approached it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Jamie enthused, gazing affectionately at the painting. It was an Impressionist landscape of a lush green meadow streaming with morning sunlight. “It’s a Bruestle. George M. He was a fairly prominent member of Dorset’s art colony at the turn of the century, best known for his well-ripened greens. The meadow’s located off of Ely’s Ferry Road. It’s still there.”
“It’s very fine. Only what I’m beaming on is the easel.” She could not take her eyes off the artist’s stand that the painting was displayed upon.
“You do have a keen eye, don’t you? It was Bruestle’s. His son Bertram, who was a fine painter in his own right, used it for years. I bought it from the estate of his widow. It was custom-made by a local cabinet maker. Solid oak, with brass fittings. Truly one of a kind. Works like a charm.”
“Is it for sale?”
“Dear girl, everything here is for sale, including the barn, the land under the barn and me. It’s perfect for displaying things on, isn’t it? A sampler perhaps?”
“I’d want to use it.”
He cocked his head at her in surprise. “You paint?”
“I draw a little,” she said uneasily.
“How interesting. I would never have guessed.” Jamie thumbed his chin judiciously. “It’s yours if you’ll give me exactly what I paid for it-eight hundred.”
Des shook her dreadlocks at him. “That’s way out of my price range.”
“All right, make it seven-fifty,” he said with nimble ease.
“Not a chance.”
He waved her off. “Nonsense. I believe that when someone loves a piece, they should have it. And I can tell from the glow in your eye that you love this one. I insist that you take it home. We’ll work something out.”
Des glanced at him sharply. “That would not exactly be appropriate.”
“No, of course not,” he agreed hastily. “What am I saying? Christ, now you must think I’m trying to bribe you. God, I am hopeless when Ev’s not around. I just blither on and on, slipping and sliding and…” He broke off, puffing out his cheeks. “Why don’t you just shoot me right now and put me out of my misery?”
“Mr. Devers, please try to relax.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Let’s relax. Let’s all relax.”
There was an old library table just inside the front door that Jamie and Evan used as a desk. A crystal decanter filled with cognac served as a paperweight. He poured some into a snifter and drank it down in one gulp. He sat down in his chair and lit a cigarette, dragging on it nervously.
There was an armchair across from him. Des sat in it, watching him closely. The man was obviously terrified of her. Was this just vintage sixties paranoia? Or was he actually guilty of something? She made a steeple of her fingers. She rested her chin upon it, gazing at him intently across the desk. “It rained that night,” she pointed out quietly.
“What night, Lieutenant?”
“The night Tuck Weems was murdered. There was a truly vicious storm.”
“There absolutely was,” he acknowledged. “It blew in around three in the morning. Lightning, thunder, the works.”
“And you two were camped out in that?”
“Not after it started we weren’t. We went below deck, snug as bugs. Actually, too snug. It can get really stuffy down there. And the water was way choppy. But that’s the vaunted nautical life for you. If you want to be dry you have to be nauseated.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“See us?”
“You recall anyone passing near enough to the island to observe that you were docked out there? A fisherman, maybe?”
Jamie Devers considered this. “No one saw us. Not unless they saw our bonfire. We lit one when we first got out there. The rain eventually drowned it, of course. But the Coast Guard might have spotted that. They patrol pretty regularly.” He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately reached for another. “Once the storm hit, nobody was out on the water.”
“What did you use for firewood?”
He stared across the desk at her, perplexed. “We used firewood, what else?”
“That island’s a barren rock pile. Not one stick of wood out there to burn.”
“We brought it with us. Logs, kindling, the works.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of trouble,” she said doubtfully.
“It is,” he acknowledged. “But to us, it’s worth it.”
“When did you return from Little Sister?”
“In the morning, after the storm had passed over and the Sound had calmed. There was virtually no way we could have made it back during that storm in a J-24. It’s a racing boat. Built very low to the water. We’d have gone down for sure.” He smiled at her hopefully. “So, you see, we couldn’t have killed Tuck Weems. It’s not possible.”
“You’re right, it’s not-assuming you were there.”
“We were,” Jamie Devers insisted. “I swear it.”
Des would have to check this out further with the Coast Guard. And have a trooper canvas the area boatyards to see if anyone could recall spotting their fire. But even if someone did remember it that did not necessarily clear them. The fire was not a guarantee they were on Little Sister when Tuck Weems was murdered. It was not a guarantee of anything. They could have built themselves a huge bonfire as a decoy and then headed right back to Big Sister before the storm ever started.
Right now, the only alibi Jamie Devers and Evan Havenhurst had was each other.
Right now, they had no alibi whatsoever.
CHAPTER 11
A POKY LITTLE COMMUTER train called the Shoreliner shuttled its way back and forth through the villages and tidal marshes that stretched in between Old Saybrook and New Haven, where Mitch could pick up the Metro North line into Grand Central. It was Metro North that carried the Wall Street warriors in from Fairfield every morning, armed for combat with their matching Burberry’s, cell phones and game faces. For Mitch, the trip was about two and a half hours, door to door. The Shoreliner was not particularly crowded. He had a two-person seat to himself, which was fine by him. He did not enjoy bumping elbows and knees with someone he did not know. He had bought the morning papers to read. He spread them open and read.
Lieutenant Mitry’s superior, Capt. Carl Polito of the Central District Major Crimes Squad, was expressing his support for her in the Hartford Courant. “The investigation is proceeding in a swift and thoroughly professional manner,” he said. “We have every reason to believe we will have a suspect in custody very soon.” To Mitch this sounded remarkably like one of those ringing votes of no-confidence Yankee owner George Steinbrenner gave to his soon-to-be outgoing manager. No wonder the woman seemed uptight-her head was on the chopping block. There was still no acknowledged link-up between the two Dorset slayings and the Torry Mordarski murder. They were, it seemed, choosing to keep that under wraps for now. There was a mention that Niles Seymour would be buried tomorrow in Dorset’s Duck River Cemetery. Burial arrangements for Tuck Weems were still being made.
The New York tabloids, meanwhile, were pouncing on the Mandy Havenhurst angle with obvious relish. Her torrid love life, her run-ins with the law. “Beer Baroness Finds More Trouble Brewing,” screamed the headline in the Daily News. “Fanning the Flames of Mandy’s Passion,” shouted the Post. Both carried old photos of her. She was practically a teenager in them. Her hair was worn very differently-piled high atop her head. And she wore tremendous quantities of eye makeup. Mitch barely recognized her.
As he was reading, a woman strode down the aisle, stopped and asked if she could join him in his two- person seat. It was Mandy, of course, flashing her dazzling smile at him.