John Lutz - Flame

Halfway up the drive, Carver cut to his right, into the woods, and began making his way among slender hickory saplings. The ground was deceptively uneven, and he was careful about where he planted the tip of his cane before bringing his weight down on it. It was shady in the woods, but hot. Birds were nattering all around him, objecting to his presence. If he’d figured right, he’d be approaching the south side of the Wesley estate. He could only hope the grounds weren’t fenced all the way around the perimeter.

But they were.

After fifteen minutes of limping through low underbrush that grabbed at his ankles and cane and tried to trip him, Carver found himself face-to-face with more chain-link fence and spiraling concertina wire. Wesley had been nothing if not security-conscious. Lot of good it had done him.

From where he stood, Carver could see the side of the house. It was only one story, but it sprawled wide; a main entry with tall Greek columns and a circular drive, then vast, low wings built on each side of the soaring portico. It was constructed of beige brick and had dark brown trim and gold accents. Thick ivy twined with green lustiness up the side nearest Carver, almost reaching the roof. He wasn’t sure what kind of architecture the house represented; would have guessed neo-Grecian Ranch Glitz.

The place looked quiet. Empty. Carver wished he had the means to get on the other side of the fence and go exploring. A little B and E never hurt anyone, as long as nothing was stolen and no one was caught. He toyed with the idea of driving back into Atlanta, buying a bolt-cutter to cope with the fence, and returning. But that would be time-consuming and risky. When he got back, the house might be teeming with mourning family and friends.

Shielded by trees on either side of the fence, he made his way along the chain-link until the rear of the Wesley house came into view.

There was a beautifully landscaped rock garden back there, and he could see one end of a swimming pool. A diving board told him it was the deep end. On the other side of the pool was a redwood table with an umbrella over it. Redwood chairs with bright yellow cushions. One of the chairs had a blue towel draped over its back, moving slightly in the breeze.

Carver decided there was nothing here for him. He’d hoped to talk to an unsuspecting family member or be able to look the place over and possibly find something revealing. Neither of those things was going to happen. He turned away and had begun limping through the woods when he heard a splash.

Turned back just in time to see the diving board still vibrating and the blue, blue water in the pool rippling and playing tricks with the sunlight.

The ripples calmed, then got hectic and slapped noisily in irregular rhythm against the sides of the pool.

Someone was swimming just out of sight.

The dazzling, sun-reflecting water made his eyes ache. Carver crouched on his good leg behind the fence and waited, one hand on his cane, the other with fingers laced through the chain-link. He realized he was sweating heavily.

He was patient, but the gnats swarming around him weren’t. They got in his eyes and tried to flit up his nostrils. He brushed them away now and then but it did little good. They weren’t giving up any sooner than he was.

About five minutes passed.

Slower than root-canal treatment.

This was no fun. He was coated with perspiration and his leg was threatening to cramp up. The cane was slippery in his grip.

More splashing noises came from the pool. Silence for a minute, and then music. Though not very loud, it reached Carver clearly: the old Bobbie Gentry song “Ode to Billy Joe.” Whoever was there had turned on a radio or stereo.

Carver’s body tensed as he glimpsed a wavering shadow on the poolside concrete.

The woman who strolled into sight was blond and slender. Though it was difficult to be sure from this distance, she looked about average height. She was wearing only the bottom of a skimpy red bikini, and her small breasts bobbed energetically as she walked. Her hair was long and soaked, plastered to her naked tan back. There was no difference in the shade of her tan around her breasts; she frequented tanning salons or she was in the habit of topless sunbathing. At first, because of her slimness, Carver thought she was very young, but even from here a more careful appraisal put her at about forty-five. Middle-aged women weren’t built like twenty-year-olds, and that was that, Cher not withstanding. Carver wondered if he was looking at Giselle Wesley.

Whoever the woman was, detective work had suddenly become voyeurism, and that made him uneasy.

The woman picked up the blue towel from the back of the redwood chair and dabbed at her eyes. Dropped the wadded towel into the chair, then smoothed back her wet hair with both hands. She tilted back her head and swayed gently from side to side in time with the tragic, hypnotic music, smiling slightly into the sun. The grieving widow? Maybe the maid at play.

Carver was glad when she stepped up onto the diving board, strutted gracefully to the end, and jumped into the water feet first, folding her arms across her chest, as if she were cold, to protect her breasts. After the splash that sent thousands of glittering fragments of water flying like spraying glass, he could hear her swimming toward the other end of the pool.

He moved away into the woods and started back the way he’d come, thinking no one had seen him but knowing he couldn’t be positive. He still didn’t feel right about spying on the solitary swimmer. Breaking and entering was one thing, but it wouldn’t do to be arrested and charged with being a Peeping Tom. The worst part was, he wouldn’t have minded watching the woman for a while, if she’d stayed in view. That was perfectly natural, he told himself. Wasn’t sure if he believed it. Finally thought, hell with it. People who analyzed themselves into paralysis got on his nerves and he didn’t want to be one of them.

The Ford’s air conditioner felt great. As he drove back toward the main highway, he adjusted the dashboard vents so the cold rush of air was aimed directly at him. Felt perspiration evaporating where his shirt was stuck to his flesh.

Gave only a glance at the dusty black BMW sedan that roared around him from behind and accelerated out of sight.

Carver parked the ford in the lot of the Norrison Funeral Home on Roswell Road the next morning and sat for a moment with the motor running and the air conditioner on, watching the people who parked nearby enter the side door of the long, white clapboard building. The men wore dark, well-cut suits, the women subdued dresses. A few of the women wore hats with black veils. Carver thought veils had gone out of style, even at funeral parlors, but he wasn’t up on that kind of thing and might be wrong. Miniskirts had come back; why not veils?

The other cars in the lot were mostly luxury models or sports cars. Expensive iron. They were all gleaming with fresh wax jobs, looked new and probably were. Money, money.

After about ten minutes, he turned off the engine and climbed out of the Ford. Heat from the sun-softened blacktop penetrated the thin soles of his shoes. Radiated up his pants legs and warmed his ankles. He used a forefinger to pry the knot in his tie a little looser, then limped across the lot into the funeral home, thinking Atlanta summers could be just as punishing as Florida’s.

He was in a small foyer, painted white over swirly plaster and with deep brown carpeting. There was a dainty gold sofa against one wall, obviously more for decoration than for comfort. A table with a floral arrangement. Mounted on the wall above the sofa were three large wooden keys painted gold. Carver wondered what, if anything, they were supposed to signify. On what looked like a painter’s easel was a directory. It said that Francis Allan Wesley was in Suite E. A suite, no less, as if he might still be alive and seeing callers.