The Bright Silver Star (36 page)

They shook hands, Mitch wincing slightly as Nuri gave his arm a hearty yank. The ribs felt okay unless Mitch made a sudden movement or, God forbid, sneezed. Then it felt as if someone were jabbing him with a boning knife.

Mostly, he was still just really resentful that Clemmie had chosen to stay up in the loft with Des after they got home from the clinic instead of on the sofa with him. He’d been hurting, too, after all, and wasn’t she
his
cat? Didn’t he feed her and tidy up her gaaacks? Where was the fairness in this? Where was the loyalty?

Deep down inside, Mitch figured he still didn’t totally understand cats.

He tried to slip one past Nema and pay her for his baklava and coffee, but she wouldn’t go along.

“Your money is no good here, Mitch,” she clucked at him.

“You knew, didn’t you, Nema?” Mitch said to her. “You saw Dodge throw that rock through your window.”

“I did, yes,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We were afraid,” she replied, lowering her large, dark eyes.

“Of what?”

“Mr. Crockett is part of the hierarchy. A man with connections. Who knows, he could get our business license revoked. Possibly even get us deported. So Nuri felt it is best to keep quiet.”

“And you went along with him.”

“He is my husband,” Nema said, as if that answered everything.

For her, it did.

From there Mitch piloted his truck up Old Shore Road to the post office, munching on his baklava. He bypassed Dorset Street entirely so as to avoid the media crush at town hall, where Soave was busy putting out information about Will Durslag’s death. Thirty-six hours after the fact, Des’s former sergeant was still playing it very close to the vest until the forensics people up in Meriden finished sifting through those ashes in Will’s woodstove. Soave had still not made public Will’s tortured love affair with Tito Molina. All he was saying was that Will had been found dead at the base of Chapman Falls, that they were in possession of his taped confession, and that an investigation was proceeding.

He had not mentioned one word about Mitch’s involvement in Will’s death. This was fine by Mitch.

When he arrived at the post office he fetched his mail from his box and was starting back outside with it when Billie, the jovial old girl who worked behind the counter, called out, “Hey, Mitch, I got something for you. Been holding on to it.” She reached down under the counter and produced a torn, overstuffed ten-by-thirteen manila envelope. “Somebody dropped this in our mailbox out front the other night,” she explained, her eyes gleaming at Mitch with keen interest.

Mitch took one look at the envelope and immediately knew why. It had originally been addressed to Tito Molina—from a talent agency in Beverly Hills. Someone had crossed out Tito’s name and box number, and hurriedly scribbled Mitch’s name across the top. No box number or address for Mitch, no postage, no nothing. The envelope wasn’t even sealed shut.

“You owe me a buck sixty-five, my dear,” Billie said apologetically.

Mitch paid her and went back outside and got into his truck, his heart racing as he sat there staring at the envelope. He opened it. Inside he found a fat sheaf of lined yellow legal pages covered with crude, almost childlike handwriting.

On the first page a note had been scrawled in the margin: “Mitch, hope you like it.
But please
be honest—Tito”

It was his unfinished screenplay. He’d called it
The Bright Silver Star.

Mitch devoured it at once, seated there in the post office parking lot. What he read turned out to be the heartfelt story of a sensitive, special little Chicano boy named Ramon who sees imaginary creatures he calls the Bad People and fears they are about to murder him in his sleep. Ramon has an Anglo mother who lives in her own dream world. His Chicano father, a day laborer, can’t understand either one of them. Enraged, he lashes out in a violent drunken outburst, beating Ramon’s mother half to death before he packs up and clears out.

Mitch found
The Bright Silver Star
brutal yet surprisingly delicate and poignant. It reminded him quite a bit of
The Glass Menagerie
by Tennessee Williams. In fact, it was written more as a play than a movie. The action, such as it was, consisted of a series of conversations that took place over a single day in a squalid two-room apartment.
There were no exteriors, no camera directions. Tragically, there was also no second act. Tito had managed to write only the first fifty or so pages, leaving the crisis in little Ramon’s family life unresolved. Even so, this glimpse into the private hell that was Tito Molina’s childhood was so painful that it very nearly brought tears to Mitch’s eyes.

He was still sitting there in the cab of his truck, totally decked, when Martine Crockett pulled up next to him in her silver VW Beetle convertible, her golf bag tossed across the backseat. Mitch was pretty hard to miss there in his ’56 Studey half ton, but Martine did her best anyway, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with him as she got out and strode inside, her gait long and assertive.

Mitch took a deep breath and followed her in. He found her waiting in line to buy stamps from the vending machine. A couple of her lady friends were asking her how Dodge was doing.

“He’s home, he’s fine,” Martine replied with a brave smile. Her face was composed, her gaze clear.
“We’re
fine. It’s all just a terrible misunderstanding.”

Warm hugs were exchanged, lunch invitations extended. They weren’t shunning her. She was one of
theirs
after all, a cherished member of the inner circle, and by repudiating her they’d only be repudiating themselves. If she wasn’t afraid to show her face in public, they weren’t afraid to stand by her.

Mitch found this rather amazing, but he shouldn’t have. This was Dorset, where appearances mattered. Hell, appearances ruled.

And then her friends were gone and Martine was alone. She stiffened at the sight of Mitch standing there.

“How is he, Martine?” Mitch asked.

“Anxious to clear his name,” she answered tightly. Martine started to say something more, stopped herself, then plowed ahead. “He was very hurt that you turned against him, Mitch. I guess where you come from people define friendship differently.”

“Martine, how much did you know?”

Martine paid for her stamps and tucked them into her purse. “About what?”

“About Dodge and Esme.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Look, I don’t know what she or anyone else may have told you—”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’ve been lied to, Mitch. And you’ve chosen to believe those mean, ugly lies instead of the simple truth.”

“Which is? . . .”

“Esme has always enjoyed a warm, wonderful relationship with her father. And she . . . And they . . .” Martine’s lower lip quivered, her flawless blond composure starting to crumble. For one brief second, Mitch thought she might give in to the horrifying reality of what her husband had done to their daughter. But she didn’t. When it came to the fine art of keeping up appearances, Martine Crockett was a master. “They have nothing but love for each other—not that I expect someone like you could ever believe something decent or good about a man like Dodge.”

And with that she turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of there, leaving Mitch convinced of something he had never really believed about people before. Not until this very moment, standing in the Dorset post office.

When someone can’t accept the truth about the person who they love, they don’t accept the truth. They accept the illusion instead.

They have to.

The news about Abby Kaminsky’s unscheduled appearance at the Book Schnook got out incredibly fast.

Kids wearing carp heads were lined up all the way out the door of the bustling food hall into Big Brook Road for the chance to buy an autographed copy of
The Codfather of Sole.
The Works was still doing a bang-up lunch trade, Mitch couldn’t help but notice. Rich Graybill was running the show for now.

Inside the Book Schnook, Abby was seated at a table in front of a giant
Codfather of Sole
poster, signing copies and chattering gaily with her excited young readers. Chrissie Huberman was near at hand,
watching over her protectively. It was Chrissie who was responsible for the huge, last-minute turnout. She’d not only blitzed the local radio stations with ads but had hired a private plane to pull a sign along the shoreline beaches all the way from Madison to New London. Thousands upon thousands of beachgoers had seen the message.

Jeff was bustling back and forth between the cash register and the stockroom, his manner lively and animated. “Hey, it’s my main man Mitch,” he exclaimed brightly. “Did you walk this morning?”

“No, did you?”

“Couldn’t. I had to drive up to the warehouse in Springfield for copies of Abby’s book. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten here in time.” He deposited an armload on the table next to Chrissie. She immediately began opening them to the title page for Abby, who was signing books and shaking hands with the brisk, focused efficiency of an assembly line worker. Jeff started back to the cash register, where parents and kids were stacked up six deep. “Mitch, I don’t know how to thank you for this. You’re a true-blue friend.”

“You have a slightly different take on me than Martine does.”

Jeff gulped. “Shhh, not so loud,” he pleaded, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Abby.

Mitch lowered his voice. “What’s the official story, are you and Martine finished?”

“There was nothing
to
finish. Reports of our ‘affair’ have been greatly exaggerated. And I would appreciate it if you’d never, ever mention that woman’s name in my presence again.”

“Whatever you say, Jeff.” Now Mitch moseyed over to Abby to say hello.

“How are you, cookie?” Abby said to him as she signed and shook, signed and shook.

“Surprised to see you here. Pleasantly so.”

“No big. I called Chrissie from Boston last night and we decided it was something we actually could squeeze in.”

“And why not?” Chrissie deftly arranged an open book in front of Abby as the next eager kid in line stepped up. “It shows what kind of a classy, above-the-fray person you are.”

“And you were right, Mitch,” Abby added. “It’s a lovely little store. Jeffrey even laid in a supply of Cocoa Pebbles for me. Can you believe he remembered?”

“Where’s Frankie, out in the car?”

Abby’s saucer eyes widened in panic. “Listen, I barely knew that yutz, understand? And, besides, he’s history.”

“She fired his tight, hairy buns last night,” translated Chrissie.

“I’ve decided to travel a little lighter from now on,” Abby acknowledged, her eyes following Jeff as he scampered back into the stockroom for another load of books. “Maybe I should help him with those. He gets back spasms if he shleps too much weight.”

“You stay here and sign—I’ll shlep.” Chrissie dashed off to help him.

“You may be seeing a bit more of me in Dorset from now on, Mitch,” Abby confided.

“Working on a new book?”

“A new venture,” she replied, graciously handing over a signed book and moving on to the next kid. “You might even say I’m looking out for my own interests by being here today. This whole operation is going into receivership, and my business manager thinks it has a really huge upside if some new investor is willing to take it on.”

“And that investor is you?”

“Why not? I love food, I love New England. . . .”

“And they’ve barely scratched the synergy surface here,” Chrissie said, setting down a huge load of books. “My God, I can see Emeril Legasse and Jacques Pepin giving cooking demonstrations out there while Jeff’s selling copies of their cookbooks in here. In fact, I can see
you
here, Mitch.”

“Me?”

“Sure, dinner and a movie with Mitch Berger, noted New York film critic. What do you think?”

“We’ll talk,” he replied. To Abby he said, “So you’ll be Jeff’s landlord?”

“Partner is more like it,” she said.

“We’re not divorced yet, Mitch,” Jeff pointed out as he dumped
another load of books in front of her. “Technically, we’re still husband and wife.”

“Technically, we still are,” Abby allowed.

“I
knew
it—you two are going to end up back together again, aren’t you?”

“Not a chance,” protested Jeff. “Word of honor, Mitch. That could never, ever happen.”

“Not in a million years,” Abby chimed in, blushing furiously. “Like,
ab-so-tootly
never.”

Esme was building a huge sand castle with Becca on the beach near Big Sister’s lighthouse. Bitsy was watching them from her covered porch, fanning herself with her floppy straw hat. The day was bright and hot, with very little breeze.

“She’s hiding from the press,” Bitsy told Mitch as he stood there next to her, observing the two of them out there in their string bikinis, working away. “I don’t blame the poor thing. She can stay here as long as she wants to, as far as I’m concerned.”

“How long will she?” Mitch wondered.

“You’ll have to ask her that.”

He went down the wooden steps to the beach and plowed through the hot dry sand toward them. They were on their hands and knees before their rising castle, both of them filled with laughter and high spirits. From fifty feet away, they looked like a pair of impudent, playful fourteen-year-old schoolgirls full of lollipop dreams. From closer up they were the very picture of innocence lost—two battle-hardened veterans who between them had logged enough years on the dark side for ten lifetimes. Becca was nothing but skin and bone, with dark circles under her sunken eyes. Esme had that fat, scabby lip to go with the expression of dazed confusion that wracked her delicate, lovely face. Her eyes were those of a woman who was now completely lost and fearful.

“This is quite some castle,” Mitch observed, because it was. A good five feet high, with turrets, towers, and a fine, deep moat.

“Are you going to help us?” demanded Becca, wetting her hands in a water pail. “Or are you just going to stand there like a big boss man?”