The Bright Silver Star (26 page)

He had never been happier to see her in his life.

As they floated there naked in the moonlight, the lights of the town a glow in the distance, Mitch reminded himself just how lucky he was to be here on this night with this woman. It was the one positive thing he had taken from losing Maisie the way he had—not a day went by when he took the good things for granted.

“How did you happen to meet up with said humid little pepper pot?”

“Jealous?”

“I’ll ask the questions, mister.”

“Jeff asked me to look her up. He wants her to sign books at his store.”

“Since when do you do Jeff’s bidding for him?”

“Since everything stopped making sense. I need for this to make sense.”

“It may not, Mitch. A lot of times things just get more and more confusing.”

“That’s not what I need to hear tonight, Des. Tonight I need to hear that life is nothing but one big long Frank Capra movie. And I actually detest Frank Capra—with the possible exception of
Dirigible
with Jack Holt and Fay Wray.”

“My miss,” she said, flashing a smile at him. “And thanks for the heads-up. I’ll pass it along to Rico.”

“Abby’s been sleeping with her escort, too—a big goon named Frankie. I don’t know his last name, but he might be worth looking
into. Meanwhile, get this, Jeff’s actually been two-timing Martine with her very own—”

“With Esme. Yes, I know.”

“Esme told you?”

“She had to. Jeff’s her alibi. And, believe me, the news came as a real unpleasant surprise to Martine. I had to pull her off of the girl.”

“What did Jeff say about it?”

“He backs Esme up all the way. At the time of Tito’s death, she was getting busy with him at his condo. Yolie and I confirmed it with him this afternoon.”

“Hmm, that means each of them is the other’s alibi. . . .”

“Where do you think you’re going with that?”

“Nowhere,” Mitch said, as they floated along. “Except, well, what if Esme and Jeff killed Tito together?”

“Why would they?”

“Revenge. He hated Tito for getting it on with Abby. Esme hated him because he beat on her and cheated on her. Do we know for a fact that Tito’s killer acted alone?”

“Mitch, we don’t know anything for a fact,” she said wearily, glancing over at him. “You cast an awesome glow in the moonlight, you know that?”

“You’ve obviously never gone skinny-dipping with a white boy when the moon was full.”

“No, I’m serious, Mitch. Check out your stomach—you look like you’ve swallowed something radioactive.”

“Only because my stomach happens to be sticking up out of the water,” Mitch growled at her. “But thanks for pointing it out to me, slats.”

“What I’m here for, doughboy,” she said sweetly. “Got anything else for me?”

He fed her the highlights of his morning. How he and Will had walked in on Dodge and Becca having rough sex together. How Becca had told him she and Dodge were taking a midnight stroll on the beach together when Tito died, meaning that he had someone to vouch for his whereabouts—and Martine very likely didn’t.

“Why would Martine want to kill her own son-in-law?” she wondered.

“Maybe she was romantically involved with Tito, too. Maybe he broke her poor, cheatin’ heart. It makes about as much sense as Martine and Esme both having extramarital affairs with Jeff Wachtell. I mean, once you get your mind around that unwholesome factoid nothing seems out of the realm of possibility, does it?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“Did Esme know about Jeff and her mom?”

“Totally, judging by the little smirk on her face when she gave out with the news. It was her own special way of inflicting pain on mommy dearest. For what specific reason I don’t know.”

“I do, Des,” Mitch said quietly. And now he told her about how Dodge started molesting Esme when she was fifteen. How Martine had refused to believe her. How Esme had attempted suicide. How Dodge had long been a plague on Dorset’s young girls and Will had been his enabler, in exchange for future considerations.

Des listened in stony silence before she said, “Well, that does explain the way Esme reacted this morning when Martine smacked her.”

“How did she? . . .”

“Like she’d been getting smacked around her whole life.”

“What, you think Dodge beat her up?”

“Believe me, a bright, beautiful fifteen-year-old girl doesn’t spread her legs for daddy without a fight. I’m with you, Mitch—she hates her mom for not protecting her. But I don’t buy that Martine didn’t know what was going on. She knew. That’s why she was so anxious to go to the police this morning. Because the longer this drags out, the deeper we’ll dig. And she’s terrified we’ll unearth it. How did you hear about it, anyway?”

“From Bitsy. Becca told her. I don’t think anyone else knows, except for Will.”

“And possibly Tito. Esme may have told him.”

Mitch glanced over at her, wondering where her mind was going. “Bitsy said I could tell
you
this. Does Soave have to know about it?”

“Maybe I can withhold it from him,” Des answered slowly. “If it’s not vital to the investigation, that is.”

He smiled at her. “You’re one of us now, you know that?”

“One of who?”

“A Dorseteer.”

“Let’s not get carried away, doughboy. I said maybe.”

“Sure, sure. Are you getting cold?” he asked, paddling gently to stay afloat.

“A little, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine. This is why I maintain the extra layer of subcutaneous fat.”

“So that’s it.”

“Ab-so-tootly.”

“Mitch, I want you to promise me you’ll never say that word again.”

“Promise,” he said, grinning at her. “Bitsy did tell me one other thing about the Crocketts—they’re so strapped for cash that Martine can’t write a check anywhere in town. Apparently, just to round out the whole bogus illusion, Dodge sucks as a businessman.” He gazed back ashore at Bitsy’s rambling house. There were several lights on upstairs, a porch light downstairs. “She’s real worried about Becca being mixed up with him again. Becca’s fragile and vulnerable, and there’s no way that having some guy stuff your panties in your mouth can be good for your . . . Oh, hell, never mind.”

“No, it’s okay, baby. What are trying to tell me?”

“I just don’t want to be friends with Dodge anymore, that’s all.”

“I don’t blame you. But what about the Mesmers?”

“I won’t be walking with them again.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch.”

“So am I. That was something I really looked forward to doing every morning. But I can’t now. Not without my skin crawling. Would you believe Will actually
defended
the guy to me this morning? ‘Don’t judge him,’ is what he said. He and Donna are having some problems of their own, by the way. Donna told me.”

“Since when does Donna Durslag talk to you about her marriage?”

“Since she had one too many margaritas at the beach club.”

“Sounds like maybe she made her a little play for you, too.”

“Jealous?”

“I already told you. I’ll ask the questions, mister.”

“Des, I don’t belong around these people,” Mitch confessed. “I gave it my best shot. I tried to be a normal, socialized member of the species. But if this is what passes for normal—”

“Believe me, Mitch, this
is
normal. It’s what I deal with every single day of my life.”

“Then I’m proud to be a maladjusted geek who sits in the dark by myself all day, staring at flickering images on a wall.” He reached for her hand in the water and found it and squeezed it. “When do people stop surprising you?”

“They don’t. But the surprise doesn’t always have to be an unpleasant one. In fact, when you least expect it, you might bump right into somebody who just makes you feel good all over.”

“Are you trying to cheer me up?”

“Actually, that was me flirting with you shamelessly. Not very good at it, am I?”

“That all depends—do you put out?”

“Only for a certain glowing gentleman.”

Mitch maneuvered his way over closer to her and planted a salty kiss on her wet, cold mouth. “Am I that gentleman?”

“Could be,” she said, her almond-shaped green eyes glittering at him in the moonlight.

“Then as far as I’m concerned, you flirt great. Care to start back in?”

“Hell, I’ll even race you back to the house.”

“You’re on. Provided you promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Let’s steer clear of the kitchen floor tonight, okay?”

“Not a problem, boyfriend.”

They dashed back in the crisp night air, teeth chattering, and jumped right into a hot shower together, howling and snorting like a couple of rambunctious little kids. After they’d toweled each other
dry they made their way up into Mitch’s sleeping loft, where they forgot about everything and everyone and there was only the two of them and it was wonderful.

They were blissfully asleep at 4:00 a.m. under a blanket and a Clemmie when Des got paged. She started rummaging hurriedly for her clothes as the Westbrook Barracks dispatcher gave her the details over her cell phone.

“Wha’ is it?” Mitch groaned at her after she’d hung up.

She was already lacing up her shoes. Des could get dressed unbelievably fast. It was her four years at West Point. “Night manager of the Yankee Doodle Motor Court just found . . . There’s a woman dead in the tub with part of her head smashed in.”

Something in her tone of voice set off alarm bells. Mitch swallowed, fully awake now. “Who is it, Des?”

“Baby, it’s Donna Durslag.”

C
HAPTER 12

I
F
D
ORSET POSSESSED WHAT
could be truly called a seedy side it was found up Boston Post Road just before the town line for Cardiff, Dorset’s sleepy, landlocked neighbor to the north, which benefited not at all from summer tourism and which elderly locals still called North Dorset, even though it had been a separate town since 1937. Here, just past Gorman’s Orchards, could be found a tattered strip of businesses operating out of wood-framed buildings that had once been residences. If someone needed to have their sofa reupholstered or their unwanted facial hair removed, they came here. Pearl’s World of Wigs, Norm’s Guns, and Shoreline Karate Academy were here. The Rustic Inn, a beer joint popular with the Uncas Lake swamp Yankees, was here.

And so was the Yankee Doodle Motor Court, which was a living relic from the bygone days of drive-in movie theaters and poodle skirts. To the casual passerby, it was a wonder that the decaying little bungalow motel hadn’t been torn down twenty years ago. It had no swimming pool, was not near the beach or the interstate. There was no apparent reason for anyone on earth to stay there—not unless they were terribly lost or desperate.

But Des knew better.

The Yankee Doodle enjoyed a prized niche in Dorset society—it was the place where married people came to mess around. Des had learned early in her career that every town, no matter its size or degree of affluence, had just such a place for illicit trysts. Mostly, what the Yankee Doodle offered couples was privacy. The bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that people driving by on Boston Post Road
couldn’t see who was parked there. The management was reputed to be very discreet.

She got there in the purplish light of predawn. Danny Rochin, the sallow, unshaven night manager, came right out of the office to greet her wearing a too-large Hawaiian shirt, slacks, and bedroom slippers. He was a stringy, sixtyish swamp Yankee with a jet black Grecian Formula hair job that looked totally unnatural under the courtyard floodlights, especially in contrast with his bushy white eyebrows. They always neglected the eyebrows. Big mistake.

“Is anyone still staying here from last night?” Des asked him as she climbed out of her cruiser.

“No, ma’am, we’re all empty,” he replied, eyes bright with excitement. He was missing a few teeth, and his narrow shoulders were hunched against the morning’s unusual chill. It had dipped down into the forties, which was a shock to the system in July.

“Let’s go have us a look, Danny.”

There was blood. The spread on the double bed was spattered with it. So was the wall behind the bed. So were the shades on the night table lamps. Donna’s wire-rimmed glasses, which lay neatly folded on one of the night tables, were spattered, too. The bed did not appear to have been used. The covers were still crisply folded, and the pillows had no depressions in them.

The Yankee Doodle was the sort of a place where things like lamps and televisions were bolted down, just in case some low-class guest might be tempted to walk off with them. But Donna’s killer had still managed to find something to club her with—a night table drawer. It lay on the rug next to the bed, smashed, splintered and bloodied. Her shoulder bag was on the dresser next to the TV, as was her gauzy summer peasant dress, carefully folded. Also a see-through black nightie, very slinky, very hopeful, very sad.

The bungalow was tiny. There was barely enough space to squeeze around the bed to the bathroom, where Donna was on the floor. From where she stood, Des could just make out her bare feet.

“Did you touch anything, Danny?” Des asked him as he remained outside, pulling nervously on a cigarette.

“Not a thing, I swear. Her purse is just as I found it. I’m not here to steal no twenty bucks from some poor woman’s billfold.”

“I know that, Danny,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile at him. “I’m just trying to assess the crime scene.” Now she went farther in for a better look.

Donna was naked on her knees before the bathtub with her big butt sticking up in the air for the whole wide world to see. Not that she was obese but she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old runway model either. And the bathroom floor is not the most dignified place to die. Go ask Elvis. There was a foot of blood-tinged water in the tub. By the look of things, her killer had knocked her unconscious with the drawer, dragged her in there and held her head underwater until she was gone. Her center of gravity had tumbled her a bit backward after she’d died, lifting her face up out of the water. There were broken blood vessels around the eyes, and her lips were blue. The bloody wounds to the back of her wet head were readily apparent to Des from the bathroom doorway. There was some blood on the floor, but not much. No bloody shoeprints. The floor had been wiped. Des could not see any bloody towels in there. No towels at all, in fact. He’d taken them with him. Whoever he was, he was careful.