Florida Heatwave (31 page)

“He’s not in the detective business.”

“I didn’t mean the detective business. You’re supposed to be smart about men, Lily.”

“That’s why I want to learn more about this one.”

“This is a favor I’m glad to do,” Willis said. “It might save you some heartache.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m surprised I still have a heart.”

He patted her wrist again. “I’m not.”

The day before Brad and Joan were due back from Hawaii, Willis phoned.

“Your Brad is Bradford Colter from Buffalo, New York,” he said. “He’s got a police record, but nothing violent if you don’t count blowing the doors off safes. He’s an expert at it. That’s what he and the others did in New York, used plastique explosive to blow open safes so they could get at where the real value was in those shops. Did it in broad daylight when the sidewalks were crowded. The sounds of outside heavy construction in that block masked the noise of explosions.”

“Clever.”

“The word is, if you’re involved with this Brad guy, you can trust him. We’re talking honor among thieves here, though not necessarily honor in romance.”

“Honor among thieves will do, Willis. Thanks.”

“Trust is relative, Lily.”

Lily told him she knew that. And she did. That’s why she’d kept in her safety deposit box the audio tape that matched the video Brad had destroyed that night in the hotel room. Though she was reassured about Brad, she decided to hold onto the tape.

After all, he was deceiving Joan.

Lily met Brad and Joan at the airport the next day, kissed them both on the cheek, and welcomed them home.

The three of them went out to dinner that night at Sharkey’s down the coast in Venice, and a glowing Joan hung all over Brad and couldn’t stop talking about their time in Hawaii. Lily kept smiling and playing along, her leg resting against Brad’s beneath the table.

They didn’t have a chance to be alone together, to make love, until almost a week later at the house on Longboat Key, in Joan and Brad’s bedroom.

Brad made love to Lily in the controlled violent way she’d learned to enjoy. He was the only man she trusted, the only man she’d let out all the stops for in years. The intent way he looked at her while he drove himself into her again and again, when he released in her. And afterward, even as he rolled off her onto the other side of the bed. She’d seen enough of fantasy to know this was real. He wasn’t like the other men. In his way, he loved her. His way was enough for her.

Exhausted, she lay back perspiring on Joan’s pillow, listening to her own ragged breathing in counterpoint to Brad’s.

She wasn’t surprised when he chose this as the time to tell her how Joan was going to die.

“I’m an explosives expert,” he began. “It’s my specialty and you’re going to have to trust me on that.”

She lay quiet, staring at the ceiling and pretending this was news to her.

Brad continued: “I’m going to place in the gas tank of Joan’s Jaguar a small detonating device that can be activated by a plastic timer beneath the seat. I’ve substituted some old wiring near the tank with the insulation worn off, so that it will look like electricity arced and ignited fumes from the tank. This is most likely to happen just before or during a thunderstorm. It will be assumed that lightning struck nearby, momentarily spiking the voltage and causing the arc.”

The first question Lily asked was a practical one. “What happens to the timer?”

“It will melt and be unrecognizable. Likewise the detonator itself. I know explosives, Lily, and I know cars. Trust me, this will look like an accident.”

She rolled onto her side and looked into his eyes. “Are you really that good at your specialty, Brad?”

“Let me show you,” he said, and pulled her to him.

It was the time of year for storms in southwest Florida. They struck all around Sarasota, but not there. While the city lay dry in heat beneath low dark clouds, a tornado destroyed three houses in nearby Punta Gorda. Lily sat in the evenings with Joan and Brad in the veranda behind Joan’s house and watched distant chain lightning illuminating the sky and sipped Margaritas and prayed for rain.

She was surprised one morning after spending the night at Brad and Joan’s, as she often did, when Brad gave her a wicked look and a nod. Lily glanced outside. The sun was shining.

Joan came downstairs already dressed and carrying a small overnight case. “I’m driving over to North Palm Beach to visit an old college friend who just moved there. Moira Brent. Remember her from the wedding?”

“I think so,” Lily lied. She’d already prepared some coffee and buttered toast, just about the extent of her cooking skills. Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?” she asked, seeing Joan kiss Brad goodbye.

“Gonna skip it,” Joan said. “I want to get on the road and beat the morning traffic. Got a long way to go.”

Neither Brad nor Lily said anything as they watched her gulp down half a cup of coffee, then start for the door.

With a backward glance at Lily, Brad followed her outside.

Lily watched from the window as Brad opened the Jaguar’s door for Joan, then bent down as if he’d dropped something, his body blocking Joan’s view as he leaned into the car. Lily’s heart accelerated as she realized he was setting the timer that would activate the detonator. She watched as he kissed Joan goodbye again, more passionately. Then he smiled and waved as she drove away. His head was bowed as he trudged back toward the house.

“Done,” he said, when he was inside.

“It isn’t raining,” Lily pointed out.

“It is in south central Florida,” Brad said. “The weather channel even has tornado warnings out. Joan’s taking Highway 72 east and will be driving right through the center of the storm activity. I don’t think we’ll see my wife and your best friend again.”

Lily walked overt to stand directly in from of him, close to him. Her heart felt as if it were trying to escape from her chest. “How do you feel about that?”

“Elated,” he said. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Turned on,” she told him.

“It’d be better if you and I were in two different places an hour from now. That’s another reason I chose this morning. I’ve got a job interview in forty-five minutes.”

“A job interview,” she said. “That’s wonderful.”

He kissed her, she judged even more passionately than he’d kissed Joan goodbye.

“What will you be doing while I’m gone?” he asked when they’d separated.

She smiled up at him. “Watching the clock.”

At 10:06 AM, two minutes before Joan’s scheduled departure from the world, Lily was seated at the kitchen table sipping her fourth cup of coffee. All that coffee had been a mistake. She was nervous enough to scream.

She calmed herself by envisioning Joan in her Jaguar speeding along desolate Highway 72, probably with the radio on high volume. By now she’d be in the rain, would have the car’s top up and the wipers scything across the windshield. But in less than a minute .

The jangling phone propelled Lily up out of her chair and almost did make her scream.

She lifted the receiver and said hello, trying to keep her voice level.

“Lily, it’s me, Joan.”

Lily almost dropped the phone. She kept her composure. “Are you in Palm Beach already?”

“No, I’m calling from my cell phone in the car.”

Lily considered this. They’d be talking when the gas tank exploded, when Joan died. Despite herself, Lily felt a warm, tight knot in her stomach. The heat spread to her groin. It was terrible of her, she knew, but she was actually going to enjoy this. How many people had this kind of opportunity?

“I have something to confess, Lily. I hope you won’t think too poorly of me when I do.”

Not that it matters, Lily thought. “Why, go ahead, Joan. You can trust me not to turn on you.”

“I’m a terrible person, always have been. I have what some people call a checkered past. Evil lives in me, Lily, and I have the police record of a confidence woman to prove it. There’s enough money in the bank to pay rent for the house till the end of the month, then nothing. I fooled Brad into thinking I was wealthy so he’d marry me.”

Lily sat back down, feeling light-headed now. Cold despite the warming morning.

“I hope you won’t think too poorly of Brad, either. He’s no more what he seems than I am, Lily. I’ve known from the beginning he was part of a gang of robbers who stole millions of dollars worth of diamonds in New York last year. He never told me he was rich, but because of the diamonds I assumed he had hidden assets. I only married him for his money, Lily.”

Lily sat stunned, not knowing what to say. “Joan … Ah, Joan …”

“I hate to tell you this because you’ve been so sweet, but I haven’t reformed, Lily. There’s only one way to turn my marriage into money now, and that’s to hand Brad over to the police for the reward. A consortium of diamond merchants has offered over a million dollars to anyone who can furnish information leading to the arrest of any of the thieves. Brad is in Sarasota now, three blocks away at a job interview. I can send the police directly to him. I know Brad will hate me. I hope you won’t, Lily.”

“Joan, don’t call the police! Please!”

“I’m not going to, Lily. I didn’t drive toward Palm Beach. I just drove around getting up my nerve to do this. I’m parked on Ringling Boulevard in Sarasota, right in front of Police Headquarters. When I hang up I’m going to walk inside and—”

“Joan!”

The receiver emitted what sounded like a loud animal growl, then the static of a disconnected line.

An instant after she slammed the receiver back in its cradle, Lily knew the questions that would be asked: Why had a car, parked with the engine off and miles from any electrical storm, suddenly exploded in front of Police Headquarters? What was actually known of its dead driver, Joan Marin-Masters? Of her new husband Brad?

Of their good friend Lily?

The eventual answer to all those questions would be murder.

On numbed legs, Lily staggered outside to sit in the fresh air on the veranda. Her mind was whirling in tighter and tighter spirals, as if boring deep into a black future.

She’d figured right—she knew men. It was a woman who’d fooled her.

She couldn’t catch her breath. In the direction of the mainland, she could see a dark plume of smoke in the clear blue sky over downtown Sarasota. The breeze seemed to be carrying it her way.

BY LISA UNGER

“I don’t want you to go.”
Emma’s voice was always light and sweet, like the tinkling of bells—even when she was whining.

“I know, baby. I don’t want to go either. But I have to.”

“But I just don’t
want
you to go.”

“You’ll have fun,” Maura said. She kept her voice crisp and light. If she showed any weakness, she was dead.

“No,” Emma said. “I
won’t.
“

No, she wouldn’t. Not really. Maura was not sure anyone had
ever
had fun with her mother Lizzie. Lizzie was not a
fun
person. But she could be counted on to keep routine, and that was the important thing. Maura could always count on Lizzie to cook a good meal—maybe roast chicken and potatoes, some kind of green. She would make sure Emma ate her vegetables. After dinner, she would give Emma her bath. And Maura knew that Grandma would
certainly
get to that gunk that collected behind the ears. Then a story, and lights out. No nonsense. One look from Lizzie—former high school principal, current head of senior neighborhood watch—and nonsense withered into a heap of ash on the floor.

Maura stepped from the cool interior of the Prius that Lizzie had bought for them last year, and into the heat. She walked around to the back and helped Emma from her car seat. The new car smell made her feel guilty, reminded Maura to be grateful for her mother, whatever her faults. Nobody was perfect, and Maura should know that better than anyone.

The sun was drifting low, the sky a sleeping tiger—orange fingers against an encroaching black. It was October and the heat was still with them, a blanket of humidity raising sweat on the back of Maura’s neck as they walked across the blacktop that still radiated the day’s blistering memory.

Her mother’s condo building rose, a hideous blue tower against the darkening sky. White balconies boasted plastic deck furniture; some people already had their Halloween decorations out. A plug-in jack o’ lantern grinned on a glass table. A cardboard skeleton cocked its head on a glass sliding door.

As Maura pushed through the double glass doors, Emma’s hand still in hers, she could hear the boat halyards in the marina behind the building. A warm wind was picking up. There was something comforting about the slow rhythm of that clanging, and about the waters of the Intracoastal slapping against the seawall. Florida born and raised, Maura had been listening to this music all her life—the sound of wind sighing through palms, of waves lapping against the shore. They were good sounds, the sounds of things right with the world.

Emma wasn’t crying
yet.
But she had started a pre-meltdown sulk, purposely pushing down the corners of her mouth in a pantomime of sadness. Secretly, Maura was glad for it. She wouldn’t want her daughter to be
too
happy to stay the night with Grandma. She loved her mother but they were just different, that’s all. The chemistry wasn’t always there. Lizzie was good to them. She had been a good mother, in all the important ways, and she was a good grandmother. But there were things about Lizzie that Maura didn’t like and didn’t respect—and visa versa; she couldn’t bear to see Emma prefer the other camp. The “no nonsense” camp.

Maura had always thought of her mother as a person without color, someone forever in khaki and gray. So it had surprised her when, after retirement, Lizzie took a class at the community college, bought a florist shop that was going out of business on the mostly residential island where she lived, and started arranging flowers as her second career. On the days she helped out in the shop, Maura watched in wonder as Lizzie smiled among pink stargazers, waxy red roses, lush purple hyacinth, humming as she artfully placed hydrangeas and freesia, then happily drove arrangements around in her truck.