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.”
“You charge extra for emergencies?” Carver asked, half jokingly.
She took him seriously and a calculating expression came over her freckled, girlish features. She’d apparently never considered the idea of overtime pay. “No,” she said, “cost is just the same.” Youthful virtue had conquered greed.
He grinned. “Okay. See you later, Effie.”
She crossed her arms again, stood the way she’d been standing when he first saw her. “If you need any help around Key Montaigne, I mean, need to know anything only somebody lives in this place might be able to tell you, I’ll be glad to help that way, too, Mr. Carver.”
“You can do that right now,” Carver said. It was almost five o’clock; he’d taken care of some business by phone from Miami, had a long but light lunch with an old friend, then hadn’t stopped except for gas on the drive south. “Where’s a good place in town to eat supper?”