Sister.
As she was pulling up in the driveway Mandy Havenhurst, the creamy blond beer heiress, sidled over toward her wearing a buttery soft suede shirt that looked as if it cost her as much as Des earned in a month. Another one like Dolly Seymour, Des reflected. A product of privilege and good looks. Not to mention dangerously unstrung. Face it, the only reason Mandy Havenhurst hadn’t served any time for her crimes against the men in her life was that she was rich and she was white. Des wondered how Bud Havenhurst slept nights. Herself, she wouldn’t sleep a wink lying in bed next to this particular lemon cupcake.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Mandy exclaimed, showing her a broad, insincere smile. “Are you here to see me?”
Des shut off her engine and got out. “Not right now, no.”
“The reason I asked,” Mandy said airily, “is that I was planning to spend the day in New York. But if you wish for me to stay around…”
“Go right ahead. Mr. Berger’s taking the train in himself this morning.”
“Yes, I know. We were hoping to ride in together.” Her sultry tone of voice made it sound like she and Mitch had themselves a whole day planned together. Followed by a whole night. Did they? Des wondered. Mandy lingered there, tossing her long golden hair. “Was it my husband you wished to see?” she asked Des offhandedly. But there was nothing offhanded about her blue-eyed gaze. It was piercing.
“I can catch him later at his office.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Now she was chewing fretfully on her lower lip. Chewing on it almost hard enough to draw blood. “In reference to my husband, I mean.”
The lady wanted to know what Des had on him. Particularly as it related to Dolly Seymour. Des had no doubt about this. She also had no intention of fueling Mandy’s pathological jealousy. “Enjoy your day in the city,” she said pleasantly. Then Des strode toward the natural-shingled house where Redfield and Bitsy Peck lived, feeling Mandy’s eyes boring into her.
The Peck house was the most immense single-family home Des had ever seen. Three full stories high, with wings extending off in every direction and a deep shade porch wrapped all the way around. There were balconies upstairs, sun porches, observation turrets, a widow’s walk. The fenced-in garden was also huge. A vast collection of vegetables and flowers and herbs grew there in raised, orderly beds. To Des it looked more like a commercial nursery than it did someone’s yard. There was a greenhouse, potting shed, tool shed. There was a composting area with a dozen or more wire bins and two large, rotating steel drums.
Bitsy Peck was in the process of dumping a bucket full of orange peels, egg shells and coffee grounds into one of these.
“Good morning,” Des said to her. “I wondered if your husband was back from Tokyo yet.”
“Why, yes, Lieutenant,” Bitsy replied brightly. “He landed at midnight. Got home just after two. He’s here for a couple of days and then he’s off again, poor lamb. Four international flights a month makes for a tough, tough schedule. But Red’s used to it. I suppose you can get used to just about anything if you have to.” Bitsy closed the door to the drum, rotated it smartly three times with a hand crank and then reached for her empty bucket. “Do come in-he just sat down to breakfast.”
She bustled back toward the house, humming merrily. Des followed her, wondering how anyone could be so cheerful with all of this killing going on.
It resembled a mountain lodge inside, with Adirondack-style furniture of oak and leather, polished plank floors and a good deal of paneling and wood trim. The rooms were large and airy. Each one had its own wood-burning fireplace and its own terrific view of the sea. There was no hallway. One room simply led into another. There was a sitting room. There was a dining room. There was a game room with an antique pool table, a telescope and a chess board set up by the windows. It was not a pretentious home by any means. It was comfortable and lived in-a house meant for laughter and fun, kids and dogs. Although it was quiet and still right now.
The kitchen was immense. A giant, battered trestle table was anchored in its center, where Redfield Peck sat finishing his scrambled eggs and toast. He had combed his hair but he had not shaved. He wore a hooded Naval Academy sweatshirt, unpressed khakis and a sleepy expression on his lined, craggy face. That expression turned quickly to wariness when he saw Des standing there in his kitchen. And he seemed to grow somewhat pale. He patted his mouth with his napkin and got politely to his feet. He was no more than five foot eight, much shorter than she’d expected from the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She towered over him.
“There’s coffee in the pot, Lieutenant,” Bitsy offered. “Can I make you some eggs? Skillet’s still warm.”
“I’m all set, thanks.”
“How about some nice hot tea for that could?”
“Don’t have one. It’s just my allergies.”
Bitsy snuffed at her disapprovingly. “Lieutenant, I’ve raised two children. I know what a sinus cold sounds like. You, my dear girl, have a sinus cold.”
“Leave the poor woman alone, Bits,” Red murmured with a faint smile. “She already has a mother, haven’t you, Lieutenant?”
“That I do.” Des smiled back at him. “Was wondering if I could go over some things with you.”
He swallowed uneasily. “Of course. Why don’t we go out on the porch?”
“Yes, do that,” Bitsy Peck exclaimed. “I have to get to my garden. I have weeds, weeds, everywhere. They are impossible this time of year. Unless, that is, you need me, Lieutenant.”
“No, ma’am, you go right ahead.”
And she did just that, humming.
There were kitchen herbs growing in pots out on the porch. There was wicker furniture. They sat in two armchairs facing the water, Redfield Peck’s manner studiously calm and careful. He put Des in mind of a doctor who was about to give her a gynecological examination-everything about his body language was geared toward putting her at ease, to conveying competence and professionalism. It was a manner he had no doubt cultivated after years of moving through a cabin full of apprehensive air passengers.
Interesting that he would fall back on it now, she reflected, seeing as how it was he who was about to climb into the stirrups and say aaah.
“How may I help you, Lieutenant?” he asked her quietly, folding his large, blunt-fingered hands in his lap. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”
“You’re not a suspect in the murder of Tuck Weems. You were out of the country when his shooting took place. This has been confirmed by your airline. But I do have a question for you.”
His bushy eyebrows raised slightly. “By all means.”
“Mr. Peck, where are you the one week out of every month when you are not where your wife thinks you are?”
Her question did not take him by surprise. He was braced for it. “What do you mean?” he asked coolly, reluctant to volunteer any more than he had to.
“I mean,” Des replied, “that for the past year you’ve been making three flights a month to Tokyo-not four.”
“Please keep your voice down.” He shot a glance in the direction of the garden, where his wife was crouched stoutly in a flowerbed, weeding.
“Wasn’t aware that I was shouting.”
“Look, it’s not what you’re thinking, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not thinking anything, Mr. Peck.”
“I haven’t got some tootsie stashed somewhere that Bits doesn’t know about. It’s a family matter. A private matter. I’ve been in San Francisco, as I’m sure the airline can confirm.”
In fact, he was averaging a half-dozen employee discount flights per month to San Francisco. Some of these flights originated in Tokyo, others in New York. Many were layovers lasting no more than one night.
Redfield Peck sat back in his chair and crossed his short legs. He gazed out at the Sound. “It’s Becca- Rebecca, she’s our eldest. Twenty-four now. She moved out there because of the dance community. She dances, you see.” He paused, sighing heavily. “And she’s gotten herself into some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Intravenous drug trouble,” he replied, his voice choking with emotion. “Becca’s a sick, sick girl, Lieutenant. And I’ve been doing everything I possibly can to help her get well again. Getting her treatment, counseling. Making
