“The blond nymphomanic. Interestingly enough, she went on to play Constance Mackenzie in the TV version of Peyton Place.”
“Wow, what goes around comes around. Your brain is like a continuous loop, you know that?”
They finally cleared the intersection and she went barreling west toward Hudson, honking at a bike messenger who strayed into her path.
“There’s something else I should warn you about,” he added. “Sex is better in the city.”
“If it gets any better I’ll have to be sedated,” she said, flashing a quick smile at him. “I can tell you’re starting to cheer up-you’re getting your mojo back.”
“I have mojo?” Mitch asked, brightening.
“Oh, most definitely.” At Hudson she took a hard right and floored it, heading uptown toward his apartment. “Look, when this Tito business gets cleared up, and I get me a day off, maybe we’ll give it a try. If we can go dancing, that is.”
“Dancing?” he repeated, frowning at her. “In public?”
“I’m saying it.”
“No, no. I don’t do that.”
“What do you mean, you don’t do that?”
“Have you ever seen me engaged in the physical act of dancing?”
“Now that you mention it, no.”
“It’s not a pretty sight, Des. I have a spongy bottom, poor flexibility, no actual moves to speak of. Trust me, you don’t ever want to see me dance.”
“Got to dance, doughboy.”
“What, this is a package deal?” he demanded, wondering just exactly how this whole situation had gone so horribly wrong so fast.
“Package deal.”
“You don’t play fair.”
“I don’t have to, I’m a girl. And you’re my boy. And I want to see you out on that dance floor, shaking what your mama gave you.”
“Fine, if that’s what it takes to get you here, I’ll do it. Because nothing, but nothing, is more important to me than your art. Not even my own personal dignity.” Mitch paused, squaring his jaw at her grimly. “I just hope that you realize the sheer, unmitigated horror of what you’re letting yourself in for.”
CHAPTER 8
Ethel Merman very nearly bounced Des right out of her bed.
This was all about Bella and her digitally damned remastered cast album of Annie Get Your Gun. As far as Des was concerned, waking up to Ethel Merman singing “I Got the Sun in the Morning” was like coming to at the epicenter of an earthquake that registered 5.1 on the Richter scale.
Groaning, Des put on her horn-rims and staggered downstairs barefoot in a tank top and gym shorts. She felt groggy and stiff all over after spending most of yesterday driving to and from New York. Her eyes were bleary and puffy.
The coffee was brewing in the kitchen, where Ethel was even louder. That damned woman’s vibrato could shatter a plate glass window as far away as Delaware. Bella, who had to be clinically deaf, was parked at the dining table, eating her All-Bran and leafing through that morning’s New York papers.
Their in-house cats all came scampering, hoping to convince Des that Bella had failed to give them a morning treat. Des knelt to pet them before she called out, “Morning, Bella!”
“Good morning, Desiree,” Bella yelled back to her.
“Um, haven’t you got your Ethel cranked kind of high for a woman whose roommate packs a loaded semiautomatic weapon?”
“My bad.” Bella immediately went charging into the living room to turn it down. “That’s what my grandson, Abie, always says. ‘My bad, Grandma. My bad.’ The boy starts Harvard next month and he talks like a three-year- old. Would you rather listen to someone else?”
“I think I’d like to ease into today with a little silence, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Bella shut off the stereo and sat back down. “Very nice piece about Tito Molina by your handsome Mr. Berger in today’s paper,” she said, stabbing at it with her stubby finger. “It has a lot of heart.”
“Mitch felt real bad about what happened, plus he was a genuine fan of the man’s work.” Des poured herself some coffee and took a sip, scanning it over Bella’s shoulder. “What do they have on the investigation?”
“That Lieutenant Tedone isn’t ruling out homicide. Neither is the medical examiner.” Bella licked her thumb and flipped her way back to the front page. “Here it is… ‘The medical examiner is characterizing the circumstances of Mr. Molina’s death as questionable.’ Is that true?”
“Reasonably,” Des responded, yawning. “What do the tabloids have?”
Bella’s face dropped. “You don’t want to know.”
Des immediately spread the Daily News and Post out on the table for a good look. Both featured page-one photos of a hysterical Esme Crockett arriving at the gate to Chapman Falls with her fat, bloodied lip. The News was awash with speculation about the lip. Sex was the culprit. They even quoted an unnamed source close to the golden couple as saying, “They liked it rough.” Des wondered just exactly who this source was. The Post, meanwhile, was already trying to link Mitch to Tito’s death: “Although Mitchell Berger is not considered a suspect at this time, an unnamed source added, Obviously, the authorities want to learn everything they can from him.’ ” Which definitely made it sound as if they thought he was hiding something. Who was this unnamed source?
And how can I get my hands around his or her throat?
“Nu, what happens now?” Bella asked eagerly.
“Another day in paradise,” Des replied, burying the tabloids under Mitch’s paper so she wouldn’t have to look at them. The cats roughed up her area rugs in much the same way after one of them had puked on the floor. “Thought I’d start out with another tour of Jellystone with Yogi and Boo-Boo.”
“Okay, I’m nodding but I don’t actually understand what you’re saying.”
“Then I’ll put on my uni and saddle up. Got me some parking tickets to write.”
“Desiree, what do you think happened to Tito?”
It was a hazy, humid morning, the sky the color of dishwater. Des went over to her windows overlooking the lake and slowly stretched out her hammies, feeling the tightness in her legs as she bent down to touch her toes. “What I think,” she said, “is that it’s not my job to think about those things anymore.”
“But you must have an opinion. You can’t just turn it on and off like a faucet.”
“Can, too.”
The doorbell rang now. Des padded to the door and opened it.
It was the Crockett girls.
Esme with her wild, uncombed mane of blond hair and her raw, bruised lower lip. The actress wore a pair of military fatigue pants, a tube top, and a somewhat dazed expression on her lovely young face.
Martine held her firmly by one arm, a brave, determined smile creasing her own face. “Go ahead and tell her, sweetie. Tell Des what you’ve decided.”
“The kittens,” Esme announced to Des in a trembly voice. “I want to see the kittens. Can I?”
“You totally can,” Des assured her. “I never turn away a prospect. We were just having some coffee. Can I pour you ladies some?”
“We’re all set, thanks,” Martine said, the thin soles of her chic patent leather sandals clacking smartly on the polished wood floors as she strode in. “Good morning, Bella!”
She and Bella launched into cheery chitchat as Esme fell to her knees and started playing with Missy Elliot, Christie Love, and the rest of the in-house crew.
“Hi, there,” she cooed, stretching out on the floor with them. “Hi, girls.”
“Some of them are boys,” Des pointed out. “That big orange stud standing directly on your hooters is Kid Rock.”
