“Maybe I can withhold it from him,” Des answered slowly. “If it’s not vital to the investigation, that is.”
He smiled at her. “You’re one of us now, you know that?”
“One of who?”
“A Dorseteer.”
“Let’s not get carried away, doughboy. I said maybe.”
“Sure, sure. Are you getting cold?” he asked, paddling gently to stay afloat.
“A little, but I’m okay. You?”
“I’m fine. This is why I maintain the extra layer of subcutaneous fat.”
“So that’s it.”
“Ab-so-tootly.”
“Mitch, I want you to promise me you’ll never say that word again.”
“Promise,” he said, grinning at her. “Bitsy did tell me one other thing about the Crocketts-they’re so strapped for cash that Martine can’t write a check anywhere in town. Apparently, just to round out the whole bogus illusion, Dodge sucks as a businessman.” He gazed back ashore at Bitsy’s rambling house. There were several lights on upstairs, a porch light downstairs. “She’s real worried about Becca being mixed up with him again. Becca’s fragile and vulnerable, and there’s no way that having some guy stuff your panties in your mouth can be good for your… Oh, hell, never mind.”
“No, it’s okay, baby. What are trying to tell me?”
“I just don’t want to be friends with Dodge anymore, that’s all.”
“I don’t blame you. But what about the Mesmers?”
“I won’t be walking with them again.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch.”
“So am I. That was something I really looked forward to doing every morning. But I can’t now. Not without my skin crawling. Would you believe Will actually defended the guy to me this morning? ‘Don’t judge him,’ is what he said. He and Donna are having some problems of their own, by the way. Donna told me.”
“Since when does Donna Durslag talk to you about her marriage?”
“Since she had one too many margaritas at the beach club.”
“Sounds like maybe she made her a little play for you, too.”
“Jealous?”
“I already told you. I’ll ask the questions, mister.”
“Des, I don’t belong around these people,” Mitch confessed. “I gave it my best shot. I tried to be a normal, socialized member of the species. But if this is what passes for normal-”
“Believe me, Mitch, this is normal. It’s what I deal with every single day of my life.”
“Then I’m proud to be a maladjusted geek who sits in the dark by myself all day, staring at flickering images on a wall.” He reached for her hand in the water and found it and squeezed it. “When do people stop surprising you?”
“They don’t. But the surprise doesn’t always have to be an unpleasant one. In fact, when you least expect it, you might bump right into somebody who just makes you feel good all over.”
“Are you trying to cheer me up?”
“Actually, that was me flirting with you shamelessly. Not very good at it, am I?”
“That all depends-do you put out?”
“Only for a certain glowing gentleman.”
Mitch maneuvered his way over closer to her and planted a salty kiss on her wet, cold mouth. “Am I that gentleman?”
“Could be,” she said, her almond-shaped green eyes glittering at him in the moonlight.
“Then as far as I’m concerned, you flirt great. Care to start back in?”
“Hell, I’ll even race you back to the house.”
“You’re on. Provided you promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Let’s steer clear of the kitchen floor tonight, okay?”
“Not a problem, boyfriend.”
They dashed back in the crisp night air, teeth chattering, and jumped right into a hot shower together, howling and snorting like a couple of rambunctious little kids. After they’d toweled each otherdry they made their way up into Mitch’s sleeping loft, where they forgot about everything and everyone and there was only the two of them and it was wonderful.
They were blissfully asleep at 4:00 a.m. under a blanket and a Clemmie when Des got paged. She started rummaging hurriedly for her clothes as the Westbrook Barracks dispatcher gave her the details over her cell phone.
“Wha’ is it?” Mitch groaned at her after she’d hung up.
She was already lacing up her shoes. Des could get dressed unbelievably fast. It was her four years at West Point. “Night manager of the Yankee Doodle Motor Court just found… There’s a woman dead in the tub with part of her head smashed in.”
Something in her tone of voice set off alarm bells. Mitch swallowed, fully awake now. “Who is it, Des?”
“Baby, it’s Donna Durslag.”
CHAPTER 12
If Dorset possessed what could be truly called a seedy side it was found up Boston Post Road just before the town line for Cardiff, Dorset’s sleepy, landlocked neighbor to the north, which benefited not at all from summer tourism and which elderly locals still called North Dorset, even though it had been a separate town since 1937. Here, just past Gorman’s Orchards, could be found a tattered strip of businesses operating out of wood-framed buildings that had once been residences. If someone needed to have their sofa reupholstered or their unwanted facial hair removed, they came here. Pearl’s World of Wigs, Norm’s Guns, and Shoreline Karate Academy were here. The Rustic Inn, a beer joint popular with the Uncas Lake swamp Yankees, was here.
And so was the Yankee Doodle Motor Court, which was a living relic from the bygone days of drive-in movie theaters and poodle skirts. To the casual passerby, it was a wonder that the decaying little bungalow motel hadn’t been torn down twenty years ago. It had no swimming pool, was not near the beach or the interstate. There was no apparent reason for anyone on earth to stay there-not unless they were terribly lost or desperate.
But Des knew better.
The Yankee Doodle enjoyed a prized niche in Dorset society-it was the place where married people came to mess around. Des had learned early in her career that every town, no matter its size or degree of affluence, had just such a place for illicit trysts. Mostly, what the Yankee Doodle offered couples was privacy. The bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that people driving by on Boston Post Roadcouldn’t see who was parked there. The management was reputed to be very discreet.
She got there in the purplish light of predawn. Danny Rochin, the sallow, unshaven night manager, came right out of the office to greet her wearing a too-large Hawaiian shirt, slacks, and bedroom slippers. He was a stringy, sixtyish swamp Yankee with a jet black Grecian Formula hair job that looked totally unnatural under the courtyard floodlights, especially in contrast with his bushy white eyebrows. They always neglected the eyebrows. Big mistake.
“Is anyone still staying here from last night?” Des asked him as she climbed out of her cruiser.
“No, ma’am, we’re all empty,” he replied, eyes bright with excitement. He was missing a few teeth, and his narrow shoulders were hunched against the morning’s unusual chill. It had dipped down into the forties, which was a shock to the system in July.
“Let’s go have us a look, Danny.”
There was blood. The spread on the double bed was spattered with it. So was the wall behind the bed. So were the shades on the night table lamps. Donna’s wire-rimmed glasses, which lay neatly folded on one of the night tables, were spattered, too. The bed did not appear to have been used. The covers were still crisply folded, and the
