The Bright Silver Star (20 page)

“No, this is the real me,” Esme responded, smiling faintly. “You know, I just love your scar.”

“You love my
what?”
Yolie said, fingering her cheek selfconsciously.

“It makes you look so gangsta.”

Now it was Yolie who was thrown. “Um, let’s try to stay on subject, okay? Esme, when did you get that lip injury?”

Esme lowered her eyes, coloring slightly. “The other night.”

“The night Tito died?”

“Yes.”

“Want to tell us how it happened?”

“Well, Tito had been out all evening. He was pissed at me, because I wanted him to go to the beach club with me and he wouldn’t.”

“Where did he spend his evening?”

“I don’t know,” Esme replied, twirling her blond hair around her finger.

“You have no idea where your husband was all evening?”

“That’s what I just said.”

Yolie narrowed her eyes at her across the table. “Was that typical?”

“I guess.”

“Well, where did
you
go?” she asked, growing a bit frustrated by Esme’s vagueness.

“Nowhere. I stayed home. They were running
an I Dream of Jeannie
marathon on TV Land. Do you like that show? It’s the one with the astronaut. I am so into it.”

“Were you with her, Mrs. Crockett?” Yolie asked Martine.

Martine shook her head in response.

“Was there anyone else in the house? A maid? Cook?”

“We don’t like to live like that,” Esme said, making it sound as if Tito were still around, still choosing how to live. “We have some daytime help is all.”

“A local widow does the shopping and cleaning,” Martine explained. “The realtor set it up.”

“Gotcha,” said Yolie, jotting down the information in her notepad. “So no one else was around?”

“Well, there was Chrissie,” Esme offered.

“Your publicist?”

“Former
publicist,” Martine said.

“She was out in the guesthouse,” Esme revealed. “It’s over the garage. It has a separate entrance and everything.”

“Could she hear what went on in the main house?”

“I really don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”

“Okay, we will. How would you describe your husband’s mood that evening?”

“He was pissed at me. I just told you.”

“I’m speaking more generally now. Was he morose or depressed?”

Esme stared at her in astonishment. “He was Tito.”

Yolie stared right back at her. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning he told me all the time that James Dean had the right idea—live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. He
always
talked about doing himself in.”

“Did you think he meant it—or was he just styling?”

“Tito was never about styling,” Esme shot back defensively.

“What time did he come home that night?”

“Around midnight, I think.”

“What happened then?”

“He went straight to our bedroom and put on a pair of jeans instead of the swimming trunks he was wearing. Then he started rummaging around in his closet.”

“He was searching for something?”

“Maybe. I guess so.”

“Any idea what?”

“No, I have no idea.”

“Esme, did he keep a gun in the house?”

“No way. Tito hated guns.”

“Okay, what happened next?”

“He said he was going right back out again.”

“And what did you say to him in response?”

“That he should stay home with me. I got kind of pissed, and that’s when . . .” Esme trailed off, her bruised lower lip quivering.

“That’s when he hit you?” Yolie pressed her.

“Yes.”

“Did he strike you with his fist or his open hand?”

“With his fist.”

“He punched you, in other words.”

Esme nodded, Martine stiffening noticeably.

“Did he knock you down?”

“Yes.”

“Did you suffer any other injuries as a result?”

“Not really.”

“Were you angry?”

“I guess.”

“You guess
you were angry that your husband punched you in the damned mouth? Come on, girl, stop fronting me.”

“Yes,
I was angry.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“Nothing! He stormed out the door and I never saw him again— not alive, anyway.”

“You’ve got some bruises and scratches on your arms,” Yolie observed. “What’s up with those?”

“They’re from before,” Esme responded, glancing down at them. “He and I . . . we fought a few days ago.”

“So he had a habit of knocking you around, is that it?”

“I-I wouldn’t call it a habit.”

“What
would
you call it?”

“We fought,
okay? That’s what two people do when they love each other. They fight. They care. That’s what it means to be in love.” Tears began to spill out of Esme’s big blue eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t know anything about love, or you wouldn’t ask me anything so lame and insensitive and stupid!”

Des got up and fetched her a tissue. “If I might just ask one quick question . . .” she interjected, hoping to cool things off.

“Go ahead, Des,” Soave said, nodding his head approvingly.

Yolie just stared across the table at her with her mouth open, clearly taken aback by the interruption.

Des sat back down, flashing a warm smile at Esme. “The other day, you told me that those bruises happened during rough sex,” she reminded her in a slow, soft voice.

Esme dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “I know I did.”

“So you were lying to me?”

“I was. I’m sorry, Des.”

“And that story about your lip in this morning’s
Daily News?”

“Also a lie. I don’t even know how it got there, but it’s a lie.”

“Why did you lie to me about it, Esme? Was it to protect Tito?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you thinking just what
she’s
thinking.” Meaning Yolie. “That he was a bad person. He wasn’t bad. He was just messed up.”

“Were you ever afraid of him?”

“No.”

“Did he ever threaten to harm you?”

“Never.”

“Okay, good. I just wanted to clear that up,” Des said. “We all
know how hard this is for you, Esme, and we appreciate it. You’re doing great.”

“Really great, sweetie,” Martine agreed, squeezing Esme’s hand.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Des said to Yolie. “She’s all yours.”

“You two were having marital problems?” Yolie asked, her tone a bit less prosecutorial now.

“Yes, we were,” Esme said bleakly.

“Straight up, was Tito seeing someone else?”

Esme’s mouth tightened. “Yes, he was.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. I think it started after we came here.”

“I see,” Yolie said, clicking her pen between her teeth thoughtfully. “Do you know who the woman is, Esme?”

“No, but . . .” Esme trailed off, twirling her hair around her finger again.

“But what?”

“Tito was never faithful to me. Not ever. That’s just the way he was.”

“And did this bother you?”

Esme shrugged, saying nothing in response.

“What happened after he punched you in the mouth?”

“I told you that already,” she replied coldly. “He left.”

“This was about twelve-thirty?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Did he take anything with him?”

“A bottle of peppermint schnapps.”

“And what did you do after he left?”

Esme glanced over at her mother, reddening, then looked back at Yolie and shrugged once again, saying nothing.

Soave tilted his head at the actress curiously.

So did Yolie, who leaned forward a bit, her breasts jutting out over the table. “Esme, we believe that Tito died sometime between one-thirty and two. Were you at home at the time of his death?”

“Not really,” she answered in a quavering voice.

Now Martine was looking at her curiously, too.

“Esme, where were you?” Yolie persisted.

“Out,” she whispered.

“Out where?”

Esme sat there in pouty silence for a long moment before she turned to Des and said, “Do I have to answer that?”

“I would if I were you,” Des advised. “They’re going to find out eventually. Better all the way around if they hear it from you.”

“Well, okay,” Esme said reluctantly. “I was with a man.”

Martine glared at her with withering disapproval. “You’ve been seeing someone yourself?”

“Yes, Mommy,” she admitted guiltily. “After Tito split, I went to his place.”

“And you stayed there with him how long?” Yolie asked.

“Until maybe four in the morning.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went home.”

“What did you think when you got home and Tito wasn’t there?”

“I didn’t think anything. I took a shower and went to bed.”

“You weren’t worried about where he was?”

“No.”

“Who is this man, Esme?”

Again the actress turned to Des. “Do I have to say?”

“It’s kind of necessary, Esme. Tito’s death is still unexplained, and this man is in a position to vouch for you.”

“Well, if you say so . . .” Now Esme’s face broke into a naughty little smile. “It’s Jeffrey Wachtell.”

The composed beauty of Martine’s face instantly turned harsh and ugly. “Why, you little
whore!”
she cried out, smacking her daughter hard in the face.

Des grabbed Martine roughly by the wrists and yanked her to her feet. “Okay, we’re not having any of that in my house!”

“Yo, what the hell
is
this?” Soave wondered, baffled.

Esme scarcely reacted at all. Just sat there, unfazed, as her split lip started to ooze fresh blood. Clearly, this was someone who was used to getting hit. Des had encountered her share of female punching
bags before, but they were never rich, pretty, and white. In this regard, Esme was a first for her.

“Why did you come back?!” Martine screamed at her daughter, struggling in Des’s grasp. She was a handful, amazingly strong. “You could have gone anywhere in the world—why did you have to come
here
?!”

“Yolie, want to get her an ice cube and a towel?” Des said as she muscled Martine toward the French doors.

“Got it,” Yolie said, springing into action.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?! You
wanted
to hurt me!”

“What if I did?” Esme shot back, sneering at her.

“You
are sick
!
”

“Well, you ought to know!”

“Okay, let’s take it outside,” ordered Des, hustling Martine out onto the deck.

Soave followed them out there. “So, what, they’re
both
boinking this guy Jeff?” he asked, stroking his former mustache.

“So it would seem,” Des replied, as Martine began to pace back and forth across the deck, hugging herself, utterly distraught.

“Who is this guy, the stud of the century?”

“Rico, I truly don’t know how to respond to that.”

He went back inside now, shaking his head. Des stayed with Martine. It felt warm and muggy out there after the coolness of the house.

“How could she do this to me, Des?” Martine sobbed as she continued to pace. “My own daughter—how could she?”

“When you told me about Dodge you didn’t tell me that you were seeing someone else, too.”

Martine stopped in her tracks. “You sound disappointed.”

Des said nothing to that, just gazed at her.

“Our marriage is not exactly healthy these days,” Martine confessed. “Dodge goes his way and I go my mine. Jeffrey is. . . not exactly Brad Pitt, I’ll grant you. But he’s funny and he’s sweet and he’s the most attentive lover I’ve ever been with. He bathes me. He reads Emily Dickinson to me by candlelight. He licks whipped cream from between my—”

“Really don’t need to hear this part,” Des growled.

“Do you have any idea what that’s like after twenty-six years of Dodge?” Martine demanded. “Twenty-six years of wham-bam-good-night-ma’am? Jeffrey makes me feel like
me
again. And that sick little bastard has been having it off with my own damned daughter this whole time. I will hurt him for this. I will make a bow tie of his balls and—”

“Martine, I wouldn’t say things like that in front of me.”

“You’re absolutely right,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to make threatening remarks. I’m just so
hurt.
I know exactly why she did it, too. To get back at me.”

“For what?”

Martine’s face darkened, but she didn’t answer. Just went over to the railing and faced the lake, her back to Des, posture rigid.

Des studied her there for a long moment. “Martine, were you and Dodge home in bed together when Tito died?”

“I do believe I can see Bella from here,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand. “That fierce little bowling ball of a person striding along the footpath at the edge of the water. See her?”

“If Esme was with Jeff when it happened . . .”

“It means that I wasn’t,” Martine acknowledged. “I was home.”

“Was Dodge home with you?”

“It’s very pleasant out here, isn’t it?” Martine said evasively. “Still, I would have thought there’d be a bit more breeze coming off of the water.”

Yolie came out there now to tell them she was done with Esme. Martine asked if she could take her daughter home. Yolie said she could, but only after the lady solemnly promised to behave herself.

Yolie remained with Des after Martine had gone inside. “Girl, is
this
your idea of better manners? Because I can get this for free back in the projects morning, noon, or night.”

“I was as surprised as you were.”

“Word, did I just choke in there?” she asked, glancing at Des uncertainly.

“No, not at all. It’s all okay.”

“But you took the ball out of my hands. How come?”

Des kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to criticize Sgt. Yolie Snipes.

But Yolie wasn’t having that. “Please tell me,” she pleaded. “I’m not on my home court here. And I get, like,
no
help from Soave when it comes to how to behave.”

“Well, okay,” Des said. “You were moving in for the kill, which is fine. But you didn’t see that she was on the verge of wigging, which isn’t fine. That’s a delicate young performer in there. She just lost her husband. If you’d kept at her one minute longer, she would have shut down on you completely.”