“Okay, let me put it to you this way,” Des persisted. “Who else besides you was aware that Pete had money?”
“You’re merely asking me the same question with different words,” Glynis replied patiently. “We can’t have this conversation. Not until you come back with a signed warrant.”
Des thanked Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux and headed out the door, her head spinning. Because they might be looking at a whole new scenario now. Because that morning’s events may have had squat to do with Poochie’s Gullwing and everything to do with the Can Man. Because if Pete Mosher did have a considerable fortune then it was entirely possible that someone had murdered him for it-and stolen Poochie’s Gullwing to throw them off.
Because it was entirely possible that they had this whole damned thing backwards.
CHAPTER 13
Des was frowning at him as she came through the door of McGee’s Diner in her uniform and Smokey hat. “You okay?” she asked, sliding her slender frame into the booth. “You have a funny look on your face.”
“It’s nothing serious,” Mitch assured her. “My heart just skips a beat every time you walk into a room.”
She drew her breath in, her pale green eyes growing soft. “Mitch, you can’t say such things to me when I’m on duty. My toes get all wiggly and I’m no good to anyone.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said, squeezing her knee underneath the table.
“Sir, that there’s a class-two IPG.” When Des was in uniform she had ironclad rules regarding Inappropriate Public Groping.
“How about we skip lunch and head straight for my palatial island getaway? You can show me your tattoo. I can show you my feather.”
“Baby, I would love nothing better. But I’m up to my eyeballs in a murder.”
In fact, she’d told him she could only give him a few minutes when he’d phoned her to meet him at his favorite greasy spoon. McGee’s was known throughout New England for its fried oysters and its view of Long Island Sound. During the summer, the place was packed with beachgoers. This time of year, it was downright sleepy. A couple of local carpenters were chowing down on cheeseburgers at the counter. Four old geezers were hanging in a booth, nursing cups of coffee and listening to Perry Como on Dick McGee’s cutting edge jukebox.
One of those geezers kept sneaking glances their way. Mitch was used to being stared at whenever he and Des showed up in public together. But this wasn’t the usual look. This was more along the lines of intense nosiness. After all, the critic and the resident trooper had split up-everyone in Dorset knew that. Or thought they did.
Allison Mapes scuffed her way over to their booth with his order, her waitress uniform stretched a bit tight across her generous hips. Justine’s streaky-haired roommate looked a bit on the trashed side today. There were dark circles under her eyes. But she still managed a big smile as she approached. “Here we be, Mr. Movie Guy,” she declared, setting his fried oyster hero down before him. “I slipped a few extra spiral fries on your plate when Dick wasn’t looking.”
Des ordered coffee. Allison nodded curtly, filled her cup, then moseyed off toward the kitchen. Des watched her go, a rather stony expression on her face.
“You’re not eating?” Mitch asked, diving headfirst into his lunch.
“I had a huge breakfast. Besides, you’re already eating for two.”
“Go easy on me, thinnie. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“So you said on the phone. What is up?”
“You first. How’s the case going?”
She told him what she’d learned. That the Can Man had actually been a wealthy eccentric named Peter Mosher. That he, not the Gullwing, may have been the intended target all along.
“So the car theft was like a staged misdirect?”
Des nodded. “To provide cover for the real crime. It’s a theory, anyway.”
“And it jibes with something Bement Widdifield just told me-that Pete wasn’t necessarily killed because of what he saw. It seems that Bement overheard something when he was a little kid. He wouldn’t tell me what.”
“Lot of that going around today. Glynis wouldn’t tell me how much money Pete had or who he left it to. Not until a judge signs off on a warrant.”
“Is that going to happen?” Mitch asked, munching on his sandwich.
“Soave’s on it as we speak. I just hate the waiting, is all.”
“So go at it another way. Reach out to someone who isn’t constrained by official procedure.”
“Such as who?”
“Such as your sweet baboo,” he replied, grinning at her.
“I knew this was where your twisted mind was going. Mitch, you can’t go messing in a murder investigation. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Des, you have to admit that I’ve been of immense help to you in the recent past.”
“What I have to admit is that you’ve almost gotten yourself killed in the recent past. Not to mention me fired off of the job. We are not going to do this again. You are not going to do this. Talk to me about Guy Tolliver. Was he the real deal?”
Mitch popped a fry in his mouth and said, “Sure, Guy Tolliver was a major name back in the Fifties and Sixties. His specialty was slick magazine spreads full of rich, goyish people hanging out at home looking rich and goyish. Actually, he’s kind of retro-chic these days. The style mavens at my paper are ga-ga for him. Why are you asking?”
She told him how Tolly had been relying on the kindness of rich widows like Poochie Vickers for years. And how jewelry and other valuables seemed to disappear whenever he moved on.
“No way!” Mitch erupted excitedly. “This is straight out of EW. Hornung’s The Amateur Cracksman-better known to film-goers as Raffles. Very cool stuff. The 1930 version with Ronald Colman is the best, although the 1940 David Niven isn’t bad. I’ll have to put that on our to-watch list.”
“Mitch, I have to admit something-my own first thought was that Tolly seemed straight out of an old movie. That never used to happen before I met you. I was strictly a reality-based individual. God, how ill is that?”
“I don’t think it’s the least bit ill,” he replied, cramming the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “It’s romantic. Tell me, has Tolly ever been involved in anything violent?”
“No, that part doesn’t sound like him. Mind you, he may keep a partner on the side-someone who plays rougher than he does. I just checked around at our local inns for any stray male guests. No likely candidates in the past few days, which doesn’t necessarily mean-” Her pager started beeping at her. She glanced down at it. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
“I’ll be here,” he promised, smiling contentedly as he watched her stride out the door.
Allison came over to clear his plate and fill his coffee cup. “Kind of surprised to see you and her together again.”
“Don’t believe what you hear. We’re doing fine.”
“Justine told me she thinks you’re cute. Know what I told her? Hands off, I saw you first.”
“If you don’t watch out I’m going to take you seriously one of these days.”
“How about today?” Allison’s eyes gleamed at him invitingly.
Mitch poured cream into his coffee, no longer sure whether she was kidding around or not.
She lingered, a hand on her hip. “Are you just going to leave me hanging? You’re supposed to say, ‘Awesome, Allison, want to get together for a drink?’ ”
“I just told you-I’m still with Des.”
She shrugged her soft shoulders. “Some things I believe. Others I don’t.”
The door opened and Des strode back inside, her Vulcan Death Stare trained directly on them. Allison immediately headed back toward the counter.
Des folded herself back into the booth. “That was Yolie. Crime scene techies found the murder weapon in the woods a hundred feet from Pete’s body.”
“What was it?”
“A two-foot length of one-inch black iron pipe. Pig iron, they call it. Nothing special about it, aside from the
