Burn

23

The Egret Lounge was cool and dim inside. The mini-blinds along the front windows were sharply slanted so that bars of light traversed the low ceiling. A paddle fan, the kind that mounts flush with the ceiling to allow more headroom, was slowly revolving. It wasn’t needed to make the place cooler, but it seemed to be doing a pretty good job of keeping the tobacco smoke circulating. The Egret hadn’t yet caught up with the nonsmoking movement.

As Carver’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a long bar fronting about a dozen round tables with blue-and-white checked tablecloths on them. Each table had a napkin holder and a cluster of condiment bottles in its center, along with a large glass ashtray. Except for the bar itself, the Egret looked more like a restaurant than a lounge, though a lunch menu mounted behind the bar featured nothing other than hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and fried potatoes and onions.

The place smelled like fried beef and onions as well as cigarette smoke. Carver’s stomach, which had calmed down, gave a slight twitch. Country and western was also in the air, a Randy Travis soundalike singing in a deep, deep voice about God and the flag and an old hound and the wife and kids and something about a ’75 Ford. Carver couldn’t make sense of it, but it was sad.

About a dozen customers were scattered about the Egret, four of them slouched on stools in the habitual drinker’s posture of relaxed despondency at the bar. Brant’s foreman was sitting alone at a table, staring at a full mug of beer in front of him. It must have just been drawn, because it had a thick, foamy head. The foreman looked as pensive as the melancholy lost souls at the bar. Maybe because of the music.

Carver approached the table, and the foreman looked up at him. Without his hard hat he had a head of bushy red hair that curled wherever it wanted. Unruly red eyebrows, too. His face was sunburned so that his nose was peeling; he had the kind of skin that would never tan. He squinted blue eyes at Carver, as if trying to recognize him.

“Howdy,” Carver said, also maybe because of the music. “You’re the foreman over at Brant Estates, aren’t you?”

The man nodded.

Carver used the crook of his cane to pull back a chair. “Fred Carver,” he said, extending his hand. “I noticed you over where they were building this morning.”

“Wade Schultz.” Schultz’s grip was strong, dry, and callused.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink,” Carver said, “only that one looks fresh.”

“It is,” Schultz said. He seemed neither friendly nor unfriendly, and not particularly curious.

“I was thinking about buying at Brant Estates, and when I saw your truck parked outside, I thought it might be wise to drop in and talk with you. My theory is, talk to the foreman if you really want to find out how sturdy a house is built. What do you say?”

“About what?”

“Those houses good and sound?”

“I’d say so. We’re a company that doesn’t scrimp on materials, and I can guarantee you the building codes are followed right to the letter.”

“The houses are only half of it,” Carver said. “The company itself, Brant Development, is it as sound as the houses? A guarantee’s no good if the company goes out of business.”

“Company’s sound. Brant’s been building houses in Florida for a while now, and we don’t get many complaints.”

“What about those you do get?”

“We jump on them and fix what’s broke,” Schultz said promptly.

“How about the guy that owns the company? Joe Brant, is it?”

“It’s Joel. Joel Brant.” Schultz toyed with the handle of his beer mug. Muscles and tendons danced in his bulging forearm.

Carver leaned in closer to Schultz, speaking confidentially. “This won’t get back to your boss, but. . well, is he a reasonably honest man?”

Schultz smiled. “He’s my boss. What am I gonna do, tell you the truth if he’s a crook?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“He’s honest enough,” Schultz said.

“Just enough?”

Schultz took a pull of his beer and wiped a foam mustache away with the back of his hand. “You buy in Brant Estates, Mr. Carver, and you won’t be sorry. Those houses are a solid product and they’re priced right. And the honest to God truth is, Joel Brant’s as straight as any builder you can buy from.”

Carver smiled. “Sounds good to me. So he’s an honest businessman. And you tell me he’s solvent, or at least his company is. But what about his personal life? I mean, I knew a fella bought into a subdivision and the builder ran away with one of the saleswomen. Place went all to hell in no time while they were winning limbo contests in Hawaii. This Brant married?”

“Not anymore. His wife died a while back in a car accident.” Another pull of beer. “He isn’t going to run away with anyone, Mr. Carver. He’s not the irresponsible type.”

“Wife died? That’s a shame. He a young man?”

“Fortyish.” Schultz tilted back his head and drank his mug of beer down past the halfway point.

“I’d like to think that’s young,” Carver said. “It can hit a man hard, losing his wife so suddenly. Make him somebody other than himself for a while, if you know what I mean.”

“Some men.”

“Is Brant one of them?”

“Listen, I been on an extended lunch hour, waiting on some lumber deliveries.” Schultz glanced at his watch. “They oughta be there by now.” He stood up. “Been nice meeting you, Mr. Carver. I hope to be building your house one of these days.”

“It’s possible,” Carver said.

He watched as Schultz swaggered from the Egret, opening the door and disappearing from dimness in a blast of sunlight that made it appear he was walking into a stoked furnace. The door swung back quickly, cutting short the rude interruption of the outside world.

When Carver turned back around in his chair, a woman was sitting at the table.

She was in her early forties, with gray hair cut short as if for summer and surf, even though it wasn’t flattering. Her face, pretty with a kind of cheerful eagerness about it, was browned and seamed, as if she’d spent a lifetime in the Florida sun. She was wearing a light gray blazer with shoulder pads, but it was obvious that her shoulders were plenty broad without help from the pads. The neckline of her blouse beneath the blazer was low enough to reveal a lot of freckles and the very beginning of cleavage. Her hands were feminine but strong-looking. In the dimness and haze of tobacco smoke, she was strikingly tan and healthy looking, like an Olympic swimmer in the autumn of life.

She raised a cigarette from beneath the level of the table and took a long drag, shattering her Olympian image. Turning her head slightly to the side and exhaling, she smiled and said, “I overheard you talking to Wade about Brant Estates.”

“I’m thinking of buying there,” Carver explained. Lie, lie, lie.

“I work there. My name’s Nancy Quartermain.”

Great. Someone else who might talk with Brant and mention the man with the cane who’d inquired about a house. “Oh? Are you a salesperson?”

“No, the bookkeeper. I just wanted to make sure Wade didn’t. . well, scare you off. He’s a good foreman, but he’s not the best at dealing with potential customers.”

“That’s OK,” Carver said, “it’s not his job.”

A waitress came over and Carver asked Nancy Quartermain if he could buy her a drink. She asked for a diet Coke with a lemon wedge, and Carver ordered a draft beer like the one Schultz had been drinking. Two men in work clothes came in and joined the lineup at the bar. “Fish sandwich, Lorraine,” Carver heard one of them say to the waitress, even though it wasn’t listed on the menu.

“From time to time,” Nancy said, “Wade and Joel Brant get into violent arguments. It happened this afternoon.”

“Really? Over what?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. All of their arguments are over work matters. You know, financing, or completion dates, that kind of thing. They always blow over fast. Like storms out of the Gulf. But I wanted to make sure Wade didn’t say anything derogatory about Joel Brant. He’s a fine builder, a fine man.”

“You know him well?”

She took a final drag on her cigarette, then snuffed it out in the glass ashtray as she exhaled a faint trace of smoke. “Just as a boss who’s only in the office occasionally.” She stared at Carver. “No romantic interest whatsoever, if that’s what your question meant.”

It hadn’t meant that, and he was surprised she would think it had. Was she protesting too vigorously?

“Schultz told me Brant was involved with a woman named Gloria Bream,” Carver lied again. It had been Charley Spotto who’d ferreted out that piece of information.

“That’s none of my business. Or Wade’s.” The waitress came with their drinks, and Nancy was silent until she’d gone. “I can tell you this, though. Mr. Brant’s wife was killed in an auto accident about six months ago. Mr. Brant was driving when their car was hit by a drunk driver. He sort of blames himself, though he shouldn’t. The other driver was soused to the gills. Say, did Wade tell you about this?”

“No.”

She shrugged her athlete’s shoulders and sighed into her diet Coke. “Well, Mr. Brant shouldn’t torture himself. But you know how it is, he was driving, so I guess it’s hard for him not to feel he was in some way responsible.”

“That’s a shame,” Carver said. “Maybe the Bream woman will be good for him.”

“Maybe they’ll be good for each other, but they’ve probably got a lot to work through. From what I hear, Mr. Brant has terrible dreams about his wife’s death.”

“What kind of dreams?”

“Just horrible dreams. His wife-Portia was her name- well, her head was cut off in the accident and he was trapped in the wreckage with her for a long time. I mean, to have to live with that kind of memory. What do you think that does to a man?”

“I’m not sure. Nothing very pleasant.”

“I’d think it would have more of an effect on Mr. Brant than he’s shown.”

“Everyone’s different,” Carver said.

“Yeah. Makes horse races, I guess. Come to think of it, there have been some stories about Mr. Brant being accused by some weird woman of pestering her.”

“Pestering her how?”

“I don’t know. They’re only rumors anyway, I’m sure. A successful businessman like Mr. Brant, young and handsome in the bargain, and single now, he’s bound to attract the attention of kooks. I thought maybe Wade Schultz had mentioned it to you.” She picked up the lemon wedge that had been stuck on the rim of her glass and that she’d removed and placed on a napkin. Holding her hand to shield him from any wayward spurts of juice, she squeezed the wedge over her glass, then with an odd reluctance dropped it into what was left of her Coke, as if committing a body to the sea.

It struck Carver that maybe Nancy Quartermain didn’t believe for a second that he was really a prospective home buyer. She’d seen him trying to pump Wade Schultz for information and become curious.

“How long have you been with Brant Development?” he asked.

Something in her eyes over the rim of her raised glass told him she knew that he knew. There was a slight smile on her lips as she lowered the glass. She’d play the game. “About three years. Usually I’m in the main office in town, but when we reach a certain stage of a project, I spend some of my time at the site.”

“You like working for Brant?”

“Yes, quite a lot.”

“Do you like Wade Schultz?” He leaned toward her. Soul-to-soul time. Two posers leveling. “I mean, really?”

She pursed her lips, thinking about it. “I don’t like him much, I guess. He’s arrogant.”

“What about Gloria Bream? You like her?”

“She seems fine, what I’ve seen of her. She doesn’t work for Brant Development; but she comes into the office now and then to see Mr. Brant, and sometimes on business.”

“Business?”

“She’s a sales agent for Red Feather Reality. They have the listings on some of the Brant properties. And they drive red company convertibles as a promotional gimmick. That was probably Gloria’s car Mr. Brant was driving today.” Her eyes were thoughtful as she sipped her Coke, buying time to formulate what she was about to say. “What’s this actually about? Are you really a prospective home buyer?”

“Sure. We all have to live somewhere.”

“Uh-huh.” She grinned at him. “I won’t mention it, you know, if you confide in me.”

“There’s nothing to confide about,” Carver said.

“You wouldn’t be with the police, would you?”

“Nope. If I were, would you be honest and tell me Brant might be the type to harass a woman?”

“Nope,” she said, in the same tone he’d used.

Carver finished his beer. “I guess one ‘nope’ deserves another.” He figured his conversation with Schultz, and possibly with Nancy Quartermain, would get back to Brant, so he might as well own up to the truth partway. “I’m not with the police, Nancy, but I am looking into the woman’s complaint. So your opinion of Joel Brant is important to me.”

“Well, I told you all I know about him,” she said, wary now.

He could see that he’d lost her. She didn’t want to say too much and have word get back to her boss.

He stood up. She noticed his cane for the first time, her eyes flicking up and down. No change of expression, though.

“We can keep this conversation just between us if you want,” he told her.

“Sure,” she said, “even if there’s nothing to be confidential about.”

“The truth is, we can’t be certain of that until later,” Carver admitted.

He thanked her for talking to him, then he moved toward the door to follow Wade Schultz out into the heat and glare of harsh reality.

After leaving the Egret Lounge, he drove past Brant Estates again. The red convertible was parked exactly where it had been this morning, in front of the middle display house. Brant had probably gone to lunch while Carver was at the library researching Portia’s death.

Off in the distance, the brown pickup was parked behind a blue work van with aluminum ladders stacked on a rack on its roof, and Schultz was standing alongside a man in white overalls in the front yard of a framed-in house.

Instead of hanging around watching more construction, Carver drove to his office.

There were two messages on his machine. One was from a woman he’d never heard of who said she’d call back. The other was McGregor, telling him to return his call sooner than soon.

The machine indicated that McGregor had called at 2:02, just ten minutes ago. Carver sat down behind his desk, phoned police headquarters, and asked for the despicable lieutenant’s extension.

“Listen, dickface,” McGregor said, even before Carver had finished identifying himself, “your client’s been at it again. Marla Cloy phoned and said Joel Brant threatened her, pretended to shoot her with his finger.”

“What time was this?” Carver asked.

“She said it happened about twelve-thirty this afternoon.”

Terrific. That was when Carver was in the library and, as it turned out, should have been watching Brant.

“Any witnesses to this threat?” he asked McGregor.

“No. It happened on the parking lot of a McDonald’s near the Cloy cunt’s house. He drove up close to her and mimed bang, bang with his finger and thumb and scared the living shit out of her.”

“Does Brant deny it?”

“Who knows? We’re looking for him now.”

“If there were no witnesses, and he denies it, you can’t nail him for violating the restraining order.”

“What are you, his goddamn attorney now?”

“No, it was just an observation.”

“Well, observe this: I’m telling you to control your client, and I mean it.”

“You’ve got it backward,” Carver said. “I work for him. And like you pointed out, I’m not his attorney.”

“Maybe you got something there. And maybe Brant oughta trade you in for one, after what happened today.”

“You mean, what Marla Cloy says happened.”

“Don’t be such an asshole and make something so simple seem so complicated. Brant’s got a thing for Marla Cloy. Can’t help himself, Like bears with honey. Happens all the time. This guy’s paying you, so you’re making something else out of it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Carver admitted. “Thanks for telling me about the complaint.”

He should have known better than to thank McGregor. That sort of thing infuriated the lieutenant.

“I’m not doing you a fucking favor, Carver. I’m warning you. This Brant jerkoff is your client, and if he keeps harassing Marla Cloy and eventually winds up killing her, I see you as his accomplice.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m not, but sometimes juries are. Once you’re indicted and your ass is hauled into court, there’s at least a chance you’ll be convicted. Keep fucking with me, and I’ll see you’ve gotta take that chance. And you look exactly like the kind of prick who’s guilty until proven innocent.”

“What about the big guy who did a job on my head? Have you made any progress finding out who he is? After all, you’re a public servant and he beat up a taxpayer.”

“You say he beat you up, just like Marla Cloy says Brant is threatening her.” McGregor laughed and slammed down the receiver.

Carver slowly hung up the phone and thought about what McGregor had said. Maybe he was right and it was all really very simple. Brant was a closet psychosexual harasser, or even killer, who’d set his sights on Marla Cloy. Misogynists who raped and murdered looked and acted like other men. They were expert at leading outwardly normal lives that concealed their compulsions; sometimes the only clue was their model citizenship.

But something in his gut told Carver that McGregor was wrong about this one being simple. Even if Brant really was stalking Marla Cloy, it was complicated. And Beth was wrong, too.

Despite her assumption that not everything in human affairs was understandable, he’d somehow work through the maze of deception and find out the truth. Discovering the truth was what he was about; he wouldn’t-he couldn’t-stop trying.

His headache was threatening to flare up. He gulped down one of Dr. Woosman’s pills without water. Then he picked up the phone again and called Joel Brant’s cellular number.