Burn

6

Carver parked the Olds in front of number 21 Cenit Street, picked up the brown vinyl folder containing a yellow legal pad from the seat beside him, then levered himself out of the car with his cane.

He’d bought the folder and legal pad ten minutes ago at a drugstore on Shell to use as a prop. As he stood alongside the car in the sun, he bent the folder back and forth a few times so it appeared well used, then tore out a sheet of lined yellow paper and folded it so it stuck out of the top of the folder, as if it had been hurriedly poked inside. Carver would be a busy insurance agent on his workaday rounds.

Cenit Street ran parallel to Jacaranda Lane, a block east. The backyards of houses on each street were separated by what looked like a long, curving ditch overgrown with weeds but was actually an electric and phone company easement. The backs of the houses on Cenit and Jacaranda faced one another.

As Carver crossed the street to number 21, the morning sun felt heavy and warm on his shoulders. The houses on Cenit looked much like those in the next block on Jacaranda, small, in various stages of recent repair or decades of decay, most of them with the faded red-tile roofs that the builder, years ago, must have gotten at a discount and used as a selling point. A few of the houses made a pass at Spanish architecture, an arched window here, an exposed beam and some curlicued ironwork there. Not at all convincing.

Number 21 had a small porch like Marla Cloy’s house. Around its foundation were rhododendron bushes and a lush and colorful flower bed. Peonies, hollyhocks, and violets were all seemingly planted in no particular order. When Carver got closer he could see bees circling above the blossoms. There were a lot of bees, but they ignored him and concentrated on their task, flying tight patterns then dipping to hover briefly at blossoms before rising and circling again. They had a job to do and so did Carver. It was a world of task and toil, all right.

He was pleased to see a name lettered on the black mailbox affixed to the cream-colored stucco next to the front door: Mildred Fain. The back of number 21 looked directly out on the back of 22 Jacaranda Lane. Mildred Fain might have logged a lot of collective hours glancing out her windows at the house behind her. If Carver got lucky and she was the nosy type, she might have seen quite a bit. She might know something that could give him insight into Marla Cloy and her motives. That was the idea, anyway.

He pushed the button near the mailbox and waited, in the shade but still warm. Out in the bright sunlight, the bees still circled and swooped. He could hear them in the quiet morning, a soft but discontented buzzing whenever the background rush of nearby traffic faded.

There was a creaking noise behind the door, then it opened and a small woman in a pin-striped blue and gray housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers peered out at Carver. She was in her late sixties and had wispy gray hair and sharp, wizened features. The sunken line of her thin lips and the jut of her jaw suggested she wore dentures but didn’t have them in. She seemed wide awake, though; Carver didn’t think he’d rousted her from bed.

“Mrs. Fain?”

The woman nodded, bright blue eyes fixed on him.

“My name’s Frank Carter, with American Mutual Benefit.” By using an alias close to his name he could always claim she’d misunderstood. “I’m making some routine inquiries about a neighbor of yours who’s applied for a policy.”

“Neighbor?” She said it as if surprised anyone lived nearby.

“That’s right, a Miss. .” Carver opened the kinked vinyl folder and peeked inside. “. . Cloy. Marla Cloy.”

“Don’t know her.”

“She lives in the house directly behind you.”

“Oh, yeah. Her. Well, I seen her. Talked to her a few times.” No teeth were visible when she spoke, but she enunciated clearly. “Don’t know much about her, though.”

“Well, we only ask some very basic questions.” Carver pulled a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and clicked out the point. “You say you’ve spoken to her. How many times?”

“Not more’n three or four. Once just to pass the time of day when we was both out in our backyards. ’Nother time about some stray dogs kept getting into people’s trash around here. That’s not much of a problem anymore, though. City animal control people came out and-”

“Do you recall if Marla Cloy smokes?”

Mildred Fain rubbed a small, arthritically gnarled hand over her jutting jaw. “No, can’t say as I do. Why’s that important?”

“Life expectancy. You’d be surprised what the actuarial tables demonstrate. If everybody read them, nobody would smoke.”

“Well, I smoked like a smudge pot for forty-nine years, and I’m still here.”

“Some of us are lucky,” Carver said, “or have the right parents.” He smiled. “You look like you come from good stock, Mrs. Fain.”

She returned the smile. Still no teeth. “Dutch-Irish,” she said.

“Oh-ho,” Carver said, as if that meant something. “What about Miss Cloy’s lifestyle?”

“Lifestyle?”

“Yes. For instance, does she seem to entertain a lot?”

“Hardly ever, near as I can tell. And my kitchen sink’s got a window over it looks out on our backyards, so I can see her house. She seems a good woman that minds her own business.”

“Good woman?”

“I never saw any wild goings-on, if you catch my meaning.”

“Uh-huh.” Another smile for Mrs. Fain. Carver was beginning to enjoy this. “No men coming and going at all hours?” He winked. “Nothing that would delight the devil and displease the Lord?” Too much? he wondered. Naw, this was Florida, the excess reach of the Bible Belt dangling south from the buckle to form a peninsula.

“Heavens, no! She keeps pretty much to herself. Works at home, I think. Said she was some kind of writer, is my recollection.”

“That’s what she gave as her occupation,” Carver confirmed.

“Humpf! Can’t be much money in that.”

“Probably not. Is there any one man in particular you’ve seen visiting Marla Cloy?”

“Nope. You seem stuck on that. I told you, she didn’t have men coming and going.”

“That’s right, you did. How long has she lived there? Just approximately?”

“ ’Bout three months, maybe a little less, I’d say. Said she moved here from Orlando.”

“Does she own?”

“Nope, that house is a rental. Had several people move in and out the last few years. Man who repaired computers lived in it before Marla Cloy. He got into some kinda trouble, I hear, had to move away in a hurry. Something to do with child molestation in Seattle followed him here because of his ex-wife’s accusations. Bitter divorce. He abused her and the woman wanted to get even, though she did get the house and full custody of the two children, and all he got was the family car, his computer tools, and some personal possessions. Don’t know much else about him, though. Got little time for gossip or keeping tabs on the neighbors.”

“More people should think that way. Did anyone help Marla Cloy move in, or did she hire a mover?”

“Hired a mover, but there wasn’t much big and heavy to move. Then she drove back and forth in that old car of hers, with loads of boxes and clothes on hangers. She don’t have much that looked like good furniture or expensive clothes. But young people don’t these days. Things are hard for them.”

“Would you describe her as a woman of moderate habits? I mean, she doesn’t drive crazily or drink to excess. . that sort of thing.”

“Seems to drive like everybody else. As to drink, that I wouldn’t know about one way or the other. Never seen her take a drink when she was out in the yard or visible through her windows. Wouldn’t mean much anyways. Drinking’s no sin. Bit of alcohol every day’s good for the nerves and heart.”

Carver was beginning to suspect that Mildred Fain had a secret life. But then, everyone did. “You have a sensible slant on things, Mrs. Fain.”

She grinned. “Never believed in life insurance, either.”

Carver put on a serious expression. “Oh, Mrs. Fain, you’re making a big mistake there.”

“Mistake I’d be making, Mr. Carter, would be standing here letting you talk me into buying some. You seem like a pretty good salesman.”

“I’m really more of a field agent than a salesman,” Carver said.

“Well, then the company oughta be utilizing your real talents. Been nice talking to you.” She started to close the door.

Carver thought for a second about sticking his foot between it and the doorjamb. But surely insurance agents didn’t do that anymore, did they? Certainly not field agents who weren’t salesmen.

He thanked Mildred Fain and let the door close all the way. A dead bolt clicked into place. A chain lock rattled faintly.

He was standing alone in the heat again, watching the bees intent on collecting nectar, the job for which they were by ability and instinct ideally suited.

Probably Mildred Fain was observing him through her window. On the way back to his car, he suddenly paused in the middle of the sun-washed street, as if jotting something in his notepad before he forgot it.

Faking it with conviction.

Utilizing his real talents.