“And your folks. How do they feel about it?”
“They’re just thrilled that I’ve met someone who makes me happy.”
Mitch could hear Des calling them now from down the beach, see the beam of her flashlight. He waved his beam in return, and she caught up with them, clad in the same heavy sweater that Mitch had lent to Takai.
“Bella’s cooking the greens,” she announced. “Ready to head back?”
“I am,” the Deacon said. “How about you, Mitch?”
“Absolutely.”
They started back, Des sneaking quick, nervous glances at the two of them. “So, did you two have your man-to-man talk?”
“Well, we did talk,” the Deacon replied solemnly. “And we’re both men. So I guess the answer to your question is yes.”
Delighted, she squeezed in between them, hooking one arm inside her father’s and the other inside Mitch’s. “Why does this ratty old sweater of yours reek of perfume?”
Mitch told her.
“What did that girl do, pour a whole bottle over herself and roll around in it naked?”
“Something like that.”
“You are so lucky I’m not the suspicious type,” Des said to him sweetly.
“Wait, you are the suspicious type.”
“That’s right, I am,” she shot back, laughing wickedly. It was a laugh that Mitch had never heard come out of her before. Sheer relief-she’d been dreading this meeting with her father even more than she’d let on.
“What’s that up there at the edge of the water, Mitch?” the Deacon spoke up, as his flashlight beam glanced over a large lumpy shape ahead of them.
“Another seal beached itself.” Mitch aimed his light on it. “Usually it only happens in February, but-”
But it was not a seal. Not unless it was a seal wearing a soggy flannel shirt and waterlogged jeans.
The Deacon flipped the body over, ignoring the salt water foaming over his shiny shoes. It was a woman’s body, and when Des got a good look at her she let out a startled gasp.
“Know her?” the Deacon asked.
“I do,” Des said. “Her name was Melanie Zide.”
CHAPTER 12
There were lights everywhere. Headlight beams from cruisers. Overhead beams from the Coast Guard choppers circling above them. The blob of cold, dead meat that had once been Melanie Zide lay on a tarp, her skin the color of wet clay.
Des could not get her mind around this. She kept seeing Melanie bathed in golden light up on that pedestal at the art academy, her naked flesh rosy and alive. Now she was just a floater covered with seaweed and sand. She had two bullet holes in her that Des could see-the size of the wounds indicative of a smaller caliber weapon than the Barrett. And there were people everywhere. And everyone was gazing at her. And no one was drawing her.
The medical examiner’s people were there. Soave was there with Tommy Salcineto. The Deacon was there, Soave tiptoeing his way around him like a cowed little boy.
And Mitch was there, too, standing next to Bella with a stricken expression on his face. Not exactly the get- acquainted dinner that he’d had in mind.
Des went over to him and said, “Our Hoppin’ John will have to wait, baby. I’m on the job for the rest of the night.”
“I kind of figured that,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you have to do.”
“Mitch and I will be fine, Desiree,” Bella added reassuringly.
“I think I was making a real good first impression,” Mitch said. “Until we found the dead body in my front yard, I mean. I think he liked me.”
“How could he not?” Bella said. “You’re a nice, polite gentleman. You’re steadily employed, a published author…”
“Don’t puff the boy up, Bella,” Des warned her. “He’ll become a total pain.”
“As if,” Bella sniffed.
Now Des turned her gaze out at the Sound, her mind on the job. “When things wash up out here, where do they usually come from?” she asked Mitch.
“Off boats, mostly. I pick up all kinds of garbage. You wouldn’t believe what pigs people are.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” Bella said with withering disapproval.
“Who’s still going out?”
“The yachters have pretty much packed it in for the season. I still see a few Boston Whalers-guys fishing or checking their lobster pots. That’s about it.” Mitch pointed westward to the tidal estuaries where the Connecticut River emptied into the Sound. “Upriver’s also a good bet. The current brings stuff down. I’ve found dead animals beached out here lots of times.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Deer, raccoons… I had a coyote a few weeks ago.”
She glanced eastward in the direction of Dorset’s rugged coastline. “Does stuff float out here from the town beaches?”
“The tide has to be going out,” Mitch said. “And you need a north wind. But, yeah, it happens.”
“What’s the tide doing right now?”
“It’s coming in.”
“What about last night?”
“Same story.”
Des considered this, her mind weighing the possibilities. So many possibilities. Could be that Melanie’s body had been dumped upriver and drifted down on the current. Could be it washed out to sea from a town beach early that morning, when the tide was going out, and now had made its way back on the incoming tide. Could be her killer took her out on a boat last night and dumped her. The Coast Guard would be able to narrow it down somewhat by computing how far Melanie could have floated based on the tide and wind direction. Likewise the speed of the river’s current. And the medical examiner could estimate how long she had been dead based on her body temperature, the water temperature, and state of decomposition. Sure, they’d be able to narrow it down. But as of right now, where and when Melanie Zide had been killed was wide open.
In fact, there was almost nothing that Des knew for sure-except that Melanie had been right to be afraid.
“Where are you at, Lieutenant?” the Deacon was asking Soave, his manner icy and exacting. There wasn’t a young officer in the state who didn’t quake under his questioning.
“Sir, she was dead when she hit the water,” Soave answered miserably. Melanie’s death blew a huge hole in the scenario he’d been working. “I’m guessing she’s been dead since-”
“I don’t want your guesses, son,” the Deacon said sharply. “I have no use for guesses. I’m only interested in what you know.”
Soave cleared his throat, chastened. “Okay, what I know is…” One knee started to jiggle nervously. “I know we’ve been holding a man for questioning on the Mary Susan Frye homicide and…”
And, despite Des’s warnings not to commit himself too soon, Soave had boasted all about it on television and now his career was passing right before his eyes. Because his case against Jim was in shreds-Jim had had a twenty-four-hour baby-sitter on him for the past two days. He couldn’t have shot Melanie. Not unless he’d somehow managed to slip out on his guard undetected, which was highly unlikely. Meaning that Jim was an innocent man. Unless, that is, these two small-town murders were completely unrelated. Which was even more unlikely.
“I repeat, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said, scowling, “Where… are… you… at?”
“Back to square one,” Soave conceded, smoothing his see-through mustache. “I’ll reach out immediately to Captain Battaglio for more manpower. And I’d also like to employ Resident Trooper Mitry’s services until we can
