the perfect setup.”
“For what?” Evan asked.
“For a man who’s leading a double life,” Jamie answered.
Mitch frowned at him, puzzled. “You’ve lost me. It’s not as if he has a romantic interest here-Dolly is his own sister.”
“Oh, grow up!” Jamie shot back. “How do you think that blood of theirs got to be so blue?”
“Jaymo, I truly don’t believe what I am hearing from you!” Evan erupted.
“All right, we’ll forget that one,” Jamie conceded grudgingly. “But Red has been known to play the protective big brother. Could be he killed Niles for cheating on Dolly.”
“But why kill the girl?” Mitch asked.
Jamie considered this. “That’s a good question. I don’t know… Unless he was boinking her, too. I mean, let’s get real here-could you imagine being married to Bits?”
“I think she’s a very nice lady.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But just imagine years and years of that abundant, earthy good cheer. Imagine burying your face between those pillowy white thighs night after night-”
“Jaymo, that’s my aunt you’re talking about!” Evan objected, poking at the tuna. “Hey, I think these are ready, guys. Let’s eat.”
There was a red onion and mango relish for the tuna. There was black bean salad, cole slaw, cornbread. All of it courtesy of Evan. All of it delicious. They ate on paper plates with their legs dangling over the side of the dock. The sun was setting now. Overhead, the sky was streaked with red and purple. The moon was rising. There were, Mitch reflected, worse ways to spend an evening.
“Maybe that niceness thing of Bitsy’s is all an act,” Jamie plowed on. “Maybe she’s the tramp of the century. She’s got plenty of opportunity, what with the kids out of the house and Red gone half of the time. Maybe she’s even a killer. Have you thought of that?”
“You don’t actually believe any of that, do you?” Evan asked him. “I mean, I had no idea you felt this way about her.”
“I don’t,” Jamie assured him with a wave of his hand. “I’m just hypothesizing.”
“Well, if you don’t start behaving yourself Mitch and I will leave you here. Won’t we, Mitch?”
“We will-lashed to the light tower.”
There were homemade brownies for dessert. Jamie disappeared below deck in search of them.
As soon as he did, Evan quickly turned to Mitch. “Mother told me you were locked in your cellar on Monday,” he said in a low, hushed voice.
“Most of the afternoon,” Mitch acknowledged, nodding.
Evan glanced furtively over at the boat, then back at Mitch. “I saw someone’s car parked in Dolly’s courtyard when I pulled in that day…”
“You mean you know who locked me in?”
“Maybe. I thought you might want to know. Who it was, I mean.
“You’re right. I did. I do. Who was it?”
Evan looked over his shoulder at the boat once more. And then, in an urgent whisper, he told Mitch who it was.
CHAPTER 8
DES RAISED A LONG, smooth leg out of the swirling hot water and examined her bare foot in the light of dawn, rotating her ankle slowly, splaying her toes, admiring the way the water gleamed on her pearly pink toenails. It was, in her critical judgment, a shapely, high-arched foot. A slender foot. A lovely foot.
It was not any goddamned ski.
She lowered her leg back down into the water, groaning. The soothing relaxation of the hot tub was just what she’d needed right about now. Her shoulders and back ached. Her sinuses were inflamed. And she was desperate for sleep-she’d worked straight on through the night. Just came on home, fed the cats and went on Dawn Patrol. Big Willie had inched another step closer to the cage. But he was still too smart for them. In fact, Des was beginning to suspect that the little man was laughing at them.
She reached lazily for her tumbler of chilled orange juice and took a long drink, wiping the perspiration from her face with a wash cloth. “Talk to me about Berger with an E,” she murmured across the tub at Bella. “That a Jewish name?”
“It can be,” Bella replied, swiping at the perspiration on her own round, flushed face. Actually, Bella’s face looked remarkably like a bunched fist when she didn’t have her glasses on. “Or it could be German. What’s his first name?”
“How do you even know I’m talking about a he?”
“If it were a she you wouldn’t be asking.”
“You should have been a detective,” Des said, grinning at her.
“I should have been a lot of things. But I just decided to become a fat old lady instead.”
“The name’s Mitch. He’s a New York movie critic.”
Bella’s eyes widened. “Do you mean Mitchell Berger?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“He’s only the single most respected film critic in America, my dear. And he’s definitely one of us. He writes with so much passion, such sensitivity. In fact…” She wagged a stubby finger at Des. “Are you sure he’s not gay?”
“He’s a widower.”
“He’s a major catch, is what he is. Free passes to every movie in town.”
“I don’t have time to see every movie.”
“Well, I do. And my niece, Naomi, is always looking for something to do. She’s a research chemist at Rockefeller University. Face on her like the young Joe Torre, but a very nice girl.” Bella peered at her slyly. “So…?”
“So what…?”
“Is he good-looking?”
“All depends on whether your idea of good-looking is the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”
“What, he’s a shlub?”
“If by shlub you mean a flesh prince, then the answer is yes.” Des drank some more of her juice. “Some kind of weird mental thing is happening. He seems to know what I’m thinking. Like he’s up inside my head.”
Bella nodded sagely. “Morris could read me like a book.”
“Brandon never knew what I was thinking.”
“And what does that tell you, my dear?”
Des didn’t answer. She didn’t want to go there. She’d been there.
“Does he like cats?” Bella asked.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” She put on her glasses so she could see the clock in the kitchen. “Damn, I’ll have to get back to you, period.” She climbed out of the tub, naked and dripping.
“Does he know you have that tattoo?”
“He know, he knows.”
“Does he know where you have it?”
“Doubtless. The man knows everything else.” Des wrapped herself in her terrycloth robe and made her way upstairs to shower and dress, the four remaining Spice Girls following her every move like Velcro.
She had no time to retreat to her studio. Not today. She took her sketch pad and charcoal with her. By 7:00 A.M. she was parked out on the bridge to Big Sister with her pad tilted against the steering wheel, stroking boldly in the hazy morning light.
Think only of lines, not of things.
Des was not happy. The case was growing more and more complex on her. The clock was ticking. She had
