White Hot (7 page)

“Danny only implemented Huff’s policies, which are feudalistic, and I think the employees were aware of that.”

Maybe, thought Sayre. But someone with a bent toward revenge might not have made that distinction. “When Deputy Scott asked us who might have wanted to kill Danny, Beck Merchant—I’m sure Danny had mentioned him to you.”

“I know who he is. Everybody does. He’s a top dog at the foundry. He and Chris are thick as thieves.”

“Are they that good of friends?”

“Practically inseparable.”

Sayre tucked away that tidbit of information to think about later, too. Anything said to Beck might go straight to Chris.

To Jessica she said, “When Sheriff Harper asked if we knew who might have wanted to see Danny dead, Mr. Merchant answered for all of us, saying what I believe we were all thinking. The Hoyles have cultivated a lot of enemies over the years, for various reasons. If someone wanted vengeance, Danny would be an easy target because he kept the lowest profile and was the most defenseless.”

Jessica thought it over for a moment before saying softly, “I suppose. But it hurts to think that he lost his life because someone had a grudge against the family over something that was none of Danny’s doing.”

“I agree.” Sayre hesitated, then asked, “Do you plan to tell Huff and Chris about your secret engagement?”

“No. Absolutely not. My parents knew, because Danny asked my father for my hand. They and my sister are the only ones. Not even the faculty at my school knew. We always met away from town. Even at church, we were always careful to be part of a group, never alone.

“I see no reason to announce it now. It would only cause a brouhaha with your brother and father that, frankly, I don’t have the desire, or the strength, to engage in. I want to concentrate all my thoughts on Danny, not them. I want each memory of our time together to be sweet. They would say or do something to taint it.”

“Sadly, I agree with you,” Sayre said. “I think that’s a very wise decision. Don’t give them the opportunity to hurt you any more than you’re already hurting. Although it’s their great loss that they won’t know you.” Sayre reached for Jessica’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m glad you and I met. It’s made this easier, knowing that Danny was happy the last year of his life.”

She decided to leave so that Jessica would have time alone at the grave. They exchanged telephone numbers before saying good-bye. Sayre promised to keep Jessica apprised of developments in the investigation.

Out of keeping with her fragile appearance, Jessica said stubbornly, “No matter what conclusion that Deputy Scott reaches, I know that Danny didn’t commit suicide. He wouldn’t have left me. Somebody killed him.”

T
he Destiny Diner had undergone a renovation since Sayre had last been there. The chrome stools along the counter now had turquoise vinyl seats where once they had been red. New Formica tabletops had been installed in the booths. These were also turquoise, probably intended to complement the hot-pink tufted benches.

Apparently the owners had thought this Miami Beach color scheme was an imitation of a classic 1950s diner. But all they had accomplished was to turn the real thing into a tacky parody of itself.

Compact discs had replaced 45s in the Wurlitzer, but at least the jukebox was still there. And, although the decor had changed, the current unrepentantly high-caloric, artery-clogging menu was virtually the same as the original.

Sayre placed her order, then relaxed against the padded pink vinyl of the booth to sip her vanilla-spiked Coke and to ask herself for the umpteenth time what she was doing here, why she hadn’t driven back to New Orleans tonight so she could take the first connecting flight to San Francisco tomorrow morning.

Instead, upon leaving the cemetery, she had driven to the better of the two motels in Destiny, which wasn’t much of a boast, and checked into a room. Then, deciding that she was hungry, or perhaps just restless, she left for the diner.

On this weeknight, well after the dinnertime rush, she almost had the place to herself, which suited her frame of mind. She needed time to reflect on all that had happened today.

Her timing for going to the cemetery had been fortuitous. Had she arrived a half hour sooner or later, she might never have known that Jessica DeBlance existed, or about Danny’s happiness with her. Talking with the woman who had loved him had been like receiving a consolation gift.

But, more important, his recent engagement was the most compelling argument against the suicide ruling. Now that Sayre was equipped with that information, she wondered what she should do with it.

It also made the reason Danny had called her after a ten-year silence an even more puzzling question. Had he been going to share the news of his engagement, or put closure on their relationship prior to his suicide, or ask her advice on the problem he was confronting? Not knowing would torment her forever.

“Hiya, Red.”

Roused from her thoughts, Sayre glanced around, expecting to see someone addressing Sheriff Red Harper. But the man standing at the end of her booth was grinning down at her and had obviously called her Red because of her hair. Did he actually think he was being original? Apparently so, because his smile seemed to be self-congratulatory.

He nodded toward her glass of Coke. “Drinking alone?”

“And I prefer it that way.” She faced forward again, hoping he would take the hint and go away. He didn’t.

“How do you know? You ain’t tried drinking with me yet.”

“Nor will I.”

“Nor will I,” he repeated, imitating her. “You sure picked up some highfalutin ways out in San Fran-cis-co.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Ha! Wondering how I know you? I know you, Miss Sayre Hoyle. Couldn’t forget that hair, or…” His eyes slid over her in what he probably thought was a sexy come-hither. “The way you’re put together. You’ve acquired a few bad habits out in California. All them fags out there talk fancy, I guess, so I can’t say as I blame you.”

Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “But I bet your ass is still as sweet as it was when you were a sixteen-year-old cheerleader bouncing all over the football field, turning cartwheels and such. Gave me a charge every Friday night to see you do those high kicks. Looked forward to it all week.”

“Charming,” she said, giving him a drop-dead look. “Now will you please get lost?”

Instead, he slid into the bench opposite her. She reached for her handbag, but before she could leave the booth, he clamped his hand over her wrist. She tried to yank it free, saying, “Let go of me.”

“I’m just trying to have a friendly conversation,” he said in a wheedling voice. “It’s not like we’re strangers. Don’t you remember me?”

She didn’t want to have a conversation, friendly or otherwise, with this creep who had long, yellow, lupine teeth, a scraggly yellow goatee, and enormous ears. But she also didn’t want to get into an undignified arm wrestling match with him and attract the attention of the few others in the diner.

Besides not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, she would just as soon Huff and Chris think she had returned to New Orleans tonight, according to her plan. It wouldn’t take long for news to reach them that she was fighting off a masher in the diner, which would no doubt provide them with a good laugh.

She fixed her frostiest glare on the man. “I don’t know who you are, nor do I care to know. If you don’t let go of my hand immediately, I’ll—”

“What?” he taunted, applying more pressure to her wrist, digging into the tender underside of it with his thumb. “Wha’chu gonna do if I don’t let go?”

“She’ll break your fucking neck. And if she doesn’t, I will.”

Her unwanted companion’s jaw went slack as he looked up and beyond her. She turned to see Beck Merchant leaning indolently against the back of the booth behind her, in much the same way he’d been leaning against the fender of her car that morning. He was smiling the same casual smile now, too, but only with his mouth. His eyes echoed the threat he had issued.

It caused the other man’s confidence to waver, although he tried to brazen it out. “Who’re you to be butting in?”

“I’m the guy who’s going to break your neck.”

“I whipped your ass once, you know. You’ve obviously forgotten that. But I’ll be all too happy to refresh your memory.”

He was bluffing. Even Sayre, who was by no means an expert on fistfights, could tell that.

“Let go of her.” Emphasizing the two words separately, Beck added, “Right now.”

The man hesitated only a moment longer, then released her and slid out of the booth. Sneering down at Sayre, he said, “Just like all the Hoyles, you always did think you was hot shit.”

She didn’t bother with a comeback but watched him saunter to a booth at the far end of the diner, where his companions began riling him for being shot down. Then she looked at Beck. “I could have handled the situation myself.”

“Hold the thought.”

Before she could say more, he walked to the door of the diner, pushed it open, and whistled softly. A large dog leapt from the bed of a pickup truck and bounded up to him. “Go on back there and let them feed you.”

The golden retriever ran to the double swinging doors that led into the kitchen and nosed his way through them. Sayre heard exclamations of greeting from the staff. Beck rejoined her, sliding into the booth.

“Frito?” she asked.

“How did you know?”

“Chris mentioned him.”

“Oh, right. The night at the fishing cabin. The bobcat.”

“I assumed Chris was referring to a dog.” She glanced toward the diner kitchen. “Apparently Frito is a regular.”

“So am I, but I’ve never seen you here, and frankly I’m shocked. At the house, you were chomping at the bit to be on your way back to California.”

“I went to the cemetery. It got late. I decided to stay here tonight and get a fresh start tomorrow.”

He assimilated that without comment, then asked, “Have you ordered?”

“A cheeseburger.”

He called out to the short-order cook who could be seen through the open space behind the counter. “Grady, double her order, please.”

“Coming up.”

He settled back into the booth. “Now, what were you saying about handling the situation with Slap Watkins?”

“Watkins,” she said with sudden enlightenment. “I remember now. He was a troublemaker, several classes ahead of me in school. I think he had to repeat a couple of grades. He once got suspended for window-peeping into the girls’ locker room.”

“He’s still a troublemaker. I heard from Chris that he’s recently been released from prison and is on parole. When I pulled in, I saw you through the window, and it looked to me like you needed some help.”

“Insert ‘thank you for rescuing me’ here?”

He grinned, then looked up at the approaching waitress and winked when she set a glass of Coke in front of him. “You remembered the lemon wedge without my even asking. Thanks.”

“You bet,” she said, returning his flirtatious smile.

“Do you know Sayre Lynch?”

The two of them exchanged obligatory smiles. Speaking in a low voice, the waitress said, “That Slap Watkins has stunk up the place. Want me to wipe down the table for you, Beck?”

“I think it’s okay, but thanks.”

“They should have kept him in prison.”

“Give him time, he’ll go back.”

“Until then, I wish he and his buddies would find another place to hang out. Burgers will be ready soon. Nice to meet you,” she said to Sayre before turning away. But Sayre questioned her sincerity. In fact she seemed reluctant to leave Sayre alone with Beck Merchant.

The waitress probably wasn’t the only heart in Destiny that he kept aflutter, and Sayre could understand why. He had an undeniable sex appeal—the green eyes, the rakish blond hair, the smile that suggested he could talk you into being naughty. He looked as good and as comfortable in the old jeans and chambray shirt he was wearing now as he had in his funeral suit. Altogether, a very attractive package.

But so was Chris. He wore clothes well, too. He was movie star handsome. But many reptiles were as beautiful and alluring as they were poisonous. Chris was a snake who struck even as he charmed.

She trusted Beck Merchant no more than she trusted her older brother, and possibly even less. Chris came by his meanness naturally, whereas Beck was paid to be mean.

“Selma would be heartbroken to learn that we’d come here to eat after she tried all day to feed us,” he remarked.

“She loves us. Always has. Much more than we deserve to be loved.”

Folding his arms on the table, he leaned forward. “Why don’t you think you deserve to be loved?”

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Merchant, not a psychoanalyst.”

“I’m only making casual conversation.”

“I believe Slap Watkins used that same line.”

He laughed out loud. “Then my technique needs some work.” He twirled the straw in his glass for several moments. “Sayre,” he said slowly, “I apologize.” He looked up, met her gaze. “For telling you about Old Mitchell like that. It was a cheap shot. Even when I’m angry, I usually play more fairly than that.”

Disliking her own mistrust of what appeared to be a sincere apology, she said nothing, merely raised one shoulder in a half shrug of acknowledgment.

The waitress arrived with their orders. The burgers and fries were everything they should have been—greasy, hot, and delicious. For several minutes, they ate in silence, but she was keenly aware of him watching her. Finally she said, “What is it, Mr. Merchant?”

“What?”

“You keep staring at me.”

“Hm, sorry. I was just thinking, would it have killed you to thank me?”

“For what?”

“For fending off Watkins.”

He nodded through the plate-glass window. She turned to see the man climbing onto a motorcycle. He stomped the starter, then peeled out of the parking lot. Just before roaring onto the highway, he raised his middle finger at them.

“That sums up what he thinks of us, doesn’t it?” Then, looking across the booth, she said, “I could have handled the situation, but probably not without making a scene and becoming the talk of the town tomorrow. So, thank you.”

“Glad to oblige.”

“He said he had whipped your ass before. True?”

“That’s his version.” He finished his burger and pulled two paper napkins from the dispenser to wipe his hands. “Chris and I were reunited because of Slap Watkins. Two coffees,” he told the waitress, who had returned to take away their plates. “If Frito is in your way, send him out here.” She told him the dog was snoozing and went to get their coffee, which Sayre was glad he had ordered. It would be the perfect chaser for the rich food.

“Chris and I met at LSU when I pledged the same fraternity. He was a senior. We had a passing acquaintance before he graduated. We didn’t see each other again until three years ago.”

He acknowledged the arrival of their coffees with another smile for the waitress, then as Sayre raised the steaming cup to her lips, he warned, “It’s caffeinated chicory coffee.”

“I drank it from my baby bottle and still have it shipped to me in San Francisco.” She took a sip, then asked, “What happened three years ago to reunite you?”

“The Gene Iverson case. Indirectly anyway. How much do you know about that?”

“Only what I read in the company newsletters.”

“Those newsletters that you don’t want sent to you, but which you read anyway?”

On that point he had her, although she would never admit it. She faithfully read the newsletters, not because she cared about Huff and Chris’s welfare but because she cared about the men and women who worked for them and about the future of the town. Without Hoyle Enterprises, there would be no local economy. Hundreds of families would be without income. Even though she didn’t want to profit from the foundry, she felt a moral responsibility to keep a close eye on it, warts and all.

She said, “The information in the newsletters is filtered through Huff and Chris, particularly if it’s even fractionally negative. In other words, my source on the Iverson case was biased and unreliable. What can you tell me about it?”

He leaned back and studied her for a moment. “Your brother was indicted for murder, yet you never bothered to learn the facts of the case. Doesn’t your concern come a little late?”

“I’m not concerned, I’m curious. I don’t give a damn about Chris and what he does. I feel the same about Huff. I wrote them off ten years ago, and if that sounds harsh and unfeeling, that’s just too damn bad.”

“Where did Danny rate?”

“Danny,” she said, made sad again at the mention of his name. “Whatever Huff and Chris dished out, he took lying down. I’m sure you witnessed his subordination to them every day. Danny never stood up for himself.”

“But you did.”

Not until ten years ago, she thought. Not until she had struck rock bottom. Not until she had determined that, in order to survive, she had to leave her family and their town and never return.