White Hot (13 page)

Of course Chris, being her brother, wouldn’t have noticed all that, especially the sexual aspects of the inner Sayre. Beck reasoned that she counted on that shortsightedness. She didn’t want anyone to see past that off-putting manner she had affected to safeguard the real her.

But Beck had seen beyond it. He’d caught only a few glimpses of what she would be like if that referenced wild streak asserted itself, and they had excited him. The thought had made his belly jump with expectation and his skin tighten with the strain of concealing it. He’d seen her lips part in astonishment over his bold statement about her hair as he was tucking it under the hard hat. He’d imagined gently biting her full lower lip, for starters. And then he’d fantasized beyond that first taste of her. He’d imagined tapping into that underlying vein of sensuality. His life would be much easier right now if he hadn’t.

As he sped toward the hospital, she continued to ignore him, which was damned annoying. He would rather she do anything other than pretend he wasn’t there. “Are you comfortable?”

She looked across the seat at him. “What?”

“The air conditioner. Too much? Not enough?”

“It’s okay.”

“You may pick up some of Frito’s shed hair on that seat. I apologize for that. He likes to ride—”

“If the heart attack was so severe that Huff is asking to see his children before he dies, shouldn’t he be helicoptered to a hospital in New Orleans, where there’s a cardiac center?”

He didn’t mind being interrupted. At least she was talking now. “I suppose that could be an option once they determine the seriousness of his condition.”

“Before today, has he shown any symptoms of a heart ailment?”

“High blood pressure. He’s supposed to take medication for it, but he doesn’t like the side effects. He smokes constantly, sometimes I think out of sheer defiance of the warnings against it. His only form of exercise is rocking in his rocking chair. He makes his café au lait with half-and-half. He threatened to fire Selma if she ever again substituted turkey bacon for the real thing. He was probably a heart attack or stroke waiting to happen.”

“Do you think Danny’s death contributed?”

“No doubt. Losing his son, especially under those circumstances, coupled with the repercussions, has been stressful.”

“What repercussions?” she asked.

“Here we are.”

He parked in the hospital parking lot and alighted from the truck before she could ask him again about the repercussions of Danny’s death. Did she really need to know that Huff had suffered his heart attack less than an hour after he and Chris had recapped for him their unsettling meeting with Red Harper and Deputy Scott?

With typical cocksureness, Chris had told Huff that it was nothing to worry about, that Wayne Scott had rattled sabers just to impress everybody with how big and bad he was, that the so-called evidence they had was so flimsy it was funny.

“He’s justifying his employment at my expense,” Chris had said. “That’s all there is to it. Beck will make mincemeat of him and his investigation. Mark my words, in a couple of days, we’ll be having a good laugh over this.”

Beck had said something similarly dismissive, but apparently it had stressed Huff past endurance to think that one of his sons would even be considered capable of fratricide.

Beck saw no advantage to discussing that with Sayre and instead went around to open the passenger door for her. By the time he reached it, she was stepping from the cab and declined the hand he offered. When she turned back to get her overnight bag, he said, “Leave it. I’ll lock the truck.”

She hesitated, then gave a curt nod, and together they walked toward the hospital entrance. He allowed her to go ahead of him through the revolving door. When it emptied him into the lobby, he bumped into Sayre, who had barely cleared the door before coming to a dead stop.

Almost knocking her down and losing his own balance, he took her lightly by the shoulders and caught her up against him, their bodies making accidental intimate contact in a way that at any other time would have stopped his breath. It would have now, except for his puzzlement over why she’d stopped so suddenly.

Dr. Tom Caroe was coming toward them from across the lobby. He was a short man, who carried his narrow shoulders in a perpetual stoop. The poor posture made him appear even more diminutive. His clothes always looked several sizes too large, as though he had shrunk after putting them on. His sparse hair was dyed unnaturally black in an attempt to conceal his advanced years, which the lines on his face gave away.

As he reached them, he said hello to Sayre and extended his right hand. But when she made no move to take it, he quickly let it drop to his side. To cover his embarrassment, he said, “Thank you for bringing her so soon, Beck.”

“No problem. How is he?”

Sayre, overcoming her shock—or whatever it was that had caused her to become transfixed—shrugged his hands off her shoulders and moved to stand at his side.

“He’s stable,” Dr. Caroe told them. “I need him that way before conducting any more tests.”

Speaking for the first time, Sayre issued a direct challenge to the family physician’s competence. “Are you qualified to make a diagnosis? Shouldn’t a cardiac specialist be consulted?”

“Yes, I think one should be,” he replied evenly. “But Huff doesn’t. He was quite insistent about it.”

“Maybe I can convince him otherwise.” Beck nudged Sayre toward the elevator. “What floor?”

“Second. He’s in ICU,” the doctor said. “Your visits will be limited to a few minutes per hour. He needs absolute rest.” Focusing on Sayre, he added, “He particularly wanted to see you, which, frankly, I think is inadvisable. But if you do speak with him, keep in mind his condition and don’t say anything that’s likely to upset him. Another arrest could kill him.”

Chris looked up when the elevator doors opened and she and Beck stepped out. “Well, well, Sayre. Thank you for troubling yourself to come back.”

She ignored him, which was one’s best defense against Chris.

“We ran into Tom Caroe downstairs,” Beck told him.

“Then you know as much as I do.” Chris looked at her. “Huff’s been asking for you.”

“Do you know why?” she asked.

“Haven’t the faintest. I thought you might be able to shed some light.”

“No.”

“Maybe it has something to do with your sudden interest in our operation.”

“As I said, Chris, I don’t know.”

That ended the conversation. They took seats in the waiting room and tried to avoid making eye contact. Eventually, Beck stood up and announced that he was going in search of a vending machine. Sayre declined his offer to bring her back a soft drink.

“I’ll go with you,” Chris said, and followed Beck from the waiting room, leaving her alone to dread the visit with Huff.

It was impossible to envision a repentant Huff, but he had never faced his mortality before. As he stood looking into the abyss, was he fearing the hell he had repudiated? Faced with the probability of spending eternity there, was he wanting to beg her forgiveness and make atonement?

If so, he would be wasting his dying breath. She would never forgive him.

She was still alone in the waiting room when a nurse informed her that she could go in. Sayre followed her to where Huff lay connected to machines that blipped and bleeped with reassuring regularity. A cannula was feeding oxygen into his nostrils. His eyes were closed. The nurse silently withdrew.

Staring into his face, Sayre marveled at how completely the man to whom she owed her life had destroyed her love for him. She remembered being a young girl and looking forward to his coming home from work each evening. He announced his arrival in a voice that boomed through the hallways of the house, filling it with a vitality it lacked when he wasn’t there. He was the heart that pumped life—be it good or bad—into the family.

She remembered when his slightest notice of her was better than the gifts she received on Christmas morning. She had treasured his miserly approval. Even though he frightened her at times, she remembered loving him with wholehearted and unqualified devotion.

But then, she had been seeing him through the eyes of a child, which were blind to his depravity. When her eyes were opened and she was made to see it, it was the most painful, disillusioning experience of her life.

She stood at his bedside for several moments before he became aware of her. When he opened his eyes and saw her, he smiled and spoke her name.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Now that they’ve got me doped up.”

“You’re stabilized. Blood pressure. Heart rate. All that.”

He nodded absently, barely listening. His eyes were roving over her face. “I fought your mother on naming you Sayre. I thought it was a silly name. Why not Jane or Mary or Susan? But she insisted, and now I’m glad she did. It suits you.”

She refused to walk hand in hand with him down memory lane. It would be shamefully hypocritical. She brought the subject back to his condition. “It must have been a mild attack or you wouldn’t be feeling this well. The damage to your heart couldn’t be too severe.”

“So you’re a cardiac specialist now?” he asked caustically.

“No, but I’ve had a lot of experience with damaged hearts.”

He tipped his head as though to say,
Nice shot.
“You’re a hard, unfeeling creature, Sayre.”

“I learned by example.”

“Referring to me, I suppose. Your mother—”

“Please don’t invoke Mother, especially in order to make me feel guilty for standing up to you. No, I’m not the sweet, compliant lady she was, but I don’t think she would like the way any of us turned out.”

“You’re probably right. Danny, maybe. I think she would’ve liked him. I’m glad she wasn’t here to see him dead and buried.”

“I’m glad of that, too. No mother should have to bury her child.”

His eyes narrowed. “You probably don’t believe this, Sayre, but I grieve for Danny. I do.”

“Who are you trying to convince, Huff? Me or yourself?”

“Okay, don’t believe me. But I’ve had plenty to be upset about. First Danny. Now Chris coming under suspicion.”

“Chris…What? What do you mean?”

“Ms. Hoyle?”

It was the nurse, coming to remind her to keep the visit short. She nodded, not bothering to correct the name.

“Don’t mind her,” Huff said after the nurse withdrew. “She wouldn’t dare throw you out.”

The sad fact was, Sayre couldn’t wait to leave him. “You’ll recover, Huff. I don’t think even the devil is ready for you.”

One side of his mouth tilted up in a grin. “He wouldn’t appreciate the competition.”

“The devil is no competition for you.”

“I think you mean that.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Mighty harsh words to lay on a man who could have died a few hours ago. You’ve harbored this grudge for years. Isn’t it time you stopped being so goddamn angry with me?”

“I’m not angry at you, Huff. Anger is an emotion. I don’t feel anything for you. Nothing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“Then why did you rush back here to see your poor ol’ daddy one last time before he cashed in?”

“Why did you send for me?”

He grinned craftily, then laughed out loud. “To prove that you’d come running. And lookee here, Sayre. Here you are.”

“W
hat do you think they’re talking about?”

Beck looked across at Chris, shrugged, and continued to thumb through the outdated
People
magazine. “What’s the problem between them?”

“It goes back to when Sayre was a teenager. She was high school sweethearts with Clark Daly.”

Beck looked at him pointedly.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Chris said.

Beck knew Clark Daly from the foundry. Several times his foreman had sent him home for reporting to work drunk. He was even caught with a flask of whiskey in his lunch box. It was surprising to learn that Sayre had been involved with him.

“For a while Huff was okay with their little romance,” Chris continued. “It seemed harmless enough. But when it looked like the puppy love was growing more serious, he put a halt to it.”

“Did he have a drinking problem back then?”

“Nothing worse than sneaking a beer every now and then. He was a star athlete, student leader.”

“Then what was the problem?”

“I don’t know the details. I was already at LSU. I wasn’t interested in Sayre’s affairs and didn’t follow the courtship closely. I only know that Huff wasn’t too keen on having Clark Daly as his son-in-law. As soon as they graduated high school, he stepped in and put a stop to the romance.”

“How did Sayre react?”

Chris gave a crooked smile. “How do you think? With fireworks on the scale of Vesuvius. Or so I’ve been told. When her tantrums didn’t make an impact on Huff, she went into a deep funk, lost a lot of weight, moved around the house like a ghost. Who’s that character in the book, traipses around in her moldy wedding gown?”

“Miss Havisham?”

“Right. I remember coming home one weekend and barely recognizing Sayre. She looked like hell. She wasn’t attending college, wasn’t working, wasn’t doing anything, and never left the house. When I asked Selma about it, she started crying, told me Sayre had turned into a ‘poor little haint, bless her heart.’ Danny said she hadn’t spoken to Huff for months, avoided being in the same room with him.”

Chris paused to take a sip of his canned soft drink. Beck wanted to know the rest of the story but didn’t prod Chris to continue. He didn’t want to appear overly interested.

Fortunately, Chris continued without being prompted. “This went on for months. Finally Huff had his fill of it. He told her to stop sulking and get it together, or he was going to send her to a psychiatric hospital.”

“That was Huff’s cure for a teenage broken heart? He threatened to commit her?”

“It sounds severe, doesn’t it? But it worked. Because when Huff picked out a guy and insisted she marry him, she went willingly enough to the altar. I guess she figured marriage was better than the loony bin.”

Beck stared thoughtfully at the closed double doors that led into the ICU. “That’s a long time to hold a grudge against Huff for coming between her and her high school sweetheart.”

“That’s Sayre. Even when she was a little kid, she always had a burr up her butt over something. She’s still like that. Takes every little thing so damn seriously.” He stood up and stretched his back, then moved to the window.

For a long time, he stood there silently, staring out, seemingly at nothing. Eventually Beck asked, “Something on your mind, Chris?”

He raised his shoulders with an indifference that Beck knew was feigned. “That business today.”

“It’s been an eventful day. Which business?”

“In the sheriff’s office. Will they arrest me, do you think?”

“No.”

“I didn’t like jail the first time, Beck. Huff bailed me out within hours, but it’s not a place where I want to spend any amount of time.”

“They’re not going to arrest you. They don’t have enough evidence yet.”

Chris came around. “
Yet?
”

“Is there more for them to find, Chris? I need to know.”

His dark eyes flashed. “If my own lawyer doesn’t believe me, who will?”

“I believe you. But you have to admit that, right now, it’s not looking very good for you.”

Chris relaxed his stance. “Right, it’s not. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I’ve come to a conclusion.” He paused, then said, “Somebody’s framing me.”

“Framing you?”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I am.”

Chris returned to his chair and leaned across the narrow space separating them. “Think about it, Beck. Because of that Iverson case, which is still on the books as an unsolved missing person and possible homicide, wouldn’t I make an ideal fall guy?”

“For whom?”

“Slap Watkins.”

Beck laughed shortly. “Slap Watkins?”

“Hear me out,” Chris said irritably. “He resents the Hoyle brothers. You, too, for that matter. He’s got an ax to grind.”

“Over a barroom brawl that took place three years ago?”

“But he hasn’t forgotten it. You told Huff he mentioned it to you in the diner last night.”

“Okay, but—”

“It’s not just that. On a hunch, I had Danny’s secretary check the job applications we’ve received over the last few weeks, and guess what turned up?” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his trousers pocket and waved it at Beck. “Slap Watkins filled one out.”

“He applied for a job at the foundry?”

“Danny rejected his application. Slap has another reason to dislike the Hoyles.”

“Enough to murder Danny?”

“A guy like that, it wouldn’t take much provocation.”

“I suppose it’s feasible,” Beck said thoughtfully.

“Certainly worth checking into.”

“Have you mentioned this to Red?”

“Not yet. I’d just seen the rejected application when Huff had his heart attack. I haven’t had a chance to talk to anybody about it.”

Beck thought for another moment, then shook his head. “There’s a problem with it, Chris.”

“What?”

“How did Watkins get Danny out to the fishing camp?”

Chris considered the question for several seconds before admitting that he didn’t know. “But he was a cagey bastard to start with, and he had three years’ coaching in prison.” Glancing up, he saw Sayre emerge from the ICU. “We can talk about it later.”

They stood up as she approached. “He’s fine,” she declared. “Hardly on the brink of departing this world.”

“Then why was he so adamant about seeing you?”

“No cause for alarm, Chris. He didn’t change his will and appoint me his sole heir, if that’s what you’re worried about. He called me back for his own entertainment.” Turning to Beck, she said, “Will you please go outside and unlock your pickup so I can get my bag?”

“Are you flying out tonight?”

“I dismissed the jet because I didn’t know when I would be leaving. But I hope the rental car…What?” she asked, when Beck started shaking his head.

“It’s already been picked up. I took the liberty of calling for you to check.”

“Well, I planned on spending the night at The Lodge anyway. I’ll get another car tomorrow.” Beck offered to drive her to the motel, but she said, “I’ll call a taxi.”

Chris informed her that Destiny’s only taxi company was no longer in service. “It folded years ago.”

It was clear to Beck that she wanted to remove herself from them as swiftly as possible and was irritated by these roadblocks to her escape. “All right,” she said with resignation. “If it’s not too far out of your way, I would appreciate a ride to the motel.”

“No trouble at all. Chris, are you staying here?”

“I’ll hang around until Doc Caroe comes back for his evening rounds. If he thinks Huff is out of immediate danger, I’ll leave.”

They agreed to keep their cell phones handy in case one needed to notify the other of a change in Huff’s condition and said their good-byes.

On their way to the ground floor, Beck asked for a more detailed assessment of Huff’s condition. “If meanness equates to longevity,” she said, “he’ll outlive us all.”

Then she pushed through the revolving door. He wanted to pick up the conversation outside, but reading her body language, he thought better of asking her to recount what she and Huff had said to each other.

“You look tired,” he said as he gave her a hand up into the cab of the truck.

“Encounters with Huff always leave me feeling tired.”

He went around and got in. As he turned the ignition key, he apologized for the heat inside the cab. “I should have left the windows open an inch or so.”

“I don’t mind it.” She laid her head on the back of her seat and closed her eyes. “When it’s fifty degrees in July in San Francisco, I miss the real summertime. I actually like the heat.”

“I would guess that about you.”

She opened her eyes and looked across at him. Their gazes held, causing the temperature in the truck to rise. At least Beck’s temperature went up significantly. Semireclined as she was, she looked defenseless and altogether feminine. Fine strands at her hairline had curled in defiance of the chemical control she imposed on them, lending her a softness she would disclaim. Her cheeks were flushed, and again he imagined that her skin would be hot to the touch.

He ached to find out, but he didn’t risk it, afraid that if he touched her, he would upset some delicate balance that had been struck, and that it wouldn’t tilt in his favor. Instead he said, “Hungry, Sayre?”

She lifted her head from the headrest. Her eyes looked foggy with misapprehension. “What?”

“Hungry?”

“Oh.” Shaking her head slightly, she said, “No.”

“Bet you are.”

He continued staring at her for several moments before engaging the gears of the pickup. Leaving the hospital parking lot, he headed in the direction opposite that of the motel.

She said, “The Lodge is on the other side of town.”

“Trust me.”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”

He merely grinned. She said nothing else, which he took as her consent to go along with whatever he had in mind. Just beyond the outskirts of town, he turned off the main highway onto a rutted gravel road that wound through dense forest. He followed it to its dead end, where there was a clearing on the elevated bank of a wide bayou. Several vehicles were parked around a small building that seemed on the verge of collapse.

Sayre turned to him. “You know this place?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought it was a secret known only to us natives.”

“I’m not that much of an outsider anymore.”

The drive-up fish shack had been owned and operated by the same family since the early 1930s, when bootleg liquor was their actual drawing card. The building was constructed of corrugated tin that had fallen victim to rust decades ago. It listed several degrees. It was only ten feet wide, and all of it was kitchen.

Through a narrow window were served oysters on the half shell with a red sauce hot enough to make your eyes water, a dense gumbo flavored with filé and okra, and a crawfish étouffée so delicious you used a chunk of French bread to clean the paper plate. Everything from alligator meat to dill pickles could be had batter-dipped and deep-fried.

Beck ordered them cups of gumbo and fried shrimp po’boy sandwiches. While their order was being prepared, he went to the water trough at the side of the shack and worked his hand through the chipped ice until he found two longneck bottles of beer. He opened them by using the church key that dangled from a dirty string nailed to a tree.

“It’s cold,” he warned Sayre as he passed her one of the frosted bottles. “Want a glass?”

“They would be insulted.”

She tilted the bottle to her mouth like a pro. He smiled down at her. “That upped your approval rating.”

“I’m not gunning for your approval.”

His grin stretched wider. “That’s a damn shame. It’s off the charts.”

When their order was ready, they carried the paper boats of food to a weathered picnic table beneath an umbrella of live oaks. Strands of colored Christmas lights had been ineptly strung from the lower branches and through the Spanish moss. Another customer had tuned the radio in his car to a station that played zydeco, which added to the ambience.

They ate their cups of gumbo first, then Beck watched Sayre unwrap the tissue paper around her sandwich. The home-baked roll was hot, buttery, and crusty on the outside, soft in the center. It was piled high with fat, breaded shrimp straight out of the frying grease, shredded lettuce, and rémoulade sauce. To this she added a liberal sprinkling of Tabasco from the bottle on the table.

She took a large bite. “Delicious,” she said when she had swallowed. “San Francisco has incredible food, but this tastes like…”

“What?”

“Home.” She smiled, but it was a sad, wistful expression.

He concentrated on her as much as on his meal, and he sensed that she was concentrating on him concentrating on her. His unwavering attention made her uncomfortable, though she tried to appear nonchalant.

Finally, she frowned at him. “Do I have sauce on my face or something?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep staring at me?”

His gaze challenged her to take a wild guess, but of course she didn’t. They resumed eating. After a time he said, “Do you ever sweat?”

She looked across at him and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s hotter than hell out here. There’s no breeze. The humidity must be ninety-nine percent. You’re eating red pepper sauce practically by the tablespoon. But you’re not sweating. Your skin isn’t even dewy. How is that possible?”

“You’re not sweating either.”

He blotted his forehead with his sleeve, then extended his arm to show her the damp spot. “Pints of it are rolling down my trunk and pooling at my waist.” That was somewhat of an exaggeration, but it got a genuine smile out of her.

“I sweat. Not often,” she admitted. “I have to really exert myself.”

“Ahh, good to know,” he said. “I was beginning to think you might be an alien with no sweat glands.”

When they finished their meal, he gathered up the trash and threw it in one of the oil drums used for that purpose. When he returned to the table, he sat on it and placed his feet on the bench beside her. He took a sip of beer, then looked down at her. “What have you got against Doc Caroe?”