John Lutz - Hot

He limped across the braided rug to the air conditioner and switched it on High. It screamed shrilly and went Thunka! Thunka! before the compressor kicked in, then it settled into a steady hum and emitted at stream of moderately cool air he could only hope would grow colder.

He lugged his suitcase into the bedroom and tossed it onto the double bed with its tufted white spread. The bedroom was small, with only a dresser and nightstand in addition to the bed. The walls were the same off-white as the walls in the rest of the cottage. One of them had a dark smear on it where an insect had been swatted. The floor was wood, with a gray throw rug beside the bed. There were a few oil paintings in here, too, but none as good as the one with the cats. Carver was glad to see another window unit, this one smaller but newer, and a ceiling fan like the one on the porch. June nights in the Keys could emulate Hell.

On top of the oak dresser was a display of small framed photographs. Carver stepped closer and examined them. There was Henry Tiller, accepting what looked like an award in front of a group of people, shaking hands with a gray-haired man in a dark suit. There were no women in the photograph, and everyone looked like a cop. Maybe this was Henry retiring. There was a black-and-white shot of a much younger Henry Tiller, standing next to an attractive woman with dark hair and an overwide smile. The ex-wife, perhaps, whom Henry professed not to care about. And there in a bronze frame was Henry about the same age, dark hair like the wife’s, posing with a lanky boy about ten years old in front of a lake. A slightly older Henry with the same boy, this time in his teens and looking something like Henry but with his mother’s smile; they wore heavy coats and there was a half-melted snowman behind them in this photo. Next to it was a shot of a man in his twenties, the boy grown up, with a heavyset blond woman standing next to him, one leg studiously in front of the other to make her appear thinner. She was holding an infant. Son Jerry again, and his wife, and their son Bump years before cocaine and death. All of them now out of Henry Tiller’s dwindling life.

A squeaking sound from the front of the cottage made Carver turn. At first he thought it might have been the ancient air conditioner, but a shadow wavered in the short hall outside the door.

He edged to the side, leaned with a palm against the wall and gripped the shaft of the hard walnut cane just below its crook. He focused his concentration, ready to rumble if he must.

A redheaded girl about five feet tall moved into the doorway and stood with her stick-thin arms crossed. She was wearing shorts, clompy red and white jogging shoes, and a sleeveless blouse, a green sweatband around her forehead. She was in her early teens and was pale and had freckles on every part of her that was visible. She didn’t seem surprised to see Carver, and stared inquiringly at him with guileless and friendly green eyes. Danger would be the farthest thing from her mind, until she grew up. She said, “You Mr. Carver?”

He straightened up and planted the tip of his cane back on the wood floor, feeling slightly silly at having brandished it for use as a weapon if necessary. “I’m Carver.” This had to be Effie Norton, the teenager who did Henry Tiller’s cleaning, but he thought he’d let her tell him that.

She did. Then she said, “Mr. Tiller told me what a great investigator you were, how you were probably better’n anyone in most police departments.”

Maybe Desoto had oversold Henry. Carver said, “Sometimes I can help, sometimes not.”

She grinned, crinkling the flesh around her eyes. Like a lot of redheads, she’d look old before her time, but until then she’d be a coltish charmer. “You’re being too modest.”

He said, “Yeah, Effie, I guess I am.” He wondered how much Effie knew about Tiller’s suspicions. How much she knew about Tiller. Well, there was a direct way to find out. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “what do you think of Mr. Tiller?”

She arched an almost nonexistent eyebrow. “In what way?”

“Any way you feel like talking about.”

She uncrossed her arms and let her hands dangle at her sides, standing like a schoolgirl getting ready to recite in front of the class. “He’s nice. He reminds me of my grandfather, who’s been dead three years now. When I say something, he listens. He don’t treat me like some kinda feeb just because I’m young. Hey, did you see him in the hospital?”

“Yeah, for a short time.”

“So how is he?”

“Some broken bones, and the surgeons are gonna do some work on him tomorrow. But I think he’ll be all right.”

“I sure hope so.” She was plainly concerned, maybe recalling the pain of losing her grandfather. Fourteen was young, all right.

“Do you think there’s anything to Mr. Tiller’s suspicions?” Carver asked.

“Suspicions?”

“About something being wrong here on Key Montaigne.”

“Of course there’s something to those suspicions.” Now she propped her fists on her narrow hips, ready to defend Tiller. “Mr. Tiller used to be a policeman, you know, in Milwaukee and then in Fort Lauderdale.”

“I know.”

“I mean, if he sees smoke-”

“Okay, okay. Then you believe he’s-thinking okay these days?”

“Ha! I know what you mean, but you take the trouble to listen and wait when Mr. Tiller tells you something, you’ll see how smart he really is. He sorta stops and starts and gets off on side roads when he talks, but don’t you ever bet he don’t know what he’s saying.”

Carver remembered Desoto’s bus-in-traffic analogy. Henry made a lot of U-turns, too.

“The person who ran over Mr. Tiller,” Effie said, “you think they did it on purpose?”

“I’m gonna find out,” Carver told her. “In fact, if anybody asks you, that’s what I’m here to investigate-Mr. Tiller being hit by a car that kept going.”

“You bet!” Her eyes widened brightly; she liked secrets.

“Have you discussed Mr. Tiller’s suspicions with anybody else?”

“Oh, no! He asked me not to. Only ones who know about them are Mr. Tiller, me, and the police chief, Lloyd Wicke. Mr. Tiller said it’d be best not to let anyone know somebody was suspicious of em; that way they’d destroy evidence or whatever, and might even sue for slander.”

“Something to remember,” Carver said. “Mr. Tiller must trust you a lot.”

Her freckled chin lifted. “He does.”

Carver smiled. “I guess I will, too, then.”

“You gonna be staying here awhile?”

“Probably.”

“I been coming in to clean three days a week. What I dropped by for was to ask if you wanted me to keep doing that.”

“Sure,” Carver said. “That’s what Mr. Tiller would want.”

She smiled and started to back away.

“Effie,” Carver said, “you never did tell me what you figured was wrong on Key Montaigne.”

She looked thoughtful. “I only know Mr. Tiller thinks there’s something. Could be a lotta things, I guess.”

“Drugs?”

“Huh?”

“Is there much drug use on the island?”

She didn’t hesitate. “There’s some, even among kids my age. I don’t know as there’s more here than anyplace else, though.”

“What about the boy they found drowned, washed up on the beach? He was about your age.”

“He was lots younger.” She sounded indignant. “At least a year. And I didn’t know him. He was from up north.”

“Miami,” Carver said.

“I only drove-been driven through-Miami now and again. Don’t know a solitary soul there.” When she saw he was finally finished questioning her, she started backing away again. Maybe shyly, but Carver wasn’t sure; few things were harder to read than a fourteen-year-old girl. She wore her joggers untied, with the shoelaces trailing. He wondered how she kept from tripping over them. “I got a door key,” she said, “so you don’t have to worry about letting me in if you wanna be someplace else. And my number’s circled in Mr. Tiller’s directory in by the phone, case you make a mess and need spur-of-the-moment cleaning. I live not far down Shoreline and can get here on my bike pretty fast.”