“Want toast?” Beth asked.
“Maybe later. Just coffee now.”
She sipped. Her motion of lifting and tilting the mug rotated it to read RHODE ISLAND SECRETARY EXCITES FURNITURE EXPERTS. “So tell me about last night,” she said.
“It was wonderful, as usual.”
“Think back a few hours before that, Fred.”
He related his evening following Marla Cloy, then he got up and poured another cup of coffee. It was ordinary coffee this morning, not the chocolate-cinnamon gourmet stuff. He was glad.
“How’d Marla Cloy strike you personally?” Beth asked.
“Not at all. Didn’t lay a hand on me.”
She stared at him. A warning to get serious.
Carver placed his cup on the breakfast bar before getting back on his stool. “She’s not beautiful enough to storm beauty pageants, but she’s attractive.”
“Looks don’t always play a part in it when a dangerous sexual psychopath develops a fixation on a woman. Was there anything unusual in her behavior?”
“Not unless you find going to McDonald’s and reading a paperback novel unusual.”
“What about her going to the bar?”
“Well, it’s not the norm for a woman to sit alone and drink in a place like Willet’s Bullet.”
“But it’s OK for a man to do it?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t OK or never happened. But most women stay home to drink alone. If they’re at a bar, they’re usually with friends. Dare I say they’re more convivial than us guys?”
“Maybe she’s got a drinking problem.”
“Bernie doesn’t think so.”
“Bernie?”
“An old guy who was nattering at me at the bar. He says she acts as if she just wants to step off the world, unwind, and be left alone for a while. Bernie’s the sort who’s had experience at that kind of thing; he’d know.”
Beth buttered another piece of whole-wheat toast. She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Want the other half of this?”
“Sure.”
She slid the small plate with the half-piece of buttered toast to his side of the counter. “I did some checking, talked to Jeff Mehling.” Mehling was the computer genius at Burrow. “Marla Cloy really is a freelance writer. She even sold a small piece to Burrow last year on the preservation of the manatee. I had Jeff fax me a copy. It’s nothing original; there’ve been hundreds of articles during the past few years in Florida papers about trying to save the manatee. But it’s competent. Filler for page six.”
“Hmm. Professional jealousy showing?”
Beth gave him a look that would have made a lesser man scurry for shelter. “Not at all,” she said. “I only wanted to establish for you that the woman’s not faking it. She really is a freelance writer of professional caliber. She’s genuine.”
“She didn’t act particularly afraid that Brant might be following her,” Carver said.
“What do you want her to do, wear a bulletproof vest?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe she had one on. Or maybe she got her order of protection from the court.” Beth had finished her toast. Now she picked up the slice she’d pledged to Carver and took a large bite out of it. Probably she was still thinking about that professional-jealousy remark. “You do realize,” she said, “that what Marla Cloy has butted up against is typical male reaction. She says she’s being threatened, and the police, and apparently you, think she’s merely another hysterical woman.”
“I’m not sure what she is. Neither is my client. That’s why I’m trying hard to find out. I’m not some stereotype male Bubba who thinks that because a man has a grudge against a woman, she probably deserves it.”
“But you do make the assumption Brant’s story is fact.”
“He is my client.”
“So rather than see Marla Cloy as a victim, you see her as an aggressor.”
“She might be.”
Beth finished Carver’s toast and licked butter off her finger. “Well, we could go round again, but I doubt if it would change anything. We’re simply viewing this matter from two different perspectives.”
“I’m trying to get at the truth,” Carver said. “I don’t have any preconceived notions.”
She smiled. “Everybody has those, Fred. The truth nobody wants to face is that we all carry around our own ideas of the truth. We hardly ever know the real truth-or even if there is one. Life’s an ambiguous experience, lover, so don’t be too sure of anything.”
“Found that out long ago,” Carver said, gripping his cane and sliding off his stool.
“Keep finding it out,” Beth advised. “Where are you going now?”
“I’ve got an appointment to meet with Brant at ten o’clock, to let him know what’s going on.”
“Doesn’t sound as if you’ve accomplished much.”
“If Marla happens to claim he harassed her last night,” Carver said, “I’ll know otherwise.”
“There you go assuming her guilt again, even though she’s the one being stalked.”
“Maybe you’re assuming her innocence because of what you two have in common.”
“Our gender?”
“And you’re both journalists. She wants to save the manatee, you want to save the Everglades.”
“More than that,” Beth said, “I want to save Marla Cloy.”
Brant was waiting in his car with the engine and air conditioner running when Carver turned off Magellan into the strip shopping center parking lot where his office was located. The car was a black Stealth sports car, sleek, powerful, and expensive. And possibly bought with his dead wife’s life-insurance money.
Beth would suggest that, anyway.
By the time Carver had parked and climbed out of the Olds, Brant was out of the Stealth and leaning against the polished black door with his arms crossed. As Carver approached, he pushed away from the car, smiled, and walked toward him with his hand extended. “So detectives keep bankers’ hours.”
Carver shook his hand. “Not bankers’ money, though.”
He invited Brant inside, then unlocked the office door and stood aside for him to pass. The temperature outside was already in the mid-eighties, and the inside temperature was catching up fast. Carver moved the thermostat down enough for the air conditioner to start humming, then closed the drapes partway to block the morning sun from pouring in and warming the place. It didn’t help much. The sun was sparking silver off the ocean visible between the buildings across the street, its rays entering through the window at a low angle. He leaned his cane against the wall and sat down behind the desk. “Hot this morning,” he said.
“The tropics,” Brant said, lowering himself into the small, padded chair in front of the desk. “Thank God for air-conditioning, or nobody would live here and I’d be out of business.” He crossed his legs and laced his hands together in his lap, actually twiddling his thumbs nervously. He was wearing prefaded Levi’s today, and a blue-checked short-sleeved shirt with a pen and some kind of slide rule sticking out of the breast pocket. Dressed for business at a construction site, Carver supposed, though he didn’t think people used slide rules anymore, in the age of minicalculators that could compute what you needed to know in seconds and remind you when it was time for lunch. Brant had slept in one position too long and his hair stuck out in a clump on the right side of his head. It made him look boyish. And not at all the sort of lad who’d stalk and murder a woman.
Brant drew a pack of Camels from the same pocket the pen and slide rule were in and glanced at Carver questioningly. Carver nodded, and Brant got out his silver lighter and touched flame to the tip of a cigarette. Then, eyes narrowed to see through the resultant smoke, he looked at Carver inquisitively again.
“I followed her last night,” Carver said.
And he told Brant about Marla Cloy’s evening.
Brant snuffed out the butt of his cigarette in the sea-shell ashtray Carver had pulled from a desk drawer, then lit another immediately. The light streaming through the window invested the smoke he exhaled with a faint but colorful rainbow before the cool breeze from the vent caught it and dissipated it, not quite chasing away the heat and moisture that had permeated the office during the night and early morning. The tropics.