“What if it’s the money she’s after, and not Willis? What if Willis ran out on her and she concocted this whole thing?”
“No,” Desoto said, “if she was in on the scam with him, she would never have come to the police when he left her.”
Carver agreed. And despite the uneasy feeling he had about Edwina, he didn’t think she was lying about Willis. Of course, there was no way to be sure. Of anything.
Carver bore down on the cane and stood, feeling his perspiration-soaked shirt come unstuck from the chair. The cool breeze from the air-conditioner was steady on his face. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a mistake to take her too lightly. It might be the biggest mistake Willis Davis ever made.”
“If he’s still alive,” Desoto said, clinging to the official view, making his job and Carver’s easier. “If he wasn’t murdered or didn’t really commit suicide.”
“Any personal opinions?” Carver asked.
Desoto said, smiling, “On one hand it seems that he’s dead, on the other that he’s alive.”
“I’m getting tired of both hands,” Carver said, and limped from the office. Police work and politics. Some bedfellows.
As the door swung shut behind him, he heard mariachi music.
A part of him hoped he was right about Edwina not believing him when he told her about Willis and the illegal Sun South money. Willis was gone; it was Carver who would have to witness her initial disbelief and hollow denial. Her desperate loyalty to a delusion. He found the thought of that surprisingly hard to bear.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
CHAPTER 10
“There’s another side to all of this,” Edwina said. She took a quick sip of her whiskey sour, probably not tasting it.
“You mean Willis’s side?” Carver asked.
“Of course. Someone must have forged his signature on that withdrawal slip. I’m sure Willis didn’t steal that money.”
They were sitting at a table in the bar of The Happy Lobster. Carver had suggested lunch, but Edwina declined. That was okay with Carver; like Edwina, he wasn’t hungry.
“I’d be interested in hearing Willis’s side of what happened,” Carver said. “And so would Ernie Franks.”
There was a piano at the other end of the lounge. A middle-aged blond woman sat down and started to play a slow, lilting melody that Carver had never heard. It was the sort of song that used to be played as the refrain in B-movie Casablanca imitations.
He rested his fingertips on Edwina’s hand, finding her flesh startlingly cool. “You can’t go on believing after your reason to believe is gone,” he said. “It only makes it hard on you; it changes nothing.” He realized he sounded like Bogie talking to Ingrid Bergman.
She finished her drink hastily and stood up. Moisture glittered in her eyes as she turned and walked toward the door. Carver noticed her shoulders quaking and knew she was leaving so he wouldn’t see her cry.
He put down a ten-dollar bill to cover the drinks and tip and followed Edwina. The woman at the piano began to sing now, something about love smoothing all of life’s rough spots. There wasn’t much conviction in the lyrics or in her voice. Or maybe that was just Carver’s interpretation.
He kept Edwina in sight, but he stayed well behind her, stood at a distance in the sun-washed parking lot while she leaned with one hand on her car and composed herself. Her stunted shadow lay huddled at her feet.
After a while he walked toward her, prepared to shout her name if she started to get into the car.
She heard his soles crunching on the gravel, the gritty drag of his cane, and turned. No moisture in her eyes now; she had a grip on herself, but a tenuous one. For a moment her lower lip trembled, then she bit it and seemed to relax her body, muscle by muscle, standing with exaggerated looseness and watching him.
He stopped a few feet in front of her, looking at her. The pain in her eyes stared back, then retreated to a far, dark place in her mind. Just then Carver hated all the Willis Davises of the world. Hated them hard and cursed the fact that there were so many of them. And so many of their victims.
Carver and Edwina stood silently for almost a full minute. He felt perspiration trickle down his neck and realized he was uncomfortably warm. He could feel the heat from the parking-lot gravel radiate upward through his soles. Edwina wasn’t perspiring. She was cool-looking and pale. Her gray eyes were flat now, like shades drawn to conceal her thoughts.
“When are you leaving for Solarville?” she asked.
“This afternoon. It won’t take long to get there. Maybe not even an hour.”
“It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in Florida,” she said. “You get on an interstate or a pay turnpike, drive for an hour or so, and you’re where you want to be. Or think you are.”
“It’s better to face reality and learn to live with it than to run from the facts,” he said, still being cruel to be kind. He wondered if that had ever really worked.
“That’s a predictable philosophy,” she said calmly. “Much less complicated than your lobster analogy, but bullshit nonetheless.”
Carver had no answer for that. She might be right. He used his palm to wipe sweat from his face, dragging his hand painfully downward from forehead to chin. He checked his palm to see if his face was there.
“I’ll join you in Solarville tomorrow,” Edwina said, which didn’t surprise Carver. “When we find Willis, we’ll get to the truth about the money.” She smoothed the material of her gray tailored suit. “I have a business appointment today.”
A business appointment. There it was. Carver saw into her then, saw the way the past few years must have been for her. She was using her work as a shield, probably had been since the end of the jinxed marriage Alice Hargrove had mentioned. It had been effective; Carver knew from experience how work could blunt the pain. Business, keeping ceaselessly busy, could fill the void, absorb the wild energy of volatile depression.
“You shouldn’t go to Solarville,” Carver told Edwina. “That’s why you hired me, to sniff around and get my nose dirty.”
“Phone me at home tonight,” she said. “Let me know where you’re staying and what you’ve learned. I’ll decide whether I’ll join you, when that will be.”
Carver shrugged and nodded. Those were the rules. She was the boss, he was the bird dog. He could overlook her tough act. Everybody who was tough had an act, some better than others.
When she turned to open her car door, he gripped her upper arm, then held it gently.
She looked up at him. She began to cry again and tried to whirl her body away from him. He tightened his grip on her arm, pulled her to him. He would look at her tears, make her blend with reality. It was impossible to be a romantic in today’s world; didn’t she know that?
For a moment she clung to him; he could feel the heat of her body, vibrating against him. He wanted to comfort her, reassure her. With lies, if necessary. Especially with lies. He raised a hand and caressed her hair where the sun touched it; he felt her grasping fingers feel their way down his back, nails sharp and urgent through his shirt.
Then she pulled away, stood up straight, and briskly smoothed her suit again. Her business suit.
Her gray eyes were cool. This hadn’t happened, they said. That woman hadn’t really been Edwina Talbot. Two strangers in another dimension had momentarily felt something that bore no relevance to here and now.
He stepped back, silently agreeing with the eyes, which didn’t quite meet his. The hell with this. He was afraid. He didn’t want this any more than Edwina did. Too soon. Too soon after Laura. He remembered the legalese and pain.
“I’ll be waiting for your call,” she said crisply, and ducked into her car, swiveling gracefully on the seat before pulling the door closed. The pale turn of her ankle below the gray of her skirt was breathtaking.
The Mercedes’ tires spun and caught hold. Gravel pounded against the insides of the fenders; a few small stones flew free and bounced off Carver’s shoes.