not far from Luton’s Landing. He didn’t spend much money, and he kept out of everybody’s way. Coming to work at Margene’s had been a risk, and Leo had known it. But years had gone by. Everything was different now.
Except now Clara Trent had shown up. And with a few words, she had dragged the past in the door with her. Clara Trent had her finger on the button that could explode Leo’s life. She shouldn’t have come here. She should go back where she was before. Leave the Gulf Dream Lounge alone. Leave the Gulf Dream Villas alone. Leave Leo Swain alone.
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