Murder in Pastel (6 page)

“Shit.” He clambered back to his feet. Feeling his forehead, he brought fingers away bloody. “Shit, Kyle. I wasn’t going to rape you.”

I stared at his red fingers; at the scrape on his forehead. My mouth opened.

“I’m…sorry,” I managed at last. I couldn’t remember ever drawing blood from anyone before. No schoolyard rumbles for me. No siblings to battle with. A nonviolent childhood. Maybe that was why I took to writing mysteries. A passive-aggressive thing.

Brett laughed at my expression, leaned in and kissed me again. This time I didn’t object. He tasted smoky-sweet. “Don’t look so scared. It’s not the first time I’ve been beaten up. Adam has a mean left hook.”

My eyes jerked up to his. “Yeah, right.”

His expression was enigmatic. “There’s a lot about Adam you don’t know, Kyle.”

I shrugged.

He reached out to lightly stroke my face. I turned my head. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“We can change that anytime you like.”

The knee-jerk seduction routine was getting old fast. I said irritably, “What, is it like an issue with you? Do you have to make it with every guy you meet?”

To my surprise he chuckled. “You underestimate yourself, Kylie.”

There didn’t seem to be a lot to say as we walked back to the bonfire. I could see the beach blanket party had livened up in our absence. Vince and Jen were laughing together at Joel and one of his involved ghost stories. Micky was eating a hot dog. As we shuffled up through the sand, Adam set down his beer bottle.

“What happened to you?” he asked Brett.

Brett dabbed at his temple again. “I fell. On the rocks.”

“Poetic justice,” someone commented. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Joel.

We settled down by the fire. Someone passed me a hot dog and a plate of potato salad and baked beans. I could feel Adam’s eyes on me but when I looked up, he was staring at Brett.

Studying the circle of fire-lit faces, I remembered that these were people I’d known for years, all my life in the case of Joel and Micky. Tonight I felt that they were strangers. And it was Brett’s presence that had triggered this transformation.

I don’t recall who suggested a moonlight swim. It might even have been Brett. He was certainly the one who pushed for it, egging everyone on, and at last turning to me. Tugging my hands, he tried to pull me up out of the sand.

“Come on, Kylie. Let’s go skinny dipping.”

“Maybe later.”

He was beautiful in the moonlight, bringing to mind those Hermann Liemann neoclassic photographs of sandaled young men brandishing swords. I didn’t know where to look. Not everyone was as beautiful naked—in fact, no one was. But a lot of drinks helped them get over it.

“Fuck. You’re an old man!”

Brett gave up on me, and darted ahead, plunging into the waves. The others were right behind him in various stages of undress.

I stood, tugged my sweatshirt over my head. Put my hands on my belt buckle. With sudden clarity I wondered what I was trying to prove. I’d just eaten. It was cold. My bare skin was breaking out in goose bumps as the wind off the water hit it. The blue-black water was rough, sweeping in on the incoming tide. Who was I trying to impress? And how impressive would it look keeling over in cardiac arrest?

Reaching down, I shook the sand out of my sweatshirt and pulled it back on. Adam still sat on the log drinking beer.

“You’re not going in?” I asked, dropping down beside him.

“No.” Curt.

Was Adam always the designated driver?

Silently, we sat watching the others scream and frolic in the inky waves, their bodies alabaster in the moonlight, reminding me of those stark black-and-white woodblocks Gauguin did in Tahiti.

Adam smelled like almond soap and sunscreen. He smelled warm and familiar, although at the edge of my vision his outline—lean, hard, smooth-shaven and close-cropped—was suddenly alien.

His shoulder brushed mine as he leaned forward toward the tub of ice. “Want another beer?” he asked.

“No. Thanks.”

For the first time in my life I had nothing to say to him. It was weird and a little sad.

“Everything okay, Kyle?” Adam’s abrupt voice cut into my thoughts.

“Yeah, why?”

I flicked a look his way. He was staring into the fire, half his face in shadow. “You seem…distant. Have I done something to offend you?”

“Of course not.”

Hesitation. Then he said colorlessly, “Has Brett done something?”

“Huh? No.” I heard the nervousness in my voice. Adam stared at me. I said, “I just—I’m preoccupied, that’s all. The book I’m working on.”

“Because if I’ve done anything or said anything that…hurt you…”

“No.”
I jumped up, pacing. “No, Adam. I said no. Let it go.”

Kyle, Ace of Spies.

“Okay,” Adam said evenly, after a pause.

After that there really was nothing to say. I walked out a way from the fire, my shadow exaggeratedly long and sinister across the bleached sand. Adam continued to drink, gazing out at the ocean.

“Do you see Brett?” he questioned suddenly.

I scanned the waves. “No.”

He rose, striding toward the water’s edge. At the same time there was a yell for help, half-strangled.

The swimmers closest in, Micky and Vince, turned. A wave knocked Micky to her knees and Vince splashed back to drag her up.

I couldn’t see who was further out, only pale bobbing shapes cresting the rolling black peaks.

“Adam,
help!
” That ghostly cry was Brett, his voice choked off as he went under a second time. By then Adam had kicked his shoes off and was running for the water.

I ran after, stopping only to remove my own shoes. The others were calling out “What’s happening? Who is it? Is it Brett?”

Adam plunged into the water and disappeared.

Wading out to my waist, I stood beside Vince who said grimly, “I told him not to swim so far out.”

“Where are they? Can you see them?” Micky demanded from the other side of Vince. “It’s as black as pitch out there.”

“Where the hell’s Jenny?” Vince questioned suddenly. He waded out hollering for Jenny.

She answered distantly. I saw her white face materialize a few yards down.

“Do you see them?” Micky asked me, moving in. Her teeth were chattering.

“No.” My eyes strained to see. The surf was deafening, the moonlight deceptive. A piece of wood looked like a body tumbling over and over in the surf.

“There!” Micky grabbed my arm.

“No, look!” I pointed the other direction.

“Oh, thank God. Is it both of them?”

“I can’t tell.” I could discern Adam. It looked like he had his arm locked around Brett’s shoulders as he struck out toward the shore. “Yes, he’s got him.”

Lunging through the water to meet Adam halfway, I draped Brett’s other arm over my shoulders. Between us we half dragged, half carried him up to the beach and dropped him in the sand.

Adam rolled Brett onto his side and proceeded to empty water out of him like an old-fashioned pump. I knelt at Brett’s feet as the others grouped round, hushed. I was conscious of my soaked, stiff Levi’s and the wind biting through my clammy T-shirt. My hair dripped down my nose, an annoying distraction to the drama before me.

Brett started to come around, choking and coughing even before Adam eased him onto his back. His eyes flew open and he gazed up at the circle around him.

“Brett, are you okay?” Adam urged.

Brett stared blankly and suddenly jack-knifed up, clutching Adam who locked his arms around him.

I didn’t hear what he said, distracted by the pain of watching them, but I felt the shock wave that rippled through the ring around us.

“What?” Adam demanded.

Brett pushed back in his arms. “I said, someone tried to kill me! Someone grabbed my feet and pulled me under. Someone tried to drown me!”

There were assorted gasps and gurgles before Micky said harshly, “He’s in shock. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“You must have caught your foot in some rocks,” Adam said.

Brett scrubbed his wet face. “There aren’t any rocks that far out. You think I don’t know the difference between rocks and hands!”

“What’s going on?” Joel inquired, coming up behind us.

“Brett swam out too far,” Jen said. “Now he claims someone tried to kill him.”

Everyone began to talk at once. Brett clutched at Adam and spoke tensely, his profile pale and saint-like in the moonlight. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Adam was frowning.

“Okay, lover, calm down,” he said finally. “Let’s get you home and warm.”

He helped Brett stand. Hastily everyone gathered their belongings. Joel dumped the ice from the metal tub into the fire and kicked sand over it. There was a strange hush as we packed up. I think we all tried not to watch the lumbering two-headed figure of Adam guiding Brett up the cliff.

“He’s lying,” Jen said finally.

No one replied.

When I got back to my cottage, I followed a scalding shower with a cup of chamomile tea, and wrapped myself in the heavy terry robe I usually saved for cold winter mornings.

The light on my answering machine was blinking. I pressed Play. Brett’s hoarse voice filled the room.

“You and Adam screwed up your big chance to be together.” Raspy laughter. “Meet me tomorrow for breakfast. I’ve got something to show you.”

* * * * *

That morning I could hear the music clear across the meadow as I started over to meet Brett: Sonny Stitt playing “Bebop in Pastel.”

He was kicked back on the verandah, wearing side-split denim short-shorts and a pink polo. The guy didn’t have an ugly bone in his body: elbows, knees, ankles—every inch of him was brown and smooth and polished.

“Adam drove into town, so we won’t be interrupted.” He poured juice out of a jug and shoved a basket of croissants my way.

I took a sip of juice and felt my eyebrows shoot up. “What is this?”

“Mimosa.” He rolled his eyes at my ignorance. “Orange juice and champagne.”

“Three parts champagne. I have to work today.”

“Oh, lighten up. You sound like Adam. Look.” He set one bare brown foot on the tabletop, clattering the gleaming porcelain dishes.

There were ugly purple bruises around his ankle.

“Someone did try to drown you last night.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Did you think I was making it up? I’m not talking about the damn bruises. Notice anything else?”

He was wearing an anklet, gold links intertwined with pink-gold grape leaves. It was pretty and unusual, but hardly worth getting together over breakfast. “The ankle bracelet?” I asked doubtfully.

“Recognize it?”

“Should I?”

Brett stared at me with eyes as hard and green as jade. He seemed intent on my reaction.

“Sure you don’t recognize it?”

I shrugged. “No. Did Adam give it to you?”

“Adam?” He snickered. “You think Adam’s an ankle bracelet kind of guy?” He swung his leg off the table and leaned back in his chair. He lit a cigarette. “So…since you don’t want to get it on with me, how about a three-way? You, me and Adam? Adam digs that.”

I tore open a croissant, and slathered it with the butter melting in the sun. “No, thanks.”

“‘No thanks!’” Brett mocked. “Talk about Virgin in Pastel. No wonder you never got anywhere with Adam. I was thirteen my first time. One of my dear old foster dads obliged.” He laughed at my face. “Sorry. Ancient history.”

I made an effort and swallowed the wad of dough and butter.

He propped his chin on his hand and said slyly, “I bet you would have offered your ass up without a murmur if it had been Adam last night. Wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“You’re only kidding yourself, Kyle.” He poured me more spiked OJ, ignoring my feeble protests.

“Sit tight. I want to show you something else.”

Oh goody.

He was back in a moment carrying a book. He opened the book and a folded square of thin drawing paper glided to a stop on the table. I picked up the yellowed paper, unfolded it. Two pieces of paper, actually. I studied them, my throat knotting.

The first showed a boy of sixteen sleeping in the grass; a graceful sprawl of long limbs, angular features, tumbled hair. There was a good deal of tenderness in the portrayal of a too-thin, too-sensitive face relaxed and dreaming.

The second sketch was a head study. Same youth: wide eyes and childish mouth; the hollows and delicate bone structure of a child who had been ill a long time and was still fragile. Moreover, it was the face of someone in love as only an adolescent can be, intensely and vulnerably.

Brett chuckled at whatever he read in my face. I refolded the sketches and tucked them back in the book, which I handed to Brett. He tossed it aside onto one of the faded flowered cushions.

“You were a cute kid,” he remarked.

“That was the summer I got sick. Rheumatic fever.”

“Which left you with a weak heart.”

“It was the summer my father disappeared.”

“What I Did on My Summer Vacation,” quipped Brett. “So how come they didn’t stick you in some juvey facility?”

“No one realized Cosmo was gone for good till about eighteen months had passed. By then I was packing for college, so no one bothered. It’s different in a small community. I had plenty of surrogate parents: Micky, Joel—my grandfather, if I’d needed him, I suppose.”

“I’d prefer juvey.”

I believed him. “You really hate this place, don’t you?”

“The scenery’s nice. It’s the people I loathe.” He granted me one of those blinding smiles. “Present company excepted.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Still, the place has its amusements.”

“Such as pulling the wings off Vince Berkowitz?”

Another grin.

“Do you care about Adam at all?” I really needed to know.

He shrugged. “More than I’ve ever cared for anyone else.”

What did that mean? In the bright sunlight he looked haggard. A foreshadowing of what he’d look like in ten years when the drinking, the one-night stands and the rest of it caught up.

“Don’t worry about Adam,” he advised. “He knows exactly who I am. Adam needs to be needed. It’s his frustrated maternal instinct.”