told me I’d find it too shocking, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think she ought to show it to someone. Get some feedback, advice. What good does it do to stick it in a drawer somewhere? Anyhow, I happened to mention that I was acquainted with a real live New York critic who’s also one heck of a nice-”
“No problem, I’ll be happy to read it.” Mitch was no stranger to encouraging young talent. It was Mitch who’d been the first person on earth to look at Des’s portraits of crime scene victims. Mitch who’d told the wary and vulnerable homicide investigator that she was supremely gifted. “Just tell her to give me a call.”
“No, Justine won’t do that.”
“She have something against phones?”
“No, against asking anyone for help. It’s the Kershaw in her. You’ll have to be the one to reach out. And you’ve got to approach her real careful or she’ll rake you with both claws coming and going.”
“This keeps sounding better and better, Rut.”
The old man’s face dropped. “If you’d rather steer clear, I’ll understand.”
“Did I say that? It’s just going to cost you, that’s all.”
Rut eyed him shrewdly. “Name your price.”
“Are you going to eat that last slice of pizza?”
“You go ahead. You’re still a growing boy.”
“It’s true, I am,” Mitch acknowledged as he dove in.
Rut shuffled the cards and dealt them out, murmuring the count under his breath. Mitch picked up his cards and looked at them. Bupkes, yet again.
“So Des didn’t turn you down, hunh?” Rut sorted through his own hand.
“She’s simply in the process of thinking it over, which is a very healthy thing.”
Rut nodded to himself wisely. “Well, I guess I get it now.”
“You get what?”
“How the word is she’s dumped you. It gives me no pleasure to say this, Mitch, but when a girl tells you she’s ‘thinking it over’ that means ‘Goodbye, Charlie.’ She’s just letting you down easy is all.”
“Des is a woman, not a girl,” Mitch pointed out, chomping on his slice. “We’re both mature adults-or at least one of us is. We love each other very much. And she’s going to say yes. I’m not the least bit worried.”
“Are you sure you asked her right and proper?”
“Of course I did. Why, what do you mean?”
“Well, how did you put it to her?”
“I told her I wanted to get married.”
“Did you show her the ring?”
“What ring?”
“There’s your problem. Go buy her a damned diamond, you cheap bastard.”
“Rut, that’s totally retrosexual. Des doesn’t care about diamonds.”
“Baloney. She may carry a loaded weapon, but she’s still a girl. Woman. Whatever. Deep down, they all want to be romanced. Where did this proposal of yours take place, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“In the hospital.”
“You proposed to her in the hospital? Why the hell did you do that?”
“She’d just been shot.”
Rut let out a short bark of a laugh. “Can’t imagine why the lady said no.”
“She didn’t say no.”
“When you propose to a woman, you take her somewhere romantic. Not a place where they have heart monitors and defribillators.”
Mitch sorted through his cards, mulling this over. Maybe the old guy was on to something. After all, he’d proposed to Maisie on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. And he’d come prepared with a bottle of Yoohoo, two straws and his grandma Thelma’s engagement ring. Maisie was still wearing that ring. He’d buried her with it on her finger. “It’s a complicated situation, Rut,” he said finally.
“While you’re waiting for it to get uncomplicated, are you planning to take your shopping elsewhere?”
“If by that you mean sleep around on her, the answer is no.”
“If you change your mind, my niece, Amy, just split up with her husband. Nice professional girl. A dentist. And lonely as all getout. Not bad looking either. Mind you, she’s not in Des Mitry’s league. But who is?”
Mitch took a sip of his stout. “Honestly? I can’t think of anyone.”
CHAPTER 2
The old tancolored Isuzu Trooper was sitting out in the middle of Duck River Pond with its high beams on when Des hit the brakes on her cruiser and jumped out. She could make out a driver and one passenger still in the vehicle. They were making no apparent effort to get out, meaning they might not be conscious.
Or alive.
A neighbor on McCurdy Road had called 911 at a few minutes past 10 P.M. to report that a car had just crashed through the wooden safety barrier and ended up kersplash in the middle of the pond, which was not quite three feet deep and not quite frozen over. McCurdy was well sanded, but there were still snowbanks along its shoulders. The afternoon sun had melted those some. Possibly, the driver had hit a patch of black ice coming around the bend.
Leaving her own high beams on, Des rolled up her wool uniform trousers, flicked on her flashlight and plunged right in, black laceup boots and all. It had been a hard winter on boots. This would make the fourth pair she’d ruined. As she waded her way out toward the Isuzu, the icy cold water lapped up over her knees, soaking her pants, too.
The Isuzu’s tailpipe was submerged. Its engine had stalled out. The water was up just above the bottom of the doors, but Des was able to muscle the driver’s side door open, the better to be bowled over by the strong odor of liquor inside. Somehow, the electrical system was still operational-and the interior lights came on to reveal Poochie Vickers, Dorset’s reigning whitehaired aristocrat, seated there calmly behind the wheel, gazing straight ahead as if she were waiting for a traffic light to change. Her companion, an exceedingly gay old blade by the name of Guy Tolliver, was doing the very same thing. Both had their seat belts on. Neither seemed the slightest bit aware that they were sitting out in the middle of Duck River Pond.
An aging, whitemuzzled golden retriever woofed at Des in greeting from behind the back seat, its tail thumping.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Vickers?” Des called out, her teeth starting to chatter.
“Hullo, Des!” Poochie exclaimed cheerily. “How’s the drawing coming?”
“Just fine, ma’am. Are… you… okay?”
“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Shush, Bailey,” she commanded the old dog, who obeyed immediately.
Slowly, Guy Tolliver was becoming aware of the several inches of water sloshing around at their feet. “Poochie, we appear to be somewhat wet.”
Clearly, they’d been drinking. But Des was aware that more could be going on here. They could have suffered head injuries, or be in shock. Plus Poochie was over seventy. When a driver her age has a onecar mishap, a stroke can’t be ruled out. Des shined her light into the old woman’s eyes. They were bright blue and plenty responsive. “Do you know where you are?”
“Of course I do. I’m on my way home from the club. Tolly and I were playing bridge. What is it you want, dear?”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Not nearly enough,” Poochie answered airily.
The other emergency response vehicles began pulling up now, red lights flashing. Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van, which was staffed by Marge and Mary Jewett, two nononsense sisters in their fifties. The big red fire truck, which was manned by four sturdy young volunteer firefighters in big yellow hats, yellow coats and black rubber hip waders.
