absolutely positive at that particular moment that he could read her mind.
“Do you know a lot about art?” she asked him guardedly.
“I know talent when I see it. That’s my talent. And my job. And I’d really love to see your stuff.”
“Why are you so interested?”
“Because I’d like to see what you do to please you, rather than to please everyone else.”
“Okay, now I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suit yourself. I thought maybe we were becoming friends. No, hunh?” He let out an unhappy sigh. “Too bad, because you’re my idea of a real first-class individual. But I’ll just have to tell Bud he was wrong. See, when he saw us together on the beach he thought we were. Friends, I mean. Which is why he asked me to give you a message.”
It turned out that Mitch Berger had something for her about Dolly’s missing money: Havenhurst had it. He’d quietly squirreled it away on her behalf, fearing that Seymour was about to grab it and run. Or so Havenhurst claimed.
“He figured you’d get on to it real soon,” Mitch Berger added. “And possibly get the wrong idea.”
“Or possibly get the right one.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, frowning at her.
Damn. She was doing it again. “Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“I’m becoming one of them now. I’ve been to the club. I’ve been sailing. I own boating shoes. Soon, I’ll even have my own schoolboy nickname. What do you think of Boopy? Does that suit me?” On her mocking silence he acknowledged, “I’m not really. I could live here for fifty years and to them I’d still be the Jewboy from New York. I think it’s more a case of them circling the wagons-you’re either with us or you’re against us. And I guess they’d much rather have me with them.” He stood there for a moment, leaning his generous flank against her car. “How well do you know Resident Trooper Bliss?”
“We have a decent working relationship. Why?”
Mitch Berger hesitated, choosing his words carefully now. “Is there any chance he’s involved?”
“He’s been helpful to me, if that’s what you mean.”
“It isn’t,” he said heavily.
“Exactly what are you trying to tell me?”
“Bliss was out on the island that day I got locked in my crawl space. One of the islanders saw him. It’s possible that he’s the one who did it to me.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
Now Mitch Berger was the one who fell silent.
Des considered this for a moment. Tal Bliss was an old friend of Dolly Seymour. A seasoned veteran at cleaning up local messes. Was there any chance he had tried to clean up this one? That he knew more than he had let on? Was there any chance at all?
Of course, there was.
“Don’t you have a movie review or something you should be working on?” she grumbled at him.
“I was planning to take the train into New York this morning, actually,” he said. “Have to screen a couple of new mega-movies. Will that be okay?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I thought you might say ‘Don’t leave town.’ Or words to that effect.”
“If I need to find you, I believe I can.”
He grinned at her. “Was that a dare?”
“No, it was an honest response to your inquiry.”
“The key to the front door of my cottage is under the boot scraper,” he informed her.
“You just said what?”
“Well, I can’t take Clemmie with me, can I?”
“Noo…”
“Of course, I can’t-she’s just getting acclimated. And you’ll be around the island, right? So I thought you could look in on her later. Make sure she’s all right. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Okay?”
Reluctantly, Des said, “Okay.” Then she removed her billfold from the inside pocket of her blazer, dug out one of her business cards and handed it to him. “You happen to find out anything else, you can reach me at these numbers. Any hour, day or night. The one on the bottom’s my pager number.”
“Okay, sure,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “You coming out?” He meant to the island.
“In a while.”
“Later, then, Lieutenant.” He started away from her car and stopped. “Oh, there was one other thing…”
“What is it, Mr. Berger?” she asked wearily.
He grinned at her. “I still can’t get you to call me Mitch, can
I?”
“What is it, Mr. Berger?” she repeated, louder this time.
“Okay, okay… I don’t buy a married man like Niles Seymour stashing a girl like Torry Mordarski at the Saybrook Point Inn. It’s no place for a secret tryst. If anything, it’s a place to go if you want to be seen. It doesn’t add up. Not if they were trying to keep their affair under wraps.”
Des did not say a word to that. She did not say that the same exact thing had occurred to her when she was there. She just nodded and watched him go tromping back out to the island on the wooden bridge.
When he’d made it about halfway across Mitch Berger paused to wave to her. She raised a hand in grudging response. She was still trying to decide just exactly what he’d meant when he called her a “real first-class individual.” She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. All she knew was that he was no slouch himself. Bachelor’s degree from Columbia. Master’s degree from Columbia Journalism School. And his late wife had been Park Avenue all the way-the Brearley School, Bennington, Harvard Graduate School of Design.
Watching him disappear, Des realized that her hands were trembling and her stomach was in knots. Which was her body’s own unique way of telling her it had just been in close physical contact with someone of surging hormonal interest. Surprised and aghast, Des lunged for her sketch pad. Propped it against her steering wheel. Stared out at the island.
Draw what you see, not what you know.
Des took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Eyes tightly shut, she drew.
CHAPTER 9
Jesus, how had he said anything so clumsy and idiotic? As Mitch trudged his way back toward his little house on Big Sister, he could not imagine. It sounded like something straight out of the file on an NBA draft prospect, under the category of character: A real first-class individual. What on earth had he been thinking? He’d wanted to cheer the lieutenant up, that’s what. She’d seemed down. He was trying to say something positive. But he hadn’t wanted it to sound too sexually or racially conscious. And somehow he had gotten all tangled up and, and, bam, out came the scouting report.
I do not know how to talk to people anymore. I am a butthead. I should be locked up.
As he made his way along the gravel drive past Bud and Mandy’s house he came upon Mandy, who was busy using a rag to wipe off the pea-green coating of tree pollen and early-morning dew that had formed, paste-like, on the windshield of her MG. Her efforts afforded Mitch a superb view of her taut, quivering behind, which was snugly encased in a skin-tight pair of designer jeans.
Mandy wore a suede shirt and pair of backless sandals with her jeans. When she turned at the sound of his
