owed it all to the Can Man. Des would give the man his props. She would find out who killed him. She would.
She paused now to catch her breath and sip some scotch. Step back and take in the entirety of the page. Step back and…
Bounce right off of Bella, who was standing right there behind her in the candlelight, scowling at her. Bella Tillis could be a bit of a jolt at 3 A.M. in her quilted pink bathrobe, hair net and plush, oversized bear-claw slippers.
“Sorry if I woke you, girl,” Des gulped. “My music too loud?”
“No, it’s all of that stomping around. Are you drawing or doing the polka?”
“If you’re going to unleash the inner beast, you’ve got to use your whole body.”
“And does your whole body have to be nine-tenths naked?”
Des looked down at herself, frowning. “I’m dressed.”
“You are not. That T-shirt has so many holes in it your twins are staring right at me. You’re not staging a nutty are you?”
“Everything’s cool, Bella. I’m just feeling the-”
“Wait one second.” Bella shook a stubby finger at her. “You’re stewed, aren’t you? How much have you had to drink?”
“Half of that.” Des nodded toward the scotch on the stand.
“Half of that bottle?”
“No, half of the glass. Which I fully intend to finish.”
“Did you have any dinner?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Come, I’ll make you a sandwich. And, for pity’s sake, will you throw something on? You look like a porn star.”
Des fetched a hoody, still seeing Pete’s long, gaunt face before her eyes. She washed the shiny graphite stick residue from her hands in the kitchen sink while Bella carved breast meat off of the remains of a roast chicken. Bella had visited a friend in New Haven yesterday and brought back a challah from a Jewish bakery. She cut four thick slices, then began slicing up cucumbers, tomatoes and radishes, her chubby hands working with rapid-fire precision.
“Now in the old days back on Nostrand Avenue,” she recalled, slathering the bread with mayonnaise, “you’d go with a generous schmear of schmaltz. Much tastier than mayo. On the down side, you used to keel over dead of a heart attack by age forty-eight. I’ll have milk with mine. Would you pour me a glass, please?”
Des poured each of them a glass and leaned against the fridge, sipping hers.
“I know what you’re afraid of, Desiree,” Bella informed her as she finished assembling their sandwiches.
“And we are now talking about?…”
“Marriage to our Jewish gentleman, of course. Why you won’t say yes.”
Des sighed inwardly. “Okay, what is it that I’m afraid of?”
Bella handed Des her sandwich. “At first, I thought it was that whole independence thing of yours. How you’re in charge of your own life, your own career, your own orgasms-”
“No, the big guy pretty much sees to those.”
“But that’s all bull. Want to know what really scares you?”
Des took a huge, starved bite of her sandwich. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I’m just standing here waiting for you to tell me.”
“That you’re still in love with Brandon.”
Des put the sandwich down on the counter, her appetite instantly gone. “Bella, Brandon came this close to destroying me,” she said softly, her stomach knotting. “It took me so long to get over him, but I did.”
Bella glanced at Des’s discarded sandwich. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure that I love Mitch.”
“And Mitch loves you. Brandon didn’t, you know. Brandon never loved you.” Bella said this with such cold certainty that it was like a hard smack in the face.
Des drew back from her, stunned. “How can you say that to me?”
“I can say it because it’s the truth. Brandon never loved you. If he had, he wouldn’t have broken your heart that way. Desiree, I saw what that man did to you. Trust me, people don’t do that to people who they love.”
Des’s mouth had gone dry, but she did not want to reach for her milk glass. Not the way her hands were shaking. “Girl, I am over Brandon, okay? I do not still love him.”
Bella shrugged her round shoulders. “If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I believe that you want to believe it. I just don’t think it’s true.”
Now was when the phone rang. Des reached for it at once. She was a first responder. Often took emergency calls in the night.
“I’m so sorry to awaken you, dear.” It was Poochie Vickers, sounding utterly cordial and gracious.
“Not a problem. I was still up doing some drawing. Don’t have any news for you, if that’s why you’re calling.”
“It’s not, dear. It’s about Tolly. I can’t seem to find him. The plain truth is he’s gone.”
It took Des thirty minutes to jump into a fresh uniform and drive up to Four Chimneys in the utter blackness of Dorset in the middle of the night, her headlight beams on high and her defroster blasting.
She found Dorset’s first lady seated at the kitchen table before a mug of coffee and a plate of chocolate biscotti. Poochie wore a bulky red turtleneck sweater, painter’s pants and an anxious expression. Bement was seated there with her, his long blond hair uncombed, broad shoulders hunched inside the wool shirt he had on over a T-shirt and sweatpants. The bruise under his left eye was turning a gaudy shade of yellow.
Bailey was helping himself to some kibble before he climbed up onto his window seat cushion and stretched out, groaning like an old man.
“Why don’t you walk me through it, Poochie?” Des suggested as she stood there drinking coffee and stamping the two blocks of ice formerly known as her feet. The kitchen was barely heated. “You said on the phone that you spent the evening with Claudia?”
“I did, yes.” Poochie swiped distractedly at some biscotti crumbs on the table. “Claude asked me over for dinner. The orderliness of cooking is something that calms her. She was terribly upset. Didn’t take my news about Peter at all well.” Poochie glanced over at her grandson, smiling faintly. “I’ve told Bement, too. He’s an adult now, and deserves to know.”
“I’m hearing you already had some ideas about Pete,” Des said to him.
“Sort of,” he grunted.
Poochie seemed taken by surprise. “How?”
“I overheard you and Grandpa talking once. I was hiding. You didn’t know I was there.”
“You don’t still do that, do you?” Poochie demanded. “Tiptoe around trying to catch people doing and saying awful things?”
“No, Nana.”
“Good, because there’s a nasty name for such people. They’re called congressmen.”
“How did Eric take the news?”
“Eric was fine with it,” Poochie answered. “I swear, if it’s not about his animals or his crops, Eric couldn’t care less. But Claude was very angry with me. I tried to explain to her that the secrecy wasn’t my doing. I’d merely been honoring Father’s dying wish.”
“Did she accept that?”
“Eventually,” Poochie said slowly. “Claude’s not a secure person. She needs a good deal of reassurance, and Mark’s not around to provide it anymore.”
“Mr. Tolliver was working in the rose garden yesterday afternoon when I left with Lieutenant Tedone and Sergeant Snipes, is that right?”
“It is. After you’d gone, I called Eric, and he and Danielle met me at Claude’s.” Poochie glanced fondly at her old dog. “Bailey and I strolled over there together.”
“Did you encounter Mr. Tolliver in the rose garden?”
“I saw tools and a tarp. I did not see him. I assumed he was in the shed or somewhere. But really, my mind
