the coolness of the house.
“How could she do this to me, Des?” Martine sobbed as she continued to pace. “My own daughter-how could she?”
“When you told me about Dodge you didn’t tell me that you were seeing someone else, too.”
Martine stopped in her tracks. “You sound disappointed.”
Des said nothing to that, just gazed at her.
“Our marriage is not exactly healthy these days,” Martine confessed. “Dodge goes his way and I go my mine. Jeffrey is… not exactly Brad Pitt, I’ll grant you. But he’s funny and he’s sweet and he’s the most attentive lover I’ve ever been with. He bathes me. He reads Emily Dickinson to me by candlelight. He licks whipped cream from between my-”
“Really don’t need to hear this part,” Des growled.
“Do you have any idea what that’s like after twenty-six years of Dodge?” Martine demanded. “Twenty-six years of wham-bam-good-night-ma’am? Jeffrey makes me feel like me again. And that sick little bastard has been having it off with my own damned daughter this whole time. I will hurt him for this. I will make a bow tie of his balls and-”
“Martine, I wouldn’t say things like that in front of me.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to make threatening remarks. I’m just so hurt. I know exactly why she did it, too. To get back at me.”
“For what?”
Martine’s face darkened, but she didn’t answer. Just went over to the railing and faced the lake, her back to Des, posture rigid.
Des studied her there for a long moment. “Martine, were you and Dodge home in bed together when Tito died?”
“I do believe I can see Bella from here,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand. “That fierce little bowling ball of a person striding along the footpath at the edge of the water. See her?”
“If Esme was with Jeff when it happened…”
“It means that I wasn’t,” Martine acknowledged. “I was home.”
“Was Dodge home with you?”
“It’s very pleasant out here, isn’t it?” Martine said evasively. “Still, I would have thought there’d be a bit more breeze coming off of the water.”
Yolie came out there now to tell them she was done with Esme. Martine asked if she could take her daughter home. Yolie said she could, but only after the lady solemnly promised to behave herself.
Yolie remained with Des after Martine had gone inside. “Girl, is this your idea of better manners? Because I can get this for free back in the projects morning, noon, or night.”
“I was as surprised as you were.”
“Word, did I just choke in there?” she asked, glancing at Des uncertainly.
“No, not at all. It’s all okay.”
“But you took the ball out of my hands. How come?”
Des kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to criticize Sgt. Yolie Snipes.
But Yolie wasn’t having that. “Please tell me,” she pleaded. “I’m not on my home court here. And I get, like, no help from Soave when it comes to how to behave.”
“Well, okay,” Des said. “You were moving in for the kill, which is fine. But you didn’t see that she was on the verge of wigging, which isn’t fine. That’s a delicate young performer in there. She just lost her husband. If you’d kept at her one minute longer, she would have shut down on you completely.”
“Kinder and gentler is not my style.”
“I’m not saying it should be. Do what works for you. Keep the funk alive. Just keep an eye on your subject’s temperature gauge, too. Know when to back off.”
“Yeah, I can be a raw dog sometimes,” Yolie admitted, nodding her head. “Especially when I’m uptight. I mean, she’s so famous and all. Only, why did she say that to me about my cheek?”
“She’s an actress. Everything in her world is make-believe. Pay no attention. You’re doing fine.”
“Real?”
“Real.”
“Big thanks,” Yolie said gratefully. “Ready to go?”
“Go where?” asked Des, frowning.
“Interviews. Soave wants you along, since you know the people.”
“Okay, sure.” Des started back inside, then stopped. “Oh, hey, you didn’t give up anything to the tabloids yesterday about Mitch, did you?”
“Who, me?” Yolie let out a huge laugh. “Not even. Soave won’t let me anywhere near the press. ‘One voice, one message,’ he always says. Between us, I think Tawny’s on the receiving end of a big happy whenever that little man sees himself on television. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious,” Des said, smiling at her. “Come on, girl. Let’s do Dorset.”
CHAPTER 9
It was such a sultry, sticky morning that there wasn’t even a breath of breeze out on Big Sister. Mitch could barely make out the Old Saybrook Lighthouse through the haze as he stood at his windows, drinking his morning coffee and listening to the shrill whine of the cicadas in the trees. The Plum Island workboat was chugging its way out, the Sound as calm as a bathtub. But no summer yachtsmen were setting out for a day’s sail. There was no point in leaving the boatyard when the weather was like this.
He hadn’t slept well. For one thing, Clemmie was way unhappy about him traipsing off to New York that way. She made her displeasure known by bounding across his bed like a playful faun every half hour all night long. In Clemmie World, this was known as payback.
Not that Mitch would have been able to sleep anyway. Not after he’d made the mistake of checking the Web sites of the New York tabloids to see what they’d be featuring about Tito’s death in their morning editions.
Garbage, that’s what.
Snide quotes from unnamed sources implicating him in Tito Molina’s death. Dirty hints that he knew more than he’d let on, possibly even had something to do with it… Obviously, the authorities want to learn everything they can from him… Why on earth did someone, anyone, think he was holding out? Mitch didn’t have the slightest idea. But he did find it deeply, deeply disturbing. Despite his own best efforts, he was being turned into a featured player in this ongoing media sideshow… And costarring chubby, good-natured Mitch Berger as the thinking man’s Kato Kaelin… And now he had no control over what was happening to him. Zero. None.
And so he’d tossed and he’d turned all night long as the ceiling fan stirred the warm, steamy air around his sleeping loft and Clemmie periodically leaped across his stomach, yowling. And he was up well before dawn, getting shaved and dressed. Naturally, as soon as he started stirring Clemmie curled up in his chair and went fast to sleep, one paw over her eyes to block out the rising sun.
Mitch didn’t log on to his computer. He didn’t want to read any more stories connecting him to Tito’s death. He didn’t even want to look at his own story about Tito in this morning’s paper.
What he wanted was to get his life back.
He was looking forward to his daily hike with the Mesmers. He could use a good honest dose of Dodge Crockett’s upbeat reassurance, Will Durslag’s croissants and quiet strength, even Jeff Wachtell and his kvetching.
But there was no Dodge waiting there in the haze when he trudged his way across the causeway with his birdwatcher’s glasses- just big Will and little Jeff.
“Hey, man, we missed you yesterday,” Jeff called to him cheerfully.
“I had to wait around for the police.”
“Do they seriously consider you a suspect?”
“I seriously don’t know. But I didn’t push Tito off any cliff.”
