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.