The Blood Red Indian Summer (21 page)

“How did he sound? Was he angry?”

“No, more like he was afraid she’d drown or something.” June’s eyes widened. “Did somebody drown?”

“Nobody drowned. Did you get a look at either of them?”

“No, I was below deck. Just woke up for a second and then went right back to sleep. I’d completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it.”

“June, do you remember if he called her by her name? Or used a term of endearment of any kind?”

June pondered this for a moment. “He called her ‘girl.’”

“Can you tell me anything about his voice?”

“Not really. Just that he sounded … black. Not that I’m trying to racially profile him or anything. It was just the impression I got.”

“Understood. Did you get any kind of impression in regards to his age? Was he young? Educated? Not so educated?”

“I really didn’t get any kind of read on that. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’ve been a huge help, June. Thanks.”

“No problem. And, hey, please thank Mitch, will you?”

“For?…”

“Callie’s been conflicted about some things. She told me he’s been helping her sort them out.”

“That’s my man.”

Des and the Deacon started back across the lawn now toward the patio, where Bonita lay stretched languorously in that lounge chair, her long, lovely legs crossed at the ankles.

“June’s not in some kind of trouble, is he?” she asked them.

“Not at all,” Des assured her. “I was just asking him if he heard a disturbance down on your neighbor’s beach late last night—perhaps two or three o’clock. Were you up that late by any chance?”

“Why, no. That party of theirs was so out of control that I took an Ambien. As soon as you quieted them down, I went to sleep and stayed asleep.”

“And how about your husband?”

“He drank an entire bottle of Scotch and conked out, too.”

“How do you know that?” the Deacon asked her.

Bonita batted her baby blues at him. “How do I know what?”

“That he drank an entire bottle of Scotch and conked out. You just said that you were asleep.”

“Well, I don’t
know
it. But that’s what he does every single night of the year. Why would last night be any different?”

“No reason at all,” he said to her politely. “Lovely home you have here.”

“Why, thank you, Deputy Superintendent Mitry.”

They took the bluestone path back toward her cruiser.

The Deacon was a very patient man. He waited until he got back in the car, closed his door and fastened his seat belt before he turned to Des and said, “How long has that boy been sleeping with his stepmother?”

“You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

“I’d hardly classify that lady as subtle.”

“I’d hardly classify that lady as a lady. Think she took that Ambien?”

“Not a chance,” the Deacon replied. “I don’t think she slept in her own bed either.”

“June told Mitch that it was she who initiated things—for whatever that’s worth. He’s sailing out of here before she gets her nasty on and tells his dad.”

“And this girlfriend, Callie, of his? How much does she know?”

“Poor girl hasn’t got a clue. June wants her to drop out of school and come with him. Mitch is trying to talk her into finishing out the semester first.”

He gazed through the windshield at the Bonds’ picture-postcard home with its multimillion-dollar view of the Sound. “These people make me sick.”

“Welcome to Dorset, Popsy.”

“Get us the hell out of here, Desiree. And don’t you
ever
call me ‘Popsy’ again.”

C
HAPTER
12

“S
O,
B
UCK, WHAT DO
you think about these two crazy kids of ours?”

The icebreaker play. Unreal. His father was actually going for the old icebreaker play. Hell, he’d probably been rehearsing that lame line all day.

“I think,” the Deacon replied slowly, “that we all deserve a chance to be happy in this life. And no one should judge what does or doesn’t make someone else happy.”

“Amen to that, Buck.”

Damned if it didn’t work, too. The two fathers actually clinked glasses over the picnic table and took sips of their Sancerre.

Seventeen minutes. Mitch began to breathe in and out normally for the first time since Des and her steely, six-feet-four-inch ramrod of a father showed up seventeen minutes ago. Seventeen whole minutes of forced small talk, awkward silences and even more awkward silences. There wasn’t a natural ease between the Deacon and Mitch’s incredible shrinking father. The Deacon wasn’t a relaxed or easy man. He’d shown up for dinner wearing a gray flannel suit. Chet had on a madras shirt and a pair of mango-colored Florida slacks snugged up to his sternum. Mitch really wanted to floor it to the Frederick House and nuke his father’s entire wrinkle-free wardrobe. Instead he got busy lighting the grill. Des was inside the house with Ruth fetching some nibblies.

“Sa-weet spot Mitch has here, isn’t it?” Chet said as the two fathers gazed out at the Sound.

“Beautiful sunset tonight, too,” the Deacon observed.

Beautiful and rare. It was a blood red sunset. The western sky was pure crimson and the water had a rosy glow unlike anything Mitch had ever seen before. Meanwhile, from the south, ominous gray storm clouds were rolling in.

Des and Ruth came out of the house now, Ruth carrying a bowl of those healthful unsalted soy nuts that taste remarkably like packing material.

“This sure beats the early bird special at our coffee shop, doesn’t it, Ruthie?” Chet called out to her.

“Yes, it does.”

“I hope I can get our dinner cooked before it starts to rain,” Mitch said, studying the dark clouds.

“It’s not going to rain,” Chet said with total certainty. “It can’t.”

“Why do you say that, Pop?”

“Because the sky’s all red. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ Everyone knows that.”

“The Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, predicted rain.”

“Then the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, is wrong.”

“Not possible. Jim Cantore’s never wrong.”

“Don’t get between Mitch and Jim Cantore,” Des advised Chet. “He has a huge man crush on him.”

“I do not. I just happen to think he’s the greatest weatherman ever.”

Which led to yet another awkward silence. The four of them sat together at the picnic table, Mitch glancing over at Des. She had a slightly panicked expression on her face. And he swore he could hear her stomach churning in the evening quiet.

Happily, the Deacon dove in with an uber-lame icebreaker of his own: “Do you folks enjoy being retired down there in Vero Beach?”

“No, we do not,” Chet replied. “That’s why we’re moving back to New York.”

Mitch stared at him in shock. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Chet beamed at him. “We’re coming back. We’ve been saving the big news for tonight, what with this being a special occasion with special friends. We miss the city. We miss being alive. You know what Vero is? An outpost for a bunch of self-satisfied
schnorrers
who never did a goddamned thing for anybody else their whole lives. And all they do now is
kvetch
about their bunions and their lazy, ungrateful kids. We thought we’d be happy down there. We thought it was time to collect our pensions and take it easy. We were wrong. This whole retirement thing is a crock. If you’re not
doing
something then you’re not alive. Am I right, Ruthie?”

“Absolutely right,” she agreed.

“So
that’s
what these ‘appointments’ have been about?”

Chet nodded. “We’ve been apartment hunting. I don’t think we can swing Manhattan anymore. You’ve got to be some kind of hotshot film critic to do that. But we found a very nice two-bedroom in Jackson Heights yesterday.”

“I have a better idea,” Mitch said. “Why don’t you just stay in my place?”

“Nah. We don’t want to cramp your style.”

“But I’m out here most of the time. Besides, I don’t have any style.”

“We’ve also been talking to people,” Chet went on. “An old pal of mine who’s got pull in the superintendent’s office, the folks at the Teacher’s Union. We’re still sorting out our options. It’s no secret that the city’s hurting for money. But they still need substitutes. And they always need volunteers. If just one kid at Boys and Girls High wants to sit down after school with a math tutor then I’m going to be there for that kid. I don’t care whether they pay me or not. Same goes for Ruthie.” He smiled at her. “Buck, this little lady was school librarian at a middle school in Washington Heights. Latino kids, mostly. English was a second language for a lot of them. She didn’t just check books in and out. She taught hundreds of them how to read those books. Their teachers didn’t have time. Their parents didn’t know how. Ruthie stayed after school with them in that library for hours. Then she’d walk the girls home through the lousiest neighborhoods you ever saw. But no one ever messed with Mrs. Berger. They didn’t dare. There are hard-working people out there, true American success stories, who never would have made it if Ruthie hadn’t been there. And nothing has changed. Those kids still need us. Especially the boys. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” the Deacon said solemnly. “Too many of them are growing up in the street. No family structure or sense of belonging. So they end up in a gang and then we lose them.”

Mitch raised his wine glass to his folks. “Well, I think this is great.”

“Do you really?” Ruth asked, her eyes shining at him.

“Really. It’ll be great to have you back.”

Chet said, “Thanks. And if you feel like baking in the sun with a bunch of boring old people, the condo in Vero Beach is all yours. You, too, Buck. If you and a lady friend are ever looking to get away for a few days.”

The Deacon said nothing to that.

Chet didn’t leave it there. He couldn’t. He was obsessively nosy. Always had been. “Mind if I ask what happened between you and Desiree’s mother?”

“Dad, maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Mitch cautioned over the sound of Des’s churning stomach.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” the Deacon said quietly. “She felt she wanted something else.
Someone
else.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“Three years ago.”

“Have you been dating?”

“Not really.”

“It was a yes or no question, Buck.”

“Then the answer is no.”

“You ought to. We’re not meant to be alone. I know a terrific guidance counselor at Boys and Girls High. Marcia’s a widow of color in her early fifties. Good-looking woman. I talked to her yesterday on the phone.”

“He’s had a crush on her for years,” Ruth said tartly.

“Does Sharon Gless know about this?” Mitch asked.

“Buck, you’re coming into the city and the four of us are having dinner, okay?”

“I’m still recuperating from my bypass surgery,” the Deacon said.

“I know, but you
will
recuperate. And you
will
come to dinner.”

“Go for it, Daddy,” Des said encouragingly.

The Deacon hesitated. “It’s nice of you to offer. I’m just not sure when that will be.”

“Sure, sure. I understand. But I also know this—before long you’ll be back on the job kicking
tuchos
and feeling like a rooster again. Trust me.”

Des stared across the table at Chet with a startled expression on her face. “I just realized something awesome.…”

“Which is what?” Mitch asked her.

“How
you
became
you
.”

Chet let out a laugh. “Who, this freak? We’re nothing alike. All Mitch ever did was watch old movies on TV. He was a walking encyclopedia of film credits by the time he was twelve. Why, I’ll bet he can still tell you … okay, who was the set decorator on
Casablanca
?”

“George James Hopkins,” Mitch answered.

“And the assistant director of …
The Glass Bottom Boat
?”

“Al Jennings. You’re lobbing me nothing but softballs, Pop.” Mitch munched on a handful of flavor-free soy nuts as the blood red sky turned to purple. Dusk was coming fast. “We’re losing our daylight. Would you care to move inside?”

“Maybe we’d better,” Des said. “Sorry it took us so long to get here. We had to make a stop at Justy Bond’s house.”

“Was this about that poor girl who we found?” Ruth asked her.

“Yes, it was.”

Inside the house, Mitch got busy turning on lamps while the others headed for the love seat and overstuffed chairs.

“Mitch told us that she’s pregnant,” Ruth said.

Des nodded. “Someone’s been sexually assaulting her—not that she’ll admit it.”

“They never do. They’re too afraid. Believe me, I had more than my share of them. Nice, studious little thirteen-year-olds with baby bumps out to here. It broke my heart.”

They settled around Mitch’s coffee table. Mitch filled everyone’s glasses. Clemmie checked out the Deacon’s lap and found it very accommodating. He stroked her gently.

“Why were you at Justy Bond’s place?” Mitch asked Des.

“Wanted to find out if June heard anything last night. The
Calliope
’s well within earshot of Tyrone Grantham’s beach.”

Mitch grinned at the Deacon. “So you two are working this case together?”

“There
is
no case,” the Deacon responded, stone-faced.

“June heard a struggle at two, maybe three a.m.,” Des reported. “Someone, presumably Kinitra, splashing around in the water. And a man calling to her. He called her ‘girl.’ June thought he sounded black.”

“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Chet asked her.

Des glanced uncertainly over at Ruth. “Are you sure this is what you want to be talking about?”

“Absolutely. I want to know who did that to her.”

Des took a small sip of her wine. “Tyrone’s wife, Jamella, is pretty much convinced that it was Tyrone.”

“Clarence is right there with her,” Mitch said. “And you can put Rondell on the list, too. He showed up here this afternoon blind drunk. I had to drive him home. Which reminds me—I have a message for you from Chantal. She said to tell you that today was laundry day.”