Locked Doors (Andrew Z. Thomas/Luther Kite Series 2)

Rufus helped her out of the coat and hung it on a tottering coatrack beside the door. Then he led her through the dusky foyer into the living room and offered her a seat in an armchair beside a massive dormant fireplace.

Rufus eased himself down onto a crushed velvet couch, once gold, now a badly-faded flaxen. Light trickled through those tall windows, weak and dismal.

“Beautiful!” Rufus yelled.

“What?” a voice carried down the staircase.

“We have company!”

“Be right down!”

“Would you care for anything to drink or—”

“No, thank you.” Vi was sinking into the armchair so she scooted forward onto its ottoman. “I’ll wait for Mrs. Kite,” Vi said. “So I don’t have to start over.”

“Of course.” Rufus smiled, all gums. Vi smiled back. Rufus reached into the patch pocket of his flannel shirt and took out his teeth. He slipped them in and smiled again. “Your first visit to Ocracoke?”

“Yessir. Ya’ll have a lovely island.”

“Ocracoke is quite a place. Particularly this time of year when the dreadful tourists are gone. How old are you if you don’t mind? I can get away with inappropriate questions at my age.”

“Twenty-six.”

“My goodness, you’re just a baby.”

Footfalls on the steps drew their attention to Maxine Kite, carefully making her way down the creaking staircase. At the bottom of the steps she stopped to catch her breath and straighten the scallop-edged collar of her canary sweatshirt with an appliqué bunny rabbit on the front.

Vi rose and walked back into the foyer, her stomach cramping at the prospect of telling this frail elderly woman what her son was suspected of doing.

At sixty-two inches, Vi rarely had the occasion to tower over anyone, but she found herself looking down into the sweet somewhat startled eyes of Maxine Kite.

When Vi had introduced herself and helped Maxine over to the couch beside her husband, she returned to the ottoman.

“Mr. and Mrs. Kite, would ya’ll mind if I recorded our conversation?” Vi asked, pulling the tape recorder from her purse.

“Actually, I would,” Rufus said, “since we don’t know what this is all about.”

“Oh. Okay.” Vi dropped the tape recorder in her purse and crossed her legs. “When was the last time either of you saw or spoke with your son, Luther?”

Rufus and Maxine glanced at each other. Then Rufus squeezed his wife’s hand and looked back at Vi.

“We haven’t had contact with our son in seven years.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Where did you see him last?”

Rufus leaned back into the couch and put his arm around Maxine. She lay her head on his chest and stared into the hearth as he stroked her bony shoulder with thick liver-spotted fingers.

“I love my boy,” Maxine said. “But he isn’t like most people, see. He drifts around. Doesn’t need the same things we need. Like family and—”

“Stability,” Rufus cut in. “He never wanted to settle down. Wasn’t for him. And he knew it. He certainly knew it. That’s admirable in a way. To know your mind right off.”

“He’s a good, good boy. Happier on his own, I think. A true loner. Did he do something, Miss King?”

Vi sighed. The stench of fish flowed into the living room from the kitchen.

“Thing is, we aren’t sure yet. We lifted Luther’s fingerprints from a crime scene, so we’d just like to talk with him and—”

“What sort of crime scene?” Maxine asked.

“That’s uh…I’m not allowed to divulge that at this point. So where did you see him last?”

“Here,” Maxine said. “It was Christmas Eve and we hadn’t heard from him in a while, but that wasn’t so strange. After he quit school, we never saw much of him.” The old woman brushed a wisp of white hair from her cheek, which still rested against her husband’s chest. “Rufus and I were in the kitchen peeling shrimp. We always have a special supper on Christmas Eve. I heard logs shifting in the fireplace, rushed out here, and there was my boy, standing by the hearth, poking the fire. He asked me, ‘All right if I spend Christmas with you, Mama?’”

Maxine smiled, her eyes gone heartsick, swallowing as if she had a lump in her throat.

“He left the next morning,” Rufus said. “We haven’t heard from him since. Sometimes, I think he’s dead.”

“No, he isn’t dead, Sweet-Sweet. Luther just doesn’t reckon time the way we do. I think seven years to him don’t mean a hill of beans. He’ll come home again when it pleases him. That’s just his way.”

“Did Luther have any close friends in Ocracoke?”

“Luther was never interested in making friends. Like I said, he’s a loner.”

“No, Beautiful, remember Scottie?”

“Manning?”

“No, Claude and Helen’s boy.”

“Who’s this?” Vi asked.

“Fellow named Scottie Myers. A real local. Lives over on Back Road. Used to be a fisherman when you could make a living at it. I think he waits tables at Howard’s now. He and Luther are the same age. When they were in high school the two of them used to go crabbing with Claude on the weekends.”

“I don’t think they were that good of friends, Rufus.”

“Well, I’m just trying to help Miss King. I mean, is that helpful to you?”

“Oh, absolutely. Now you said he worked at Howard’s? What’s that?”

“It’s a pub on Twelve where all the locals go. And a fair number of tourists, too. Bring your appetite.” He spread his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “The fried oysters are yea big.”

“Sweet-Sweet, I’m tired,” Maxine whined.

“Miss, I don’t know if you have more questions but maybe we could finish this—”

“I could come back tomorrow.”

“It’d have to be later in the afternoon,” Maxine said. “After five o’clock.”

“That’s fine.” Vi smiled. “Well, look, ya’ll have been so helpful. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Rufus said, “Our pleasure.”

Vi came to her feet and lifted her purse.

“Ya’ll have one of the most interesting homes I think I’ve ever seen. When was it built?”