The Bright Silver Star (25 page)

“I don’t stay with anyone for very long. Listen, I have to go wash my patties. I’ve just spent the past hour shaking hands with my you-know-whos. Do you have
any
idea where those fingers of theirs have been? In their mouths, in their noses, in their . . . God, it’s too horrible to even think about.” She paused, looking Mitch up and down. “I’m going to take you on faith. Order me a BLT and a chocolate shake.”

He ordered the same for both of them from the elderly waitress as Frankie continued to glare at him through the window.

“That was so terrible about Tito,” Abby said when she returned to their booth, sliding in across from him. “It must feel weird knowing you were the last person on earth to speak to him before he jumped.”

“Actually, that may not be what happened. He may have been murdered.”

“You
didn’t kill him, did you?” she demanded breathlessly, her big blue eyes widening. “Please tell me it wasn’t you, Mitch. You’ve just jumped into my town car. You’re notorious. You’re desperate. You’ve got the wounded teddy bear thing going on. Already I have a mad crush on you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Mitch said.

“Oh, thank God.”

The waitress returned now with their shakes, fussing over Abby, who she obviously recognized.

Mitch tasted his. It was frosty and good. “But until they do know how Tito died, I won’t get over this. I need to know if I could have saved him.”

“Mitch, I wouldn’t blame myself, I were you. Tito Molina didn’t know up from down. That was one hurtin’ puppy.”

Mitch gazed at her curiously. “You sound as if you knew him.”

“I did.” She took a gulp of her shake, the tip of her pink tongue flicking at the residue on her upper lip. “We had a brief, a-a
thing.”

“Really, when was this?”

“Before I left on my tour. Would you believe I’ve been on the road for over six weeks? I’ve hit twenty-three cities in forty-nine days, not that I’m counting or anything. My face is breaking out for the first time since the Reagan years. I have no life and no one to talk to except for Frankie, who is not exactly Mr. David Halberstam, in case you didn’t notice. These past few nights have been the first nights I’ve slept in my own actual bed since, like, Memorial Day. When I woke up my first morning home, I didn’t recognize my own room. I couldn’t even remember what city I was in. That’s when you know you’ve been on tour too long. And already I’m back on the road again, two nights in Boston and . . .” She trailed off, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t answered Mitch’s question. “Chrissie brought me by Tito’s hotel for breakfast one morning. He was in New York to meet with some British playwright, and the studio was hoping he’d agree to be the voice of Carleton for the film version of
The Codfather.
He ended up passing, but he wanted to hear my thoughts about the character before he committed.”

Mitch nodded. The first Carleton movie was a state-of-the-art animated production that had been two years in the making. It was going to be its studio’s big Christmas release. Freddie Prinze Jr. was providing the voice of Carleton.

“I thought he was very sweet,” Abby went on. “And after Crissie took off, I found myself upstairs in his hotel room, naked. Scout’s honor, I boinked Tito Molina—little Abigail Kaminsky from Margate, New Jersey, thunder thighs and all. Honestly, I was so nervous I felt just like I do when I’m at the gynecologist’s office. My little hands and feet were all clammy, and I couldn’t stop shaking. But he was very gentle and considerate.”

The waitress arrived with their sandwiches now. “Miss Kaminsky, my granddaughter
ab-so-tootly
loves your books,” she said as she set down their plates. “Could I get your autograph?”

“You
ab-so-tootly
can!” Abby responded sweetly, scribbling her name on a napkin and handing it to her. “Tell her I said hi!”

“Oh, I will.” The waitress scurried off, thrilled.

They dove hungrily into their sandwiches, two chubby people who prized their eats.

“You sure do know your sandwiches, Mitch,” Abby proclaimed after several bites, licking mayonnaise from her manicured fingers. “This is the best BLT I’ve ever had. What’s the secret?”

“The tomatoes are right off of the vine, I think. Makes all the difference.” Mitch sipped his shake distractedly, his mind racing. Could Abby somehow be a player in this? “How long were you and Tito an item?”

“We weren’t,” she said flatly. “It wasn’t that kind of a deal at all. It was strictly a one-shot matinee. The proverbial quickie. Besides, like I told you, I don’t stay involved with anyone for long.”

“Not even Jeff?”

Abby reddened instantly. “Jeffrey Wachtell broke my poor heart into a million pieces. I gained twenty pounds after we split up. I couldn’t write a single word. I couldn’t leave the house. All I could do was eat and cry. I cried and I cried. I still cry myself to sleep every night. Look at me, Mitch—I’m rich, I’m famous, I’m buffed to within an inch of my life. Believe me, this is as fantastically cute as I’m ever going to look. And I can’t remember the last time I went out on an actual date.” She shot a brief, disdainful glance out the window at Frankie, who appeared to have fallen asleep on his feet, rather like a barnyard animal. “What’s wrong with me anyway? Am I that disgusting?”

Mitch went back to work on his sandwich. “You’re just worn down from your tour, that’s all. You’ll meet someone real soon.”

Abby smiled at him coyly. “You really think so?”

“I do. And I’ll tell you something else—Jeff’s out of his mind.”

She reached across the table and put her hand over his. “Come with me to Boston, Mitch. Have dinner with me tonight. Stay over with me.”

“I can’t, Abby,” he said, staring down at her soft little hand.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve known you for less than an hour.”

“Sometimes it happens that way,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly.

“Plus it would not be a good idea for me to leave the state right now.”

“I can vouch for you. I’m famous. I’m credible.”

“Plus
I’m involved with someone.”

“Damn, I knew it. The good ones are always taken.” Abby released his hand and took a long gulp of her shake, peering at Mitch over her fountain glass. “So how do you know Jeffrey?”

“We walk together on the beach every morning.”

“How is he?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. “Not that I care.”

“Still in love with you, or so he says.”

Abby let out a shrill, mocking laugh. “Yeah, right,” she said scornfully. “Listen to me, Mitch, the single most important thing to remember in regards to Jeffrey and women is that every single word out of his mouth is a lie. And the little putz gets away with it, too. You know why? Because he happens to be among the world’s greatest swordsmen. You wouldn’t know it look at him, but it’s true. Jeffrey has absolutely spoiled me for other men. That’s my curse. I swear, when I was there in that hotel bed with Tito Molina all I kept thinking was ‘God, if only he were Jeffrey Wachtell.’ That’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“Not if you still love the little guy.”

“I
hate
the little guy! The little guy is despicable. The little guy is . . .” She fell silent, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “I understand he has a mother-daughter tag team thing going on now—he’s boinking Esme Crockett
and
her old lady at the same time. Chrissie told me all about it. You look surprised, Mitch. Don’t be. That man is the craftiest little pussy hound imaginable. Even beautiful women instinctively get all motherly and protective toward him. They can’t help themselves. Half of the time
they
seduce
him
— despite knowing he’s absolutely no good for them. Believe me, I’m the expert. I paid the price in the worst possible way.” Abby sat back in the booth, hugging herself with her bare arms. “I’m the one who
walked in on him boinking my own baby sister, Phyllis, in our own bed in our own apartment. Mitch, you have no idea how violated I felt. How dirty.”

“I’m sorry, Abby.”

“So am I,” she said, shivering. She had goose bumps up and down her bare arms now. “That’s why I won’t give him a nickel of my earnings. He’s not the injured party,
I
am.”

Mitch got up and fetched her linen jacket for her.

She snuggled back into it gratefully, studying him with her startled blue eyes. “I don’t know what Jeffrey’s told you about our settlement battle. . . .”

“That he’s asking for twenty-five percent of the proceeds from the first book. He claims he was involved early on in the creative process, and therefore should participate in it.”

“Not in a million years.” Abby sniffed. “Never.”

“I don’t blame you at all. Still, you have to admit that, well, Jeff
is
Carleton, isn’t he?”

“Carleton is fiction,” Abby shot back, bristling. “Carleton is
my
creation. Jeffrey had nothing to do with him. Not one thing!”

“Are you
ab-so-tootly
sure of that?”

“And he does
not
own the copyright to that
stupid
expression! No one does. I was free to use it. And I’ll keep on using it for as long as I damned please. Carleton is
not
Jeffrey Wachtell. How could he be? Carleton isn’t a liar. Carleton doesn’t whine about every single thing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Ask yourself this: Can you imagine Carleton hosing his wife’s sister?”

“No, of course not. Carleton’s not old enough. He’s still a little boy. Or fish. Or . . .”

“Carleton
is good
is what he is,” she asserted. “Carleton is honest and brave and true. And I will bankrupt Jeffrey Wachtell with lawyer fees before I ever give him one shiny nickel of my proceeds.” Abby took a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently mouthing a ten-count. Jeff was way under her skin, no two ways about that. “How is his bookstore doing, anyway? Chrissie told me it’s a real dump.”

“Not true. It’s a lovely little store. Although he is struggling to get by.”

“Good.”

“In fact, that’s the reason why I’m here—he was wondering if you would stop in and do a signing. You’ll be passing right by Dorset on the interstate, and he could really use the boost.”

“Not a chance,” she replied sharply. “After Boston I’m in Bar Harbor, then Martha’s Vineyard, then home. I am not stopping at some neighborhood bookshop in some out-of-the-way village no one’s ever heard of. It’s not worth my while, Mitch. How many books could he move—fifty? I just sold ten times that this afternoon.”

“Still, you could do it if you really wanted to.”

“It’s true, I could,” she admitted. “But you’ve put your finger right on it, Mitch. I really, really, don’t want to.”

“It sure would help him out, Abby.”

Abby cradled her chin in her palm, gazing at him in wonderment. “Cookie, have you been totally ignoring every single word I’ve been saying to you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then answer me this—why on earth would I help Jeffrey out?”

“Because you still love him. And he still loves you. You two should be looking out for each other, not trying to draw blood.”

“You’re sweet, Mitch, but you’re living in a make-believe world. In real life, people who hate each other really do hate each other.”

“You want real life? A tabloid has offered Jeff a quarter of a million dollars for dirt on you.”

“Dirt?” Abby immediately paled. “What dirt? What has that weasel been telling you about me?”

“That you hate kids so much you made him get a vasectomy.”

“That was his idea, not mine,” she said heatedly. “He’s the one who’s terrified of parenthood. I want to be a mother more than anything in the world. Don’t you think I’d make a good mother?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, I do, because I know what’s in my heart. Besides, the procedure he had is totally reversible. God, I don’t
believe
he’s trying to
peddle such crap! Wait, what am I saying? Of course I do. This is
Jeffrey
we’re talking about.”

“My sense is that he really doesn’t want to dish, Abby. In fact, I don’t believe he will. But he’s in a tight spot financially.”

Abby recoiled, shaking her finger at him. “Wait one lousy minute. Now I know why you’re here—you’re trying to strong-arm me! Sure, that’s it. You came here to tell me that if I don’t show up at his crummy store he’ll go to the tabloids. You’re his stinking messenger boy, aren’t you? Tell me I’m wrong, Mitch. Go ahead!”

“Okay, you’re wrong. The thought never even occurred to me.”

“Maybe it didn’t,” she conceded. “But I can guarantee you that it occurred to him.”

“Abby, that’s really not how I read the situation.”

“Then you’d better go get your eyes checked, cookie. I know Jeffrey. I know how his mind works. And he’s telling me, through you, that if I don’t do this for him he’ll sell me out.”

“But he swore he wouldn’t,” Mitch pointed out. “He told me you were the only woman he’s ever loved, and that he’d take you back in a second.”

“And you
believed
him?” Abby demanded incredulously.

Mitch drained his milkshake and slumped there in the booth, suddenly feeling profoundly deflated and used up. “Abby, I honestly don’t know who to believe anymore.”

“If I were you,” Mitch advised, feeling the gentle lift and dip of the swell beneath him, “I’d do some checking up on Abby Kaminsky’s whereabouts the past couple of days. Or, more specifically, nights.”

“Jeff’s ex-wife?” asked Des, who was floating on her back next to him, wet skin gleaming in the moonlight. “Why is that?”

“Because she slept with Tito Molina.”

“No way. Her, too?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You think she might be involved in this?”

“She’s certainly in the mix. Quite the humid little pepper pot, too.”

The two of them were enjoying a late-night skinny dip off Big
Sister’s private beach. The water was bracing and the night air had turned gloriously crisp and clear. Overhead, the moon was full, the stars bright.

Mitch had spent much of the evening seated there on his favorite beach log, gloomily sampling the bottle of peppermint schnapps he’d bought out of morbid curiosity. It tasted awful, in his opinion. Strangely familiar as well, although he could not imagine why. Des had pulled up outside his carriage house at around ten o’clock and joined him on the beach a few minutes later, clutching two cold Bass ales and two towels.