Damn, damn, damn.
She hurriedly returned the shirt to its hook and went back out to her cruiser and popped the trunk, staring down at what she’d brought with her. It lay there atop her first-aid kit, flares, blankets and other emergency gear. She hesitated a moment before she removed it. She could not believe how nervous she was. Her hands were actually shaking. She took it inside and laid it on his desk. She locked up and slid the key back under the boot scraper.
Then she knocked on the Havenhursts’ door.
It was Mandy who answered it. She had on a plum-colored Izod shirt and khaki slacks, her long blond hair pulled back in a tight, tight ponytail. In fact, everything about her seemed pulled taut. Her flesh was drawn across the bones of her face like the skin over a snare drum. The cords in her neck stood out, fists were clenched, knuckles white.
“I didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs. Havenhurst,” Des said, surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” Mandy responded sharply, her eyes icy blue pinpoints. “This is my home, Lieutenant. I live here.”
“I understood you were in New York.”
Mandy stared at her with utter contempt. “You ‘understood’ I was in New York?”
“Mr. Berger happened to mention it.”
“Is Mitch back?” she asked casually, shooting a not-so-causal look over Des’s shoulder at his house.
“No, we spoke on the phone.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I drove back late last night with Bud. We picked up my car at the station.”
“Your husband was in the city yesterday, too?”
“He was,” Mandy replied, smiling tightly. It came off more like a grimace. Actually, Mandy’s face was starting to remind Des of one of those sun-bleached animal skulls that people find out in the desert and hang as wall ornaments in their homes.
“You and Mr. Havenhurst went in together?” she persisted, wondering if this creamy, twisted blonde was ever going to invite her inside.
“No, we went in separately-our schedules didn’t quite match up.” Mandy raised her chin at Des, her nostrils flaring. “I don’t mean to be pointy, Lieutenant, but I’m not exactly accustomed to having my comings and goings put under a microscope by law enforcement officers.”
“Most impressive,” Des said, smiling at her approvingly. “I mean it-you’ve got what my friend Ms. Bella Tillis calls chutzpah. But you and I both know that you have an extensive police record, so let’s not pull each other’s curls, allright?”
“Whatever Mitch told you about last night isn’t true!” Mandy declared, her voice rising, cheeks mottling. “He got the wrong idea about me. About us. He came after me. And he wouldn’t take a firm no for an answer. And he-”
“Mr. Berger told me next to nothing,” Des said coldly. “I’d suggest you do the same, unless you’re looking to press formal charges.”
“Why, no. I was simply trying to-”
“Good. Because I am not someone who you want to be talking to about this. I am not your sister. I am not your friend. And I am for damned sure not Doctor Laura. Now is your husband in? I’d like to ask him some questions.”
Mandy finally let her inside. It was quaint and snug, with low ceilings and lots of country antique furniture. Arrangements of dried herbs were on display everywhere, just like in Country Living magazine. It reminded Des of that inn in rural Vermont she and Brandon stayed in once. All that was missing was the pervasive smell of potpourri. There was a parlor and a dining room. The airy farmhouse kitchen opened onto the back porch. Bud Havenhurst was slumped at a wicker table out there with a cup of coffee, his back to the panoramic view of Long Island Sound.
It occurred to Des that only someone who had lived on Big Sister a very long time would sit facing the house, not the water.
He wore a starched white shirt, striped tie, dark slacks and even darker circles under his eyes. He seemed very tired and drawn. The smile he gave her was a weak one. “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, climbing politely to his feet. “Sorry if I’m not fully awake yet. We got back quite late last night. Please, sit.”
Des did so, facing the view. A couple of fishing boats were already out, and a work boat was chugging its way across the Sound toward Plum Island.
“Do you need me here, sugar?” Mandy asked him from the kitchen doorway. “I want to get some things at the market.”
“You go right ahead, hon.” He made a big fuss out of escorting his young wife out, doting on her, kissing her good-bye. He seemed excessively clingy. Des found herself wondering if this was for her benefit. She heard the little MG start up with a throaty roar and speed off in a splatter of gravel. Then Havenhurst came back and sat down and said, “Now, then, Lieutenant, how may I help you?”
“I tried to see you at your office yesterday. You weren’t in.”
“Some things came up that required my presence in New York.”
“Your wife and Mr. Berger rode into the city themselves yesterday morning.”
“That’s right. She told me she ran into him on the train. I drove in a bit later in the day.”
“Why didn’t you and she go in together?”
“It was something of a last-minute thing on my part,” he answered vaguely. “A financial matter.”
“Can anyone confirm what time you arrived?”
“The fellow at the parking garage I use, I imagine.”
Des nodded, well aware that for twenty dollars your average parking lot attendant would swear under oath that he had seen Elvis pull up in a pink Cadillac-with Marilyn Monroe seated next to him in the front seat.
He rubbed a thumb carefully along his big, thrusting chin, as if to test his morning shave. “It’s on Second Avenue and Sixty-sixth Street. And I still have the ticket stub somewhere, I think. But, frankly, I’m having trouble seeing how my visit to New York has anything to do with matters that concern you.”
“It concerns me,” Des explained, “because someone tried to shove Mr. Berger in front of a subway train yesterday morning in Times Square. He claims it happened shortly after he said good-bye to your wife.”
Now Bud Havenhurst went silent on her, his face a stone cold blank. The man conveyed nothing. It was just like sitting across the table from a lawn statue. Lawyers. They were worse than born liars, she reflected bitterly. These bastards were trained at it by high priests.
She elected to move on. “Let’s talk about your ex-wife’s missing money.”
“Mitch spoke to you about that?” Bud asked her uneasily.
“He did.”
“And you understand why I did what I did?”
“I understand bupkes,” she said sharply. “Maybe you believed you were acting in your ex-wife’s best interest. But I’m not prepared to say whether what you did was legal or ethical or proper. Or whether a Connecticut State Bar Association grievance panel will find probable cause for misconduct. Or whether a judge will suspend your license to practice law.” She paused a moment, the better to dangle her bait. “Of course, if you’re prepared to give some news I can use, then that’s another matter entirely…”
Bud Havenhurst suddenly became very interested in the view. He even got up and went over to the porch railing so he could get a better look at it. “Such as?”
“Such as it occurs to me that you are in and out of Mrs. Seymour’s house…”
He turned back to face her. “It used to be my house,” he said quietly.
“Did you write that Dear John letter?”
He shook his head emphatically. “If I had done that, then I’d be Niles Seymour’s murderer. And I’m not.”
“You weren’t home in bed the night that Tuck Weems was murdered. Where were you?”
Havenhurst didn’t respond. Just went into statue mode again.
“Were you with your ex-wife? Were you sleeping with her?”
He heaved a pained sigh. “No, Dolly wouldn’t have me again in a million years,” he replied, his face expressing a curious mix of longing, frustration and hopelessness. He was an older man besotted with a volatile and promiscuous younger woman. Yet he clearly remained attached to his first wife. Maybe he just didn’t know what, or who, he wanted. Maybe he was just a fool-he was a fully grown adult male, after all. “I just looked in on her,” he
