***   No One Left To Burn  ***

Chapter 1

7

                “Mr. Stevens?”

                I nodded my response.

                “Please come in, Mr. Stevens.  I’m John Burton.”  He appeared to be in his early sixties, which made him several years older than I’d thought he’d be.  He sounded much younger on the telephone.  His silver streaked hair, atop a ruddy complexioned face, rested on a short, trim frame weighing maybe 150 pounds and standing around five foot six.  He was athletic looking like maybe a tennis player.  His muscle tone looked visibly firm.  I could tell he was no couch potato, that he enjoyed outdoor, physical activity.  His skin was evenly tanned to a copper-colored brown.

                 I stood there looking at him, and some inaudible voice inside my head seemed to be saying “tennis player, tennis player.”  Somehow I knew this guy was an ace server.   Maybe not an Andre Agassi, but good at the sport nonetheless. 

                He was dressed casually in what was obviously a very expensive, lightweight, tan cotton twill jump suit.  His bare feet were mostly hidden in sparkling white canvas deck shoes.  Bushy, rumpled eyebrows were suspended over his large bespectacled eyes that were steel gray and very tired looking.

                “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Burton.” I said, taking the outstretched hand he offered.  I had expected a firm grip, but his hand was cold and damp in mine.  The handshake felt more like he’d just handed me a flaccid mackerel.  I was more than glad when he released his grip, what there was of it, and lowered his arm.  I abstractedly glanced down at my open palm; half expecting to see it spotted with silver fish scales.  Let me say that it was not the grip I contemplated would belong to a tennis player with a smashing forehand.

                Stepping into the house was like entering a cathedral.  If I had been wearing a hat, I would have instinctively taken it off to ward off any lightning strike.   The house was so big it seemed hollow.  The foyer we were standing in was two stories high.  Hanging down from the middle girder of five massive timber crosspieces was an elaborate and glistening chandelier, fashioned from antique brass and crystal.  The chain suspending the fixture must have been twenty feet long and the bottom prismatic teardrops easily cleared the floor by still another ten feet.

                John Burton led me down a paneled hallway that was long enough and wide enough for perhaps a couple of bowling lanes.  Somewhere in the expanse of the huge structure I could hear what sounded like the soft murmur of a feminine voice.

                We were both silent as we moved along the spit-shined, glossy marble floor.  In the absolute quiet, I became aware of a vociferous whining squeak from my left shoe.  Having more than my share of vanity, I developed a slight counterfeit limp.  The lame dodder was an effort to still the intermittent squeal.

                We passed a partially opened door on the right, and Mr. Burton paused to gently push the door fully open.  He peered in and spoke to someone I couldn’t see.

                “Meagan,” he said, then paused as if waiting for someone’s attention.  After a moment he must have gotten it, because he continued.  “Meagan, Mr. Stevens is here from New Orleans.  We talked about him earlier, before our tennis.”

                Hey, what can I say? 

                Mr. Burton continued talking.  “When you get free please come join us.   I’d like for you to meet him.  Perhaps you’ll be able to help with answers to some of his questions.”

                Halfway down the two bowling-lane wide corridor, or just about where my ball would normally drop into the gutter, we turned right into a room which was proportional in size to that of the hall we had just left.  It looked like a family room; a family room about the size of most homes.  Not the size of most homes’ family rooms but the size of most homes.

                There were several clusters of conversational groups in the room, consisting of chairs, sofas and low tables.  They were scattered about the room so all of the groupings surrounded a huge natural stone fireplace, which occupied the center of the room.  Thick, lush burgundy carpet covered the floor.  The dense matting dampened the acoustics in the room sufficiently to allow me to discard the fake shuffle I had refined to perfection.   It was as if an evangelist placed his hands on my head, then with his own head tilted back and his eyes closed, squeezed my skull and vehemently demanded “Heal!”  I was suddenly well again.

                At the far-left end of the gigantic family room we turned again, this time left.  We walked through large double doors into a dimly lit room, which looked as though it might be a den.   The room was considerably smaller than the others were, but even by my own standards, it would still be thought of as spacious.

                One wall of the room was bookshelves, floor to ceiling.  The pungent aroma of leather bindings permeated the air. It was not an unpleasant smell, but reminiscent of how you would expect a tack room to smell.  I looked around wondering if I might see a saddle and bridle hanging near by.  I thought the room was sparsely furnished for its size.  Two dark leather couches faced each other in the middle and in-between was a large, glossy coffee table made of multi-colored inlaid woods.  Several large comfortable looking over-stuffed chairs were placed to take advantage of the natural light coming in from the two window walls.

                Sharing floor space with the chairs was a large, antique oak desk and a leather and wood swivel chair of about the same vintage.   I don’t like that type and style.  They were old and dark.  The leather on the chair was trying to split.  Personally, I like my furnishings more contemporary.  But then it wasn’t my money.  It was John Burton’s, and I’ll bet when you get right down to it, he didn’t give a shit what I thought of his office appointments.

                Except for John Burton, someone called Meagan, and myself, the house seemed deserted.  That seemed strange to me since I would have guessed a domestic organization roughly platoon size would be required to maintain the digs.  Perhaps they were all off to the courts for a match or two of tennis.

                He motioned for me to sit, so I sat.  I chose one of the two large, dark blue crushed velvet chairs, which were facing the large oak desk.  John Burton dropped into the wood and leather swivel chair behind it.  He came down into the old chair a little heavy, and I flinched just slightly, expecting him to continue going right on down.  He just bounced a little and then settled in.  Just goes to show that the old time craftsmen fabricated a damned sturdy product.

                “Mr. Stevens,” he said.  “Perhaps you think it rather irregular having you drive all the way down here to Pont-Rouge from New Orleans.”

                “If I thought it were irregular, Mr. Burton, I wouldn’t be here,” I lied.  Actually I thought it queer as hell, but then, a job is a job.  His phone call caught me between cases.  So with nothing really to do for a day or two, I saw no problem with a little fill-in work.  Still I didn’t understand why the local law enforcement couldn’t do the job.  He must have some reason to bring me all the way from New Orleans.  But, then again, maybe he just didn’t want the local people involved.  Stories travel real fast in a town the size of Pont-Rouge.  Maybe that was the reason - to keep down the gossip.

                “Tell me, Mr. Burton,” I asked.  “Have you talked with the local authorities about your concern for your daughter?  What about her friends?  What have they had to say?  No need for me to duplicate your efforts if you decide to hire me.”

                He didn’t answer at first.  Instead he pursed his lips like he was experiencing slight pain.  Then while rotating his right shoulder he began to massage it with his left hand.  He must have a hell of a forehand smash that he’s overworking, I thought.  Either that or he has a wicked backhand and he’s not getting the wrist action correct.  Or both.

                He continued his treatment of the sore joint, probably wishing he had a glob of non-greasy pain-relieving cream to work into the sensitive area.  I remained silent while he subconsciously administered self-help to his affliction.  He didn’t even know he was doing it.  He was looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought, contemplating the answer he was going to give to my question.

                He opened his mouth to reply and at the same time he executed a final remedy to his infirmity.  With a loud pop his right arm shot into the air performing a siege heil salute.  The suddenness of the Nazi hail to victory gesture so startled me that I didn’t hear his answer.

                “You say you did contact the local authorities?” I guessed.

                “Yes I did,” he said, while adjusting his position.  He looked more comfortable when he continued.   “But they didn’t seem too concerned.  I spoke with the police chief personally.  Perhaps that was the wrong thing to do.  The chief and I aren’t on the best of terms, but that’s another story and it goes back a long way.

                “I don’t believe they completely ignored my concern, but I do think they put it on the back burner.  It’s not just the Pont-Rouge police.  It’s the same reaction you’d get from any police department in any city.  Missing person reports don’t get much priority unless there’s evidence of foul play.  The police just don’t have much, if anything, to start with.  They’re tough cases.  There are many possible reasons why an adult might not come home for a spell, and you can’t assume they were all shanghaied.  Anyway, Mr. Stevens, I haven’t heard from the police for about four days.”

                He started his left hand toward his right shoulder again and I prepared myself for another encomium to the Fuehrer, but it didn’t come.  His hand stopped and then he returned it to rest on the top of his desk next to the other one.

                “Anyway, I don’t think they’d be any help,” he said.  He pulled on his lower lip with his top teeth and made a sucking sound.  “I don’t believe Lila is anywhere around Pont-Rouge.”

                I had to ask the obvious.  “Why do you say that, Mr. Burton?  If you don’t know where she is, what makes you think she isn’t around here somewhere?  Maybe she’s staying with one of her friends.  Have there been any disagreements between you and your daughter serious enough to cause her to march off and spend some time at a friend’s house?”

                “No,” he said with a shake of his head.  “And besides, I’ve spoken with most all of her friends, all those who might know where she is.  I’m satisfied that they don’t know.  Lila has been spending a lot of time in New Orleans, now that she’s not in school.  She used to work during the summer vacation, but she didn’t do that this year.”  He smacked his lips making a clicking sound, then raised his eyebrows and said, “I never have been able to understand what she found so damned inviting about that place, but you know how kids are these days.”

                I didn’t think he really intended to make me feel like an old fart, so I ignored his comment.  He scratched the back of his head before he continued.  “Two of her closest friends told me Lila mentioned to them that she might be going to New Orleans.  And that would be about the right time because they said it was just before the night when she didn’t come home.

                “That’s the reason I called you, Mr. Stevens.  If Lila did go to New Orleans, you would be more suited for the assignment to find her than someone from Pont-Rouge.”

                Perhaps, I thought.  “Did you happen to ask her friends where she would be staying when she was in the city?”  At least, I reasoned, that would be somewhere to start.

                “As a matter of fact I did, but, unfortunately, they didn’t know.  The only girl Lila ever went there with is out of town.  Somewhere in Montana on vacation with her family.”  He paused and let out a deep sigh.  “Maybe Meagan knows.  I don’t believe she and Lila ever went there together, but maybe they talked about it.

                “Meagan goes to New Orleans quite a bit herself.  She has several friends there, I think from school.  She goes mostly to shop and for the performing arts, which are hard to find around here,” he added, while tipping his head and looking at me over the top of his glasses.  “And when Meagan goes I know she stays at the Marriott downtown.”  He glanced over toward the double doors we had come through and smiled faintly.  He rose to his feet as he said, “Meagan, come in dear.  I want you to met Rick Stevens.”

                My head turned to follow his gaze toward the door.  This must have been my day to meet beautiful women.  What I saw was a pleasant sight.  She was clad in white short shorts and a bright yellow halter-top.  Both were tight enough to tell me that she wore nothing else underneath.  There just wasn’t room for anything else.  The clothes clung in such a way that they accented her tiny waist and narrow but rounded hips.  The halter-top was well filled and had significant overflow.  Her legs were long, shapely and athletically firm.  Muscles were evident on her calves, and as she walked towards us, traveled up her thighs to disappear into her tight, white short shorts. Slouch socks and white Reeboks completed her casual attire.  She had a head of short, black, curly hair that glistened.  Her clear, bright, emerald green eyes were wide set under tapering arched eyebrows.  She had a small, turned up nose, which was straight and centered over her full lips.  She wore just a hint of lip-gloss, which made her lips appear to be thrust out in a sullen pout.  All of her exposed skin, which I must say was aplenty, was weathered to a creamy caramel tan, which was a striking contrast to her Pepsodent white teeth.

                She was so stunning; it was an exacting task for me to draw my eyes away from her.  But alas, I did reluctantly, and my focus slowly shifted back to John Burton as he spoke to introduce us. “Mr. Stevens,” he said, “this is my oldest daughter, Meagan.  Meagan, this is Mr. Rick Stevens.  He’s the Private Investigator from New Orleans that I told you about earlier.”

                Meagan reached out and took my hand in hers.  Her grip was more firm than I thought was necessary since I wasn’t planning on running away, at least not in the immediate future.  Her hands were strong like a worker’s hands would be; yet the skin was velvety soft to the touch.  She smiled brightly as we shook hands, as though she were genuinely happy to meet me.  She held my hand longer than normal for most initial greetings.  She kneaded the flesh of my hand as she most discreetly gave my fingers, palm and knuckles a subtle, sensual massage.

                “I’m so pleased to meet you, Rick.”  Her voice was soft and gentle, and the utterance seemed to float from her mouth, across the narrow space between us and settle with ease upon my eager ears.

                “I’m happy to meet you Meagan.  I just hope I can be of some assistance in locating your sister.”  When I spoke I did so trying to sound vaguely professional.  I’ve found that sometimes it’s a good approach to use when launching into untried waters, perhaps even coming off a trifle aloof.  Not too much you understand, just enough to take the edge off the situation.  Only Meagan had already done that.  She had taken the edge off.  I was delighted when I realized that we were already on a first name basis.

                I was firmly shaking her hand while she was speaking breathlessly to me, and at the same time tenderly massaging my fingers.  Of course, all the while I was grinning in oafish pleasure.

                John Burton spoke to Meagan as he gestured toward the other large, dark blue crushed velvet chair.  “Please sit here, Meagan,” he said “Before we start, Mr. Stevens,” he continued, “perhaps you’d like something to drink?”  He offered a slight smile and without waiting for my reply asked, “What would you like, Mr. Stevens?”  He paused and then said, “I know you’re a wine drinker, Meagan, and I just acquired a bottle of Burgundy I’d like you to try.  It’s a new domestic from New York, and if you like California Burgundy I think you’ll find this quite pleasing to the taste.”

                Meagan didn’t say anything to her father, but merely gestured with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.  The intimation, I would come to learn later, was characteristic of her demeanor and was her way of saying, “Sure, why not.”  A lot of people now days communicate that way, lazily imparting information with the wink of the eye or the nod of the head or maybe the flexing of any number of the many body parts.  These gestures should be used with some degree of caution, for they have multifarious implications and can mean most anything. 

                Non-verbal communication is thought by many to be a time saving technique.  Those who perceive themselves as being too rushed to indulge in meaningful dialogue, although, frankly, I don’t see where it saves that much time, often use it.  And besides, there is always the possibility of confusion.  For example, the meaning of a wink of the eye by one person might mean something entirely different by another.  Also, the flexing of any number of the many body parts can likewise lead one to an erroneous conclusion.  A wrong conclusion, that is, unless the flexed body part is the haughty upward extension of an arrogant middle finger.  Now here we’re talking about a maneuver that requires very little dexterity, has a universally accepted meaning, and is never, ever confused with “one please.”

                “No Burgundy for me, thank you,” I said.  “Scotch and water will be fine.”

                He walked over to the wall opposite the window wall and slid a large panel aside to expose a mirrored, well-stocked mini-bar.  I glanced at Meagan and was somewhat bemused to find her staring ardently at me.  I cockily returned her riveted gaze with my own.  Two can play at this game, baby.   The seconds began to drag by slowly, and I must admit to some relief when I could finally look away because John Burton returned with the drinks.

                He carried a tray holding an almost full bottle of Glenlevit single malt Scotch, two glasses of ice, each containing only a splash of water, and a large, round glass of Burgundy.  He set the tray down on the edge of his desk, then handed Meagan the glass of wine.  The glass he handed to me was about one quarter full, as was the glass he retained for himself.  John Burton soon altered that.  He opened the bottle of Scotch whiskey and began to pour.  When he finished, the glasses were almost full to their gold-plated rims.  I raised the glass to eye level and studied the amber liquid briefly before tipping the translucent potion to my lips.  I took a hearty quaff from the frosty glass and almost lost my breath.   It was almost lethally potent and, me thinks, should have come with a warning label to that effect attached to the side of the glass.  Or perhaps a skull and cross bones.  Yes, Dr. Jekyll, I thought as I visualized Spencer Tracey clutching his throat, this is truly a brew to be reckoned with.

                I gently stirred the mixture with my index finger to make the solution more homogenous and to facilitate the ice cubes melting.  John Burton, while watching me contort, raised his glass feigning a toast, smiled wryly and said, “I like my drinks a little stiff.  They seem to give me strength that way. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Stevens?”

                I wasn’t sure I did know what he meant.  I knew what stiff drinks did to me, and I wasn’t so sure they made me stronger.  But I only nodded silently, not yet ready to put my vocal chords to test with audible timbre.

                He took a few substantial swallows of his drink while I resorted to only an occasional sip of mine.  Meagan sat by silently, just watching the two of us from the large dark blue crushed velvet chair into which she had so gracefully settled.  I continued to swirl the ice slowly and watched the cubes glide smoothly around the inner surface of the glass.

                “You told me earlier,”I said to Mr. Burton, “that Lila hasn’t been home since Sunday.  Has she ever stayed away like this before?  If not for so long, then, maybe for a couple or maybe three - four days?”

                “No,” he replied, almost defensively, as if he were emphatically trying to warrant the quality of his parenting.  “Well,” he conceded, after a short pause.  “She did periodically stay overnight with one of her girlfriends, but never, never did she stay out even one night not pre-planned that she didn’t call home.”

                Okay, I thought.  That aspect of his tutelage appeared to be validated.   I certainly wasn’t going to squabble over it.  “Tell me, Mr. Burton,” I asked.  “Prior to her leaving, or as you feel, her disappearance, did you or Meagan notice anything unusual about her behavior?”  He paused for a moment as if in deep thought, looking first at me, then at Meagan, then back at me.  

                Then he said, “First of all, why don’t we drop the formality here?  I noticed that you and Meagan have already established a first name basis.  So why don’t you call me John and I’ll call you Rick.  I think that would be much more comfortable.  I think I would like that.  After all we are going to share some rather personal information with you, so what do you think, Rick?”

                “Super, John,” I replied, having no particular problem in making such a major decision.

                “Well fine,” he said, raising his glass and nodding his head.   “Now back to your question.  Yes.  I would answer yes to that.”  He turned and looked at Meagan.  “Wouldn’t you agree that for the past few weeks or so, Lila has seemed a little nervous?  Not jittery or a shaking type nervous, but you could tell something was amiss with her.”  He looked back at me as he continued.  “ At first I thought it might be the birthday party Meagan was planning for her.  Last Wednesday was Lila’s twenty-first birthday, and Meagan had invited twenty or so of their friends for the occasion.  The girls have hosted much larger functions than that by themselves since my wife passed away, and did so without becoming as visibly anxious as Lila appeared to be.”  I glanced at Meagan and she was slowly nodding her head in agreement as John continued.

                “She has always loved sports and outdoor activities and is generally very much involved in functions at the Country Club.  She likes very much to be around people. Lately, however, she seemed to spend a great deal of time alone in her room.  Sometimes she wouldn’t even come down to dinner.  I tried several times to talk to her about what might be bothering her, but whenever I did, she would immediately change the subject, develop a headache or somehow avoid any attempt by me to discuss what might be troubling her.  It was obvious that something was.”

                He finished off his drink, reached for the bottle and poured himself a straight shot.  I continued to sip mine.  Meagan’s wineglass was still full.

                “Was there anything else out of the ordinary that you can think of?”  I asked.  I waited for his reply, but he said nothing.  I looked at Meagan and said, “Any other changes in her normal behavior that either of you might find strange?”

                John rolled his eyes back in his head and looked up at the ceiling as he thought. Then he said, “Lila was never, what I would say, overly concerned about her mail.  If she got some that was okay; if she didn’t get any, well, that was okay too.  Lately, I noticed that she’d become more concerned about it.  Roughly two weeks ago, which would be about a week before the night she didn’t come home, she started watching for the mail delivery.  Often she seemed disappointed when she brought it in, as if she were expecting a letter from someone in particular, which hadn’t arrived.  Then last Tuesday, while I was doing some work in the flower garden out front, I saw her go to the mailbox, and even though I spoke to her when she returned, she walked right past me as if I wasn’t there.  I could see that she held an open letter in her hand, and for the first time in several weeks, she looked like she was actually happy about something, maybe even a little excited.”

                I directed my question to Meagan when I asked, “I don’t suppose you have any idea what the letter might have contained, or from whom it might have come?”  Unfortunately, I was sure that I already knew the answer she would give to my question before the last few words rolled off my tongue.  And I was right. 

                “No, Rick,” she said.  “I don’t have the faintest idea.  I’m sorry.”

                After a few moments of silence I said, “I’d like to see Lila’s room if you don’t mind, John.   You never know.  Perhaps I’ll find something there that will offer an idea as to where I might start looking.  Any hint will help.”

                “Of course,” he said, and tossed down another straight shot.  It made my stomach burn just to watch.

                I rose and set my still half-full glass back on the tray at the corner of the desk.  Meagan also stood when John turned to her and said, “Meagan, dear, why don’t you come along with us.  You know more about Lila’s things than I do.  I know very little.”

                No shit, I thought.  At the rate he was tossing down the straight single malt, very shortly he’d know very little about almost everything.  Already his speech was beginning to slur, and his little sounded more like luttol.

                John led the way with Meagan following and yours truly bringing up the rear.  We moved quietly back through the thickly carpeted family room in single file.  As we snaked our way around the scattered chairs and cocktail tables, my eyes became fastened on the white short shorts leading in the foreground.  I was fully absorbed in the risquÈ side-to-side swing of the little Guess label over the right hip pocket and stumbled slightly when the toe of my right shoe decided to take on the leg of a skirted, satin covered chair.

                Meagan softly sang something that sounded like the refrain from a teen-age hit song from time past.  “Keep your mind on your driving, keep your hands on the wheel, and keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead.”  Her voice had a jovial ring to it, so she must have known where my peepers were fixed.

                We turned left back into the main hall.  This time, small talk camouflaged the sound of my still squeaking shoe.  Midway down the hall was a door on the right.  The door was partially open and I could see inside to a large country kitchen.   There was a wide double opening twenty or so paces farther, on the same side of the hall.  I took a quick peek, trying to be careful not to trip and fall on my ass, and caught a glimpse of a finely furnished formal dining room.  On the left side of the hall, opposite the dining room was a winding spiral staircase leading to the second level of the house.

                As we started to mount the stairs, John stopped and turned around to face Meagan and me.  He looked a little ragged around the edges when he asked, “Do you think you can find Lila, Rick?  So far we don’t have much to go on do we?”

                Right now, I thought, you’re right.  We don’t have squat to go on.  But I said, “I don’t know John, but I’m certainly going to give it my best shot.  Clearly, the sooner I get started looking, the sooner we’ll find out.”

                “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, and we started up the stairs again.

                When we reached the top of the stairs, we were in another wide hall.  John turned left and Meagan and I followed; only now Meagan and I were side by side.  This was the first opportunity I’d had to observe her from the profile.  She was several inches shorter than I was so when I looked over at her I was also looking down on her. 

Page Eight

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