Heat Lightning

by Michaela Thompson

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was pretty quick. They said it was like she hung on until I got here, and then she passed.”

  “It’s very sad, though. It has to be.” Tentatively, Clara touched the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  To her surprise, he took her hand and held it between his. His palms were warm. He said, “I wanted everything to be different. I had it all planned in my head, how she’d come to my retirement dinner, and I’d get her an orchid corsage.”

  “Plans—” Clara’s voice trailed off. She wanted to say that plans don’t work out, hopes get dashed, our dearest dreams come to nothing. But she wasn’t going to say something like that to Aaron right now.

  “Plans don’t always work out,” Aaron said. “That’s life.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I’ve done all the paperwork. I’ve called my daughter,” Aaron said. “The funeral will be in St. Elmo, so there’s arrangements to make. But we can leave and go back now.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  “I—” Clara wasn’t sure what to say. “Thank you for letting me come with you, Aaron.”

  “It’s a sad day. It’s better not to be alone,” Aaron said.

  Clara drove toward St. Elmo while Aaron made phone calls— to the funeral home, to the Sheriff’s Department, and also to someone named Stacey. The conversation with Stacey had a different sound, Clara thought— a businesslike, almost angry tone. After a brief announcement of his mother’s death he said, “She always liked you, so I thought she would want you to know.” Shortly after that, a curt “Thank you. Good-bye.”

  After that call, Aaron put his phone away and stared out the passenger-side window. After perhaps twenty silent minutes he turned to Clara and said, “I’ve been thinking about the message that was sent to Ronan. It’s very peculiar.”

  Clara was surprised at the change of subject. “Are you sure you want to talk about it now?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Why not? It takes my mind off things.”

  “Sure. Fine. What about the message to Ronan?”

  Aaron said, “Well, the message was from somebody who knew a lot about what was going on.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Clara said. “And the person who sent it also knew how to reach Ronan. I mean— when you started looking for him, how did you find out where he was?”

  “It was simple. I put his name in a search engine, and your art gallery came right up in the results. Nothing to it.”

  “Anybody could do it.”

  “If they remembered his name,” Aaron said. He went on, “What gets to me is that part about They are going to come after you. I mean, ‘They’ means me, right? Ronan was being warned about me by somebody who knew the case was being reopened. And it’s almost as if that person was giving him a chance to escape.”

  “You said a lot of people knew.”

  “More than should’ve known,” Aaron said. “I’m going to find out who did this. I don’t like it at all.” He was silent for a few minutes, staring out the window before turning back to Clara. “How do you think Ronan would have taken this?” he asked.

  Clara lifted her shoulders. “I think he took it seriously,” she said. “It seems that he saved the note, folded it up and hid it in The Book of Alice.”

  “Do you think it would’ve scared him? Upset him?”

  “I don’t know,” Clara said. “Ronan didn’t show his emotions. It all came out in his painting. But I can’t imagine he would’ve been pleased to get that note.”

  “What I’m getting at—” Aaron turned in his seat to face her. “Would he commit suicide because of it? If he thought the cops were closing in on him?”

  Clara glanced his way. “He might do that if he was guilty,” she said. “But do you have any reason to think his death wasn’t from natural causes? Because that’s what I was told at the time, and I believed it.”

  “I think we should look into it,” Aaron said. “I’d like to know if anything was missed.”

  “I agree,” Clara said. “I need to know.” She kept her eyes on the road, and they continued in silence.

  – 32 –

  Leo Swain was lying on his bed in his trailer near Luton’s Landing, with his notebooks scattered around him. The windows were open, letting in the hot breeze that stirred the palmettos outside. He had just finished reading through his autobiography, Confessions of a Humble Man. More accurately, he had finished reading up to the point where he had stopped writing, which had happened when Clara Trent appeared at Margene’s.

  Reading his entire book was Leo’s latest tactic to get the writing flow started again. At this point he was beginning to lose hope.

  Leaving the last notebook open beside him, Leo stared at the low and dingy ceiling of his trailer. Thinking back over his work, Leo began to get a feeling that he had completely missed the mark. His book was called Confessions of a Humble Man, but in truth he had not confessed anything. As he saw it now, Leo’s life for the past forty years had moved in a huge circle, starting at the Gulf Dream Lounge and ending in exactly the same geographic location, at Margene’s MiniMart. He had gone away— run away— for good and sufficient reasons, but after his years of wandering he had been drawn back here. He had discovered that the Gulf Dream Lounge had been wrecked by Hurricane Eloise, and been replaced by Margene’s MiniMart. He had set himself up in his little trailer in the woods, truly becoming what he already was— a loner. When his savings got low, he asked for a job at Margene’s. He had become the night shift clerk, and he had started writing his book. It was as close as he had ever gotten to contentment.

  Even a night clerk at Margene’s couldn’t miss the news that the murder of Alice Rhodes had been solved at last, and Ronan Trent declared the killer. When Leo heard, he had felt it was for the best. Because things should end somehow, even if they ended imperfectly.

  Yes, even if imperfectly. Leo ran his hands over his face. Clara Trent had put a stop to that line of thinking. Asking him about the Gulf Dream Lounge. Staying at the Villas. Clearly, nothing was finished as far as Clara Trent was concerned.

  As Leo lay on his bed, something like a message floated into his mind. It was as clear and bright as if it had been written in neon on the ceiling: You can’t keep on writing the book because the story isn’t over. There it was. Simple.

  The story isn’t over, the message said. You can’t write a confession without confessing.

  Leo felt despair closing over him. He was still staring at the ceiling when he heard heavy footfalls outside. Someone or something was running through the woods. The next moment, he heard pounding on his door. A woman cried, “Help me! Please help!”

  Leo’s impulse was to ignore her, but when the pounding continued, he opened the door. Standing there was a woman with brassy dyed hair, her face red with weeping. She screamed, “Oh, please help me! Please!”

  Seeing the woman gave Leo a feeling of dread. He said, “What’s happening, ma’am?”

  She cried, “It’s Mr. Jim! He ran off, and I was looking for him— ” She broke down in sobs. “Somehow, he got all the way from town to Luton’s Landing, and— I think he’s dead! Please come!”

  Leo closed the door of the trailer behind him and followed the woman through the woods. There was a path, but she didn’t take the path. She barged through the palmettos, the briars, churning along like a lunatic, and Leo could hardly keep up. By the time he saw the glint of the canal through the trees, he was wheezing.

  The woman gestured toward the muddy water. “There! Just off the end of the dock! I couldn’t reach him!”

  Leo saw what at first resembled a bundle of clothing floating slowly toward the middle of the canal. There was a paddle lying in one of the boats moored nearby. He took it, ran to the end of the dock, and managed to direct the bundle— which he now saw was the body of an old man— toward the dock. He caught hold of the back of the man’s belt and dragged him along beside the dock
up into the weeds on the edge of the canal. It was a skinny old man, his wet white hair plastered down, his eyes half open.

  “Oh Lord, oh Lord,” the woman cried. “Oh, Mr. Jim!”

  This is it. The end of everything, Leo thought. He said, “What happened, ma’am?”

  The woman, kneeling beside the body, said, “He ran off. I was looking for him. I couldn’t find him in town, and I thought maybe he’d found his way out here somehow. He wasn’t right in the head.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked at Leo. “My name is Patsy Orr,” she said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Leo said automatically. He didn’t mention his name. He said, “This will have to be reported, ma’am. I don’t have a telephone. Do you have a cellphone?”

  Patsy Orr dug in her handbag and brought out a phone with shaking hands. Leo continued to crouch by the body while she made the call. He heard Luton’s Landing, and Yes, Mr. Jim Tuttle and drowned. She ended the call and said, “They’re on their way.”

  Leo nodded. He said, “Ma’am, I just remembered I left my stove burning back at the trailer. I better go turn it off before it catches something on fire. I’ll be right back.” He got to his feet.

  Patsy Orr looked numb. She said, “This is the second time I found a dead body. I found Mr. Jim’s daughter’s body. My friend Alice. Years ago.”

  Leo took a step backward. “I’ll be right back,” he said again. Everything was over. He left her there and started through the woods.

  – 33 –

  Clara continued driving on the return trip from Tallahassee while Aaron made phone calls about funeral arrangements for his mother. They hadn’t talked much more. Once, Aaron said, “She was a good mother.”

  “I’m sure she was,” Clara said.

  “My father was the sheriff for a long time. I wasn’t as good as he was in a lot of people’s opinion, but I don’t think she ever felt that way. She was my biggest booster.”

  “You’ll miss her.”

  “Yeah. I sure will.”

  They were still twenty minutes from St. Elmo when Aaron’s phone rang again. He answered and was still for a short while, listening. Then, sounding tense, he said, “Oh my Lord. I’m just on my way back to town from Tallahassee. Do you want me to go out there?” After a pause he said, “Well, if you’re sure. Keep me informed, all right?”

  He ended the call and turned to Clara. “Very bad news,” he said. “Jim Tuttle is dead. Patsy Orr found him at Luton’s Landing, drowned.”

  “What?” Clara’s fingers closed convulsively on the steering wheel.

  “Take it easy,” Aaron said. “You want me to drive?”

  “No. No, I’m OK.” Clara took a breath. “What happened?”

  “It’s a real mess. Jim conked Vickie Ann on the head and knocked her out, and he managed to get a thirty-eight revolver out of a locked cabinet. Hell, I didn’t even know he owned a gun. I guess Vickie Ann had the key, and he took it. Anyway, Patsy went driving around looking for him, and she found him out there floating in the canal. God knows how he got to Luton’s Landing from town. Obviously somebody gave him a ride.”

  “But— that’s unbelievable,” Clara said.

  “Yes. It’s unbelievable, but it seems it’s true,” Aaron said. “I guess old Jim was going out there looking for Coby, some notion like that. Who knows what he thought he was doing. So maybe he fell into the canal, and that was that. He was pretty shaky on his pins. The gun hasn’t turned up. Probably buried in the mud at the bottom of the canal.”

  Clara was having trouble taking this in. “You said he hit Vickie Ann and knocked her out?”

  “Hit her with his cane.”

  “Is she OK?”

  “Far as I know she is. She’s alive, anyway.” He went on, “I told them I’d come, but they said it’s in hand until tomorrow.”

  As they continued toward the beach, Clara’s mind was racing. Another tragedy had befallen the family of Alice Rhodes. Had she herself caused Jim Tuttle’s death somehow, by coming to St. Elmo and stirring things up? The thought was devastating.

  At last they turned off the highway and took the side road up to the Villas. “I’m coming in with you,” Aaron said as they pulled into the extra parking space beside Clara’s car.

  Clara turned off the engine and sat for a moment. She felt worn out and sad. They got out of the car and Clara was reaching into her handbag for the key when Aaron said, “It’s open.”

  He gave the front door a push and it opened a crack. “Didn’t I lock it when we left?” Clara said.

  “The lock isn’t very secure. I found that out before, remember?” Aaron pushed the door again and stepped inside. Then Clara, behind him, heard him say, “Careful, Clara. Somebody’s been here. Let me have a look first.”

  Clara waited at the door. After a few minutes Aaron returned and said, “It’s not good, but nobody’s here now. Come on in.”

  She walked in. Kitchen utensils had been emptied from the cabinets, the sofa cushions were thrown around the living room, the shell ashtray had been smashed against the wall.

  “It’s like this in the bedroom, too,” Aaron said. “Better check and see if anything’s missing.”

  Clara looked in the bedroom. Drawers were open and Clara’s underwear scattered. The few pieces of clothing she’d brought had been taken out of the closet and flung on the floor. In the bathroom, her shampoo had been emptied into the tub.

  “Vandals,” Aaron said, his voice grim. “This happens from time to time. Usually, it’s about drugs.”

  “At least we had The Book of Alice with us,” Clara said.

  “Right. Anything missing?”

  Clara looked in the top dresser drawer where she’d kept The Book of Alice. “Yes, something’s missing,” she said. “They took a box I had. A carved wooden box that Ronan gave me, years ago.”

  “A box?”

  “I kept my pills in it— tranquilizers, stuff I was prescribed when Ronan died. I kept my supply in the box. I was sort of stockpiling it.”

  “Stockpiling it?” Aaron gave her a keen look.

  She shrugged. “Yes. Just in case.”

  He kept his gaze on her a minute longer before saying, “Sounds like they got what they were looking for. Opioids. Prescription drug abuse is a big problem around here.”

  Her arms folded, Clara surveyed the chaotic scene in silence. She said, “All right. I’ve had enough. I’m going to do what you said I should do in the first place. I’m going back to Luna Bay.”

  “Clara—”

  Clara was near tears. “I mean it,” she said. “What have I done but stir up distress? I haven’t discovered anything new, and I haven’t made anything better. It’s time to go.”

  She felt Aaron’s hand on her arm. He said, “Look. I’ll help you get your things together, all right? I’ll help you clean up. And you’re right. You shouldn’t stay here at the Villas. But you shouldn’t leave now, either. We’ll get your things together, and you’ll come with me.”

  Clara turned toward him. “Go with you where?”

  She saw Aaron’s face redden. “I’m not coming on to you,” he said. “Just listen. Come to my place. I’ve got extra room. I don’t want you to be alone after this. We’ve both had a bad day. I’ll pick up some burgers, and we’ll have supper. You can stay in the guest room.”

  Clara was astonished at how appealing the suggestion sounded. “I don’t know, Aaron,” she said.

  “You can’t drive back to Luna Bay tonight,” he said. “You’ve been driving all day. Tomorrow we can talk about it, all right? And there’s something else I want to tell you. Let’s get your stuff and get out of here.”

  She considered only a few seconds more before she said, “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  – 34 –

  Toward dusk, Leo Swain reduced the speed of his outboard motor and guided his boat toward a small houseboat deep in the river swamp. Over the years he lived in the trailer, he had always kept a boat tied up at a dank and muddy br
anch nearby, a winding offshoot of the canal. Over time, proceeding by trial and error, he had learned how to navigate the waterway and reach the river. He had always considered the route as an escape hatch if events took a turn for the worse. Events had done that, and here Leo was, on the run again.

  When Leo left Patsy Orr at Luton’s Landing with the body of Jim Tuttle, he had known he had to get away before the police arrived. At the trailer, he stuffed a backpack with his Confessions of a Humble Man notebooks, emptied the coffee can where he kept all his money, and put the money in his wallet. He stuffed the pockets of his rain jacket full of granola bars, put his blue baseball cap (no logo) on his head, shrugged into his backpack, took a last look around the trailer, and left.

  When he got to his boat he could hear sirens, but he figured Leo Swain wouldn’t be the first item on anybody’s agenda. He untied the boat and paddled away, sliding quietly in the shadows beneath the overhanging trees. By the time he reached the river, he didn’t hear sirens anymore.

  Leo knew he was a man nobody noticed. He resembled every other outdoorsman on the river, and he wasn’t worried that anybody would be looking for him. Not yet, at least. He wouldn’t show up at Margene’s tonight, though, so it wouldn’t be long before curiosity was aroused. Leo’s life at the trailer, his job at Margene’s— all that had come to an end. It was time to figure out something else.

  The shabby little houseboat had caught Leo’s eye. It looked deserted, nestled by the riverbank and almost obscured by overhanging branches. No boat was tied up at the makeshift dock, no lantern light glowing inside. It looked like somebody’s hunting and fishing hideaway, maybe visited now and then, but judging from the state of repair not all that frequently.

  Leo cut his motor and floated closer. When he was close he called out, “Hello! Anybody home?”

  No answer. He let his boat bump gently against the dock, tied up, and got out onto the floating platform surrounding the cabin. The structure dipped slightly under his weight. He could hear birds, calling out their last notes of the day.