The Blood Red Indian Summer (7 page)

Clarence stepped in front of the girl and began to tickle her playfully. “
Hey
, Monique.”

She giggled. “
Hey
, Cee.”

“Leave her alone, Cee,” Chantal ordered him.

“I’m just funning with her.” Clarence tickled the girl some more. “She don’t mind, do you, Monique?”

Des heard a strange noise next to her. Turned to discover it was the sound of Tyrone Grantham breathing in and out very hard and very fast. A vein was throbbing in his forehead. “Don’t you disrespect my mother!” he roared at Clarence, his eyes bulging with fury. “Don’t
ever
do that!”

In all of her years of law enforcement Des had never seen a man flare so hot so fast.

Clarence backed down at once, cowed by fear. “I-I didn’t mean nothing, cuz. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to
me
! Apologize to
Moms
!”

“Sure, sure…” Clarence moistened his lips with his tongue. “Sorry, Moms.”

“It’s okay, Clarence,” she assured him.

And with that Tyrone relaxed instantly. Seemingly, the man was an emotional roller coaster. His gaze fell on Des now. He seemed to be measuring her. “You have family?”

“I’m an only child. My mom lives in Georgia. My dad’s with me right now. He just had some surgery.”

He processed her answer carefully, nodding his shaved head. “You’re taking care of him?”

“Just until he gets back on his feet.”

“That says a lot about you. Your folks must be real proud of you.”

“I’m proud of both of my sons,” Chantal pointed out. “They’ve come
so
far. You got yourself a man, Trooper Mitry?”

“Of course she does, Moms. She goes with that movie critic’s on the TV all of the time. Jewish guy with those funny eyebrows.”

“Wait, she
who
?” Clarence was aghast. “Why you want to be doing that for when there’s a fine available brother right here?”

Tyrone let out a laugh. “Give it up, Cee. She’s too smart for you.”

The patio door opened now and a middle-aged black man stood there gaping at Des in horror. Or, more specifically, at her uniform. He was quick to recover, grinning as he strolled on in. But he was too late. Des already smelled yard on him.

“Trooper Mitry, this here’s my father-in-law, Calvin Jameson,” Tyrone said. “He came up from Houston as soon as Jamella got pregnant. Lived with us in Glen Cove over the summer. Now he’s staying out in the pool house.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” said Calvin, who was in his late forties or early fifties. Hard to tell exactly because he dyed his hair an inky black. And wore a half-jar of pomade in it. He was a bit of a peacock. The sports shirt and slacks he had on were loud and louder. His cowboy boots were snakeskin. He was not very tall. And he was for sure not very fit. His gut hung way out over the waistband. He fetched himself a can of Bud from the fridge, popped it open and took a long drink, smacking his lips. “You get my smokes, Chantal?”

“Get your own damned smokes,” she responded, her face tightening.

“Chantal, why you all of the time got to be busting on me?”

“Because you’re no good freeloading trash. Don’t do nothing all day but sit around drinking beer and watching porn.”

Calvin shook his head at her. “Can’t we just get along?”

“I don’t get along with punks.”

“I’m no punk. I’m a grown man with two grown daughters.”

“You’re still a punk.” Chantal turned her attention back to Des. “I hope you’ll watch out for my Tyrone. The people don’t like him, you know.”

“Which people?” Des asked her.

“I worry about him day and night. Pray to the good Lord that no harm will come to him.”

Des glanced at Tyrone. “Have there been any incidents or threats I should know about?”

“Not a thing,” Rondell interjected. “We’re fine.”

“Moms is just being Moms,” Tyrone agreed. “Pay no attention.”

“No,
pay
attention! I ain’t no crazy person. I know what I know.” Chantal reached over and clutched Des by the wrist. She had a powerful grip. “I have nightmares every night. Keep dreaming that something awful’s about to happen.”

“Lighten up, Moms,” Tyrone said. “You’re freaking everybody out.”

“Do you keep any weapons in your home?” Des asked him.

“I have a Glock 19 for my personal protection. It’s the preferred pistol of the NYPD. I’ve got a permit for it.”

“In Connecticut?”

His face dropped. “New York. Why, is that a problem?”

“Now that you’ve established your residency here you’ll want to swing by Dorset Town Hall and apply for a local pistol permit. Once you get that you can apply for one from the state—if you want to be in complete compliance, I mean.”

“Oh, he does,” Rondell assured her. “Absolutely.”

“Are there any other weapons around?”

“No, ma’am,” said Clarence, who would not go down in history as one of the world’s great liars.

Chantal still had not let go of Des’s wrist. Des’s fingers were getting numb. “
Promise
me you’ll watch out for my boy!”

“There won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Grantham. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Des smiled at her reassuringly. “And it just so happens that I do.”

C
HAPTER
4

B
OND’S
A
UTO
M
ALL, THE
state’s highest volume General Motors dealership—“
Just ask Justy!
”—was a mammoth cluster of airplane hangar-sized showrooms surrounded by acres and acres of sleek, shiny new cars and trucks. Mitch felt like a member of the Joad family when he pulled in there in his old Studey. Everywhere he looked rows of digital-age rides were gleaming in the Indian Summer sun. American rides, Japanese, German, Swedish—you could find pretty much anything at Bond’s Auto Mall.

Except for customers. Mitch didn’t see a living soul anywhere.

His cell phone rang as he was parking.

“Hey, hey, Boo Boo!” a familiar voice hollered in his ear. “I tried you at home. You weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I’m out running errands, Pop. What’s going on?”

“Wanted to let you know we’re all set to head out there tomorrow. I’m picking up our rental car this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you just take the train out? I can pick you up at the station and drive you to your bed and breakfast.”

“Nah, we like to come and go as we please. Do you mind if we get an early start in the morning? I’d like to beat the traffic.”

“Not a problem. I’m always up early.” Mitch reached across the seat for the open bag of Utz potato chips and stuffed a generous handful in his mouth. “How did your appointments go?”

“My what?”

“You said you had appointments.”

His father fell silent. Which was
not
like him. “We can talk about it when we get there. We … have a lot to talk about.”

“Sure thing, Pop,” Mitch responded, feeling his chest tighten as he hung up.
Grapefruit-sized tumor
. There was now zero doubt in his mind that he’d be hearing those words tomorrow. The only question was which one of them had it.

He calmed himself, or tried, and went looking for June Bond. Tried two different showrooms but couldn’t locate anyone. Not only were there no customers but every salesman’s cubicle was empty, too. Mitch was beginning to think he’d wandered into an old episode of
The Twilight Zone
when he finally spotted a young janitor vacuuming the office rugs in the third showroom he tried. As Mitch approached him he realized that the young janitor was June.

The heir to Bond’s Auto Mall was quick to notice him. It was awful hard to miss another warm body in that barren wasteland. June shut off the vacuum and loped across the showroom toward Mitch, looking super-preppy in his polo shirt, khakis and Top-Siders. “Hey, good to see you, bro,” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid I have to do a little bit of everything around here these days. People just aren’t buying cars. Plus this isn’t your father’s GM, Mitch. We’re staring at a future without Saturn, Olds, Pontiac
and
Hummer. We’ve shrunk our full-time sales and office staff, laid off mechanics. We used to have a custodial crew come in every night to tidy up. Now guess who we have?”

“That would be you?”

“Ka-ching.” June was acting very upbeat about it. And yet, Mitch noticed, he had dark worry circles under his eyes. “What can I do for you? Don’t tell me you’re finally giving up on your Studey.”

“Not a chance,” Mitch said as June’s father, Justy, came strutting into the showroom from the service department. He went into a glassed-in office, sat behind the desk and got busy on the telephone, watching the two of them intently through the glass. “I ran into Callie this morning. She seemed kind of upset.”

June eyed him curiously. “She sent you here?”

“Callie has no idea I’m here.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because she told me you want to take off on the
Calliope
right away. And want her to quit the academy and come with you. And that it’s all real sudden and urgent and she doesn’t know why.”

June ran a hand through his mop of hair, swallowing. “It’s not something I can talk to her about.”

“Why not?”

“Because she won’t understand. Listen, I can talk to you, right? You won’t go running back to Callie with every word I say, will you?”

“Whatever you tell me stays between us. Scout’s honor.”

June glanced over in the direction of his father’s office. “We’d better make this look like a work thing.” He fished around in the pocket of his khakis for a set of keys. “Come on, let’s take a Silverado out for a test drive.” He led Mitch out the door and across an acre of pavement toward a row of huge, shiny new Chevy pickups. “If you actually
are
interested in a new truck we’re practically giving them away right now. Factory incentives up the wazoo.”

“I’m pretty attached to my Studey.”

“Sure, I understand. Can’t say I blame you.”

“Not exactly Mister Hard Sell, are you?”

“I’m not Mister
Sell
, period. I hate trying to convince people to buy something that they truly don’t need. At least half of our new car and truck sales are to customers who already own perfectly serviceable vehicles. But thanks to Madison Avenue they get it into their heads that they need, need, need to trade up. It’s totally insane.”

“You’d better not let your dad hear you talk like that. You’re spouting pure blasphemy.”

“Believe me, I’ve done much worse.” June came to a halt before a shiny blue behemoth. “He’s watching us through the showroom window right now. Pretend you’re interested in my spiel, okay? This here’s your new Silverado 2500 HD. It’s got a choice of a Duramax 6.6 liter turbo-diesel or your standard 360 horsepower Vortec 6.0 liter V-8. It has a six-speed automatic transmission, four-wheel anti-lock brakes, air bags…”

“Nice color,” Mitch offered encouragingly. It was all he could think of.

“That’s the Imperial Blue metallic finish. The interior’s light titanium with dark titanium accents.” June swung the driver’s door open for him. “Hop in.”

Mitch climbed in behind the wheel. The cab’s interior was as cushy and carpeted as somebody’s living room. And the wood-trimmed dashboard was so loaded with high-tech controls that it made his bare bones Studey look like a museum piece.

“You’ve got cup holders here, here, here and here,” June said, climbing in next to him. “This right here controls your air conditioning.…”

“Wow, it has air conditioning?”

“And this is your heat.…”

“Wow, it has heat?”

“This particular model has an MP3-compatible CD player, XM radio, a USB port, Bluetooth and the OnStar Safe and Sound plan.”

“June, this truck is better equipped than my house.”

“If you opt for the crew cab you can just roll out your sleeping bag in the backseat and you’re home.” June’s face fell. “God, I truly suck at this, don’t I?”

“You’re doing fine. But it helps if you believe in the product you’re selling.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He handed Mitch the keys. “Let’s ride.”

Mitch started the engine and steered them out of the Auto Mall in quiet, air-conditioned comfort. The truck drove like a luxury sedan. He couldn’t imagine taking it to the town dump with a load of brush.

“My dad will do anything to make a sale,” June informed him. “He has no scruples, no conscience and
no
patience with me. He thinks I’m soft.”

“And what do
you
think?”

“That I like to fix up old sailboats. I think I can make a living at it if I move someplace where people sail all year round.”

“Someplace that also happens to be far from your dad?”

“Well, yeah. That, too.”

Mitch took the on-ramp to Route 9 and punched the accelerator. The truck was so powerful that he was cruising the highway at eighty before he realized it. A far cry from his Studey, which started to shake, rattle and roll if he tried to push it past fifty-five. He eased off the gas and said, “What happened, June?”

“Something truly horrible,” June confessed miserably. “Callie … stays over with me a lot, okay? That’s one thing my dad’s cool about. He doesn’t mind her spending the night. Sometimes, she stays until morning. Sometimes, she goes home after I fall asleep and paints for hours. A few nights ago we had the place to ourselves for the evening. Dad and Bonita were at the club with some friends getting drunk. I picked up a pizza. We smoked a joint, watched some totally lame movie and—”

“Wait, which totally lame movie?”

“Uh,
Pineapple Express
with Seth Rogen and James Franco.”

“You’re telling me you were stoned and yet you still didn’t find it funny?”

“Not really. Why does that even matter?”

“It doesn’t. You’re just in my wheelhouse is all. Go on.…”

“We started, you know, getting busy on the sofa. Then went up to my room and made love. I dozed off after that. I don’t know how many hours later it was when Callie woke me up to make love again. She was totally on fire. And pretty soon I was, too. It had never, ever been like that with us before. We’d always been real gentle and loving. This was just
wild
. And it was all over so fast that, well, it didn’t hit me until it was too late.”