“Then she hasn’t mentioned this to you?” Carver asked, making sure.
“Ask him in, why don’t you?” a man’s voice said inside the trailer,
“Of course,” Sybil said, smiling like a hostess who’d made a faux pas. “Please come inside out of the heat.” She looked uneasily beyond him as she spoke, as if something that lived in the heat posed a danger.
Carver climbed the two steps and entered the trailer. It was cool and bright inside, with dark blue carpeting and comfortable-looking early American furniture. Dividing walls were cleverly offset so there was no sensation of being inside two trailers attached together side by side. The interior was paneled in light oak to make it seem more spacious.
A short, bald man wearing blue denim cutoffs and an untucked flowered short-sleeved shirt sat a small table. He was older than the woman and had a moon face, a deeply cleft chin, and very dark eyes beneath bushy black eyebrows. There was a beer can in front of him, and a complex-looking jigsaw puzzle half assembled to display startled and wary deer in snowbound woods. A glass containing ice and a clear liquid sat on a coaster on the other side of the puzzle.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Carver said, pointing toward the puzzle with his cane.
“It’s only a hobby,” the man at the table said. “I’m retired and got nothing else to do.”
“I’ve come to enjoy puzzles, too,” Sybil said. “Didn’t at first, but Wally got me interested. Now we’re both puzzle enthusiasts.”
“I’m Wallace Cloy,” the man at the table said. “Marla’s father. He tugged at his ear, tucked in his chin, and stared at Carver. “Threatened, huh?”
“The man’s been warned, and we think everything’s under control,” Carver said, “but it still bears some investigation.”
Wallace absently touched a forefinger to the cleft in his chin, as if it were an old wound that was still sore. He had wide, square hands with very broad fingers. There was something menacing about him. “Marla never mentioned any of this to us. You say a man is bothering her?”
Carver said again that was the situation. “Does Marla talk with you often?”
“Not as often as we’d like,” Sybil said.
Wallace glanced at her, but said to Carver, “Who is this guy?”
“Name’s Joel Brant. He’s a home builder over in Del Moray. Apparently he’s developed some kind of fixation on Marla. It’s not because of anything she’s done.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Wallace said.
“Some men have that compulsion and settle on a particular woman for their own reasons. Marla said she didn’t even know who Brant was until he started harassing her. Have either of you ever heard of him?”
“I haven’t,” Sybil said.
“We wouldn’t know Marla’s friends,” Wallace said.
He picked up a potato chip from a bowl Carver hadn’t noticed on a counter within reach of the table, then bit into it almost savagely and began chewing noisily. When he’d bent over to reach the bowl, Carver could see behind him into the kitchen, where what looked like a complicated water filter with coiled white hoses was attached to the sink faucet. The Cloys seemed adequately protected from impurities.
“We’re very proud of Marla,” Sybil said. “We read all her work whenever it’s published, and last year she gave us that photograph.” She pointed behind Carver, and he turned around and saw an oak desk with a brass-framed color photo of Marla propped on it. It was a head shot, tilted so she appeared to be peeking around a corner while smiling. She was wearing makeup and had her hair styled in bangs. The Marla in the photo was wearing a demure white sweater and looked much younger and even prettier than the Marla that Carver knew. Prom queen material.
“Has Marla ever had any other problems with men harassing her?” he asked.
“She’s been harassed some, but no more than any other pretty girl,” Sybil said.
“She don’t send out the kinda vibes that’d turn a man onto her like that.” Wallace attacked another chip, then took a sip of beer to wash down the wreckage.
“Does she have any severe money problems that you know of?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Wallace asked.
“Probably nothing.”
“We help her out now and then,” Sybil said. “She doesn’t ask often. She’s trying to make her living in a very difficult business.”
“Has she asked for financial help lately?”
“No. Not in over a year.”
“Has a man phoned here for her recently?”
“Men don’t phone here for her at all,” Wallace said.
Sybil smiled. “Would you care for something to drink?” she asked Carver.
“No, thanks. I’m almost ready to get out of your lives and leave you alone.”
“We don’t mind,” Sybil said, “if we can help Marla.”
“Do you know a friend of Sybil’s named Willa Krull?”
“Never heard of her.”
Carver glanced over at Wallace, who was shaking his head no.
“Okay,” Carver said. He thanked them for their time, smiling and easing toward the door. “This sure doesn’t feel like the inside of a trail- of a mobile home.”
“We don’t think of it as a mobile home at all,” Wallace said. “Except when there’s a tornado warning.”
Sybil opened the door for Carver. He caught a whiff of lilac perfume as he slid past her and made his way down the oddly angled steel steps with his cane.
She waited until he was all the way outside, then leaned forward out the door, as if she didn’t want Wallace to overhear her. “If there’s any way we can help you, help Marla, let us know.”
“I will,” Carver said. “And don’t worry too much about this. It’s not so serious that Marla even mentioned it to you.”
“I worry about Marla. A mother worries.”
“Most of them, anyway.” Carver turned toward his car, watching a swarm of insects rise around his cane. “Good luck with the puzzle.”
“Good luck with your own puzzle,” Sybil told him.
15
When Carver entered the cottage, he saw the note tucked beneath the salt shaker on the breakfast bar, where he and Beth customarily left messages for each other.
She was staking out Marla Cloy’s house and would return late that night.
The note also told him there was pressed turkey in the refrigerator. He found it, along with mayonnaise and lettuce, then built himself a sandwich on rye bread and ate it with a cold Budweiser. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He made himself another sandwich, and while he ate it he finished a small bag of barbecue potato chips Beth had eaten most of, then sealed with a wooden clothespin. He wondered where she’d obtained such a domestic item. She looked like a beautiful tribal queen. He couldn’t imagine her hanging wash.
After returning the turkey and mayonnaise to the refrigerator, he propped his sandwich plate in the dishwasher, then opened another beer. He carried the beer can and the cordless phone out onto the porch, sat down in a webbed lounge chair, and leaned his cane against the cottage wall.
He sat sipping beer and looking out at the ocean for a long time, watching a high bank of clouds move out to sea as gulls cried and wheeled in the dying light. Then he smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar, picked up the cordless phone, and called Vic Morgan.
“It’s Carver,” he said, when Morgan had answered the phone.
“You sure, Fred? You sound like you’re talking from the bottom of a barrel.”
“It’s this cordless phone.” Carver was often frustrated by technology that kept getting newer as he grew older. “I’m on a weak channel or something.”
“Then change the channel.”
“It does that automatically. I paid extra for that feature.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you hear me well enough?”
“Sure. As long as I just take your word for it that it’s you.”
“Given that it’s me,” Carver said, “I’d like to ask what you know about Joel Brant.”
“The guy who’s got the nutcase woman after him?”
Carver could tell where Morgan’s sympathies lay. Like a lot of cops, he’d developed a negative view of women from his years on Vice. “Same Brant. He’s my client now.”