The Cold Blue Blood (20 page)

A serene glow came over Jamie’s face as he hunched there in his life jacket, hand on the tiller. “This is the best time to come out,” he said. “You almost always get a breeze.”

“I guess I can see why you left Los Angeles.”

“I never left, Mitch. My body is here, but my mind is still there. And it always will be.” Jamie had brought along a boombox. He reached down and flicked it on. Now they were cutting through the water to the sounds of “I’m a Believer,” by The Monkees.

“Jaymo, do we
have
to listen to your oldies crap?” Evan objected.

“That’s the best thing
about
crap, my young friend. It never goes out of style.” To Mitch, Jamie said, “Did you know that they went with Mickey Dolenz over me at the very last minute?”

“No, I did not.”

“It’s the absolute truth. I had the part. They
told
me I had it—for twenty-four blissful hours I was actually a Monkee. And then, just like that, I wasn’t. They wanted a new face, was what my agent said. God, I was bitter. It is not easy to be told you’re an
old
face when you still can’t buy a drink or vote. I was washed up at twenty, Mitch. When I didn’t get The Monkees—that’s when I knew.” He let out a heavy sigh. “That’s also when I started getting heavily into drugs.”

They seemed to be slowing a little now. Evan took over the tiller from Jamie, but to no avail. “The wind’s shifting,” Evan said. “Let’s come about.” He immediately started busying himself with the lines.

“What do I do?” Mitch asked.

“You duck,” Jamie ordered sharply.

Mitch did—just as the boom swung directly over his head.

Soon, they were zipping through the water again.

They were approaching a tiny speck of an island—not much more than a heap of rocks with a light tower on it. Cormorants perched on the tower. There was a crude dock. Jamie steered them directly for it, nudging the sailboat up gently next to the piling. Evan hopped out and tied them to it. Mitch hopped out as well, grateful to have something firm under his feet again.

“Do they mind people docking out here?” he asked Evan.

“Does who mind, Mitch?”

“Whoever owns it.”

“I own it,” Evan said modestly. “This is Little Sister. It became mine when I turned twenty-one.” He glanced around at it a moment, hands on his slim hips. “We camp out here fairly often. Sleep under the stars. It’s just incredibly peaceful. I’d love to build a cabin out here someday.”

They had brought a portable barbeque to grill on. Evan got busy lighting the coals while Jamie uncorked a cold bottle of Sancerre and poured three glasses.

After he had handed them around Jamie lit a cigarette and stretched out on the dock, watching his young lover with a mixture of affection and apprehension. “You may as well know, Mitch, that Evan and I have been spatting. He wasn’t planning to go to Seymour’s funeral. I told him it was fine by me, since
I’m
not planning to go. Only now he’s decided he
will
go, out of respect for Dolly. I think he’s being a complete hypocrite. What do you think?”

Mostly, Mitch thought that he did not want to get caught in the middle. “How did you feel about your stepfather?” he asked Evan.

“First of all, I didn’t consider him my stepfather,” Evan replied angrily. “Just some low-life sleaze she was living with. I honestly don’t understand why she married him.”

“Possibly, he was exceedingly well hung,” Jamie suggested.

“Jaymo, that’s my mother you’re talking about,” Evan said indignantly.

“I know, but she
is
something of a cunning little user, our Dolly,” Jamie observed, puffing on his cigarette. “That helpless act of hers, designed to make every man she meets go four paws up. It amazes me it works. But it
does
work. Why, I’ll bet she’s even hit on our young friend here.”

“Not really. All she’s done is ask me to open her pimientos for her.”

Jamie let out a huge guffaw. “Let me guess—she was wearing something low-cut at the time. Am I right?”

He was, but Mitch didn’t feel like touching that one in front of Evan. He sat there perched on a rock, sipping his wine and wondering if Jamie was on to something.
Was
Dolly a scheming manipulator? She certainly did have Bud jumping through flaming hoops for her. Maybe she had persuaded him to raid those accounts for her. Maybe that wasn’t all she’d persuaded him to do. Maybe he had killed for her.

“So spill, you tight-lipped cipher,” Jamie commanded Mitch. “What did Lieutenant Mitry say? Whom does she suspect? Dish, damn it.”

“Well, there’s a third victim. Same gun. Her name was Torry Mordarksi.”

“My God,” Evan gasped.

Mitch looked at him in surprise. “You knew her?”

“No, no.” Evan came over with the wine and refilled their glasses. “But I do remember her murder—it was on the news a few weeks ago. She was real pretty and she had a nice little boy who she was raising by herself. I just thought it was so sad.”

“Where did this one happen?” Jamie asked.

“They found her body in the woods somewhere near Meriden,” Evan replied.

Jamie stiffened. “No way. Niles bragged to me once that he had a girlfriend up in Meriden …”

“He did?” said Evan. “You never told me that.”

“He even went into graphic detail about how she used to suck on his dick,” Jamie went on, his voice rising angrily. “The crude, homophobic bastard wanted to know if I thought a man could ever be as good at it as a woman.” He stubbed out his cigarette, glancing at Evan. “I didn’t say anything to you about it because I thought you’d get upset.”

“Does the lieutenant know about this?” Mitch broke in.

“Absolutely,” Jamie replied. “I told her sergeant person, that short one with the muscles and the fuzzy lip.”

“And … ?”

“He didn’t react one bit. But they never do, do they?” Jamie’s eyes gleamed at Mitch intently now. “Let’s not kid each other, Mitch. Does she suspect either one of us?”

Mitch sipped his wine uneasily. It had just occurred to him, with a sinking feeling, that he had not been very smart. Here he was, alone on this deserted island with two of the prime suspects. No one knew they were out here together. If they were to murder him and dump his body overboard into the Sound not a soul would ever know. “She knows that you disliked him. But she gave me no indication that you were at the top of her list.”

Jamie said, “If Bud Havenhurst had one ounce of nerve he’d be her most logical suspect. Hell, he had more reason than any of us to despise Niles. But I just can’t imagine him killing anyone. He hasn’t the
cojones
.”

Evan poked at the coals. Judged them ready. Put the tuna steaks on the grill, where they immediately began to sizzle. “I agree. Mandy is way more the type. Hot-blooded. High-strung. Tough as nails.”

“Okay, what if Mandy was boinking Niles on the side,” Jamie speculated aloud. “And when she found out that he was two-timing her with Torry, she killed them both.”

“But what about Weems?” Evan wondered. “Why’d she kill Tuck?”

“He found out,” Jamie answered. “Saw her burying the body in the garden.”

“
Why
bury it in the garden?” Evan persisted.

Jamie had no answer to that one. Stymied, he turned to Mitch.

“Clearly, whoever did it assumed that it
wouldn’t
be dug up,” Mitch said. “My being there was not part of the original equation. But I do have to admit that the same question has occurred to me. Why the garden? Why not dump Niles out in the Sound somewhere?”

“Bodies have a way of washing ashore,” Jamie pointed out.

“Okay, then why not bury him in the woods?”

“Couldn’t take the chance of transporting him,” Jamie suggested. “He was buried in the garden because he was
shot
near the garden. Must be.”

“Suggesting he was killed in Dolly’s house,” Mitch mused aloud. “Or in her barn.”

“Or in your carriage house,” Evan added.

Mitch fell silent. That was not a thought he wanted to dwell upon.

“Surely the lieutenant must have
someone
in mind,” Jamie said to him.

“Judging by the direction her questions were taking,” Mitch said, “it would seem that her leading candidate is Dolly.”

“Not a chance,” Evan said. “My mother is not capable of doing that.”

“No one is, my boy,” Jamie said darkly. “Until they do it. Me, I keep thinking about Red.”

“What about Red?” asked Mitch.

“He logs four flights a month, right? That means he’s
gone
four days a week, every week. Face it, Red’s got the perfect setup.”

“For what?” Evan asked.

“For a man who’s leading a double life,” Jamie answered.

Mitch frowned at him, puzzled. “You’ve lost me. It’s not as if he has a romantic interest here—Dolly is his own sister.”

“Oh, grow up!” Jamie shot back. “How do you think that blood of theirs got to be so blue?”

“Jaymo, I truly don’t believe what I am hearing from you!” Evan erupted.

“All right, we’ll forget that one,” Jamie conceded grudgingly. “But Red
has
been known to play the protective big brother. Could be he killed Niles for cheating on Dolly.”

“But why kill the girl?” Mitch asked.

Jamie considered this. “That’s a good question. I don’t know … Unless
he
was boinking her, too. I mean, let’s get real here—could you imagine being married to Bits?”

“I think she’s a very nice lady.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But just imagine years and years of that abundant, earthy good cheer. Imagine burying your face between those pillowy white thighs night after night—”

“Jaymo, that’s my aunt you’re talking about!” Evan objected, poking at the tuna. “Hey, I think these are ready, guys. Let’s eat.”

There was a red onion and mango relish for the tuna. There was black bean salad, cole slaw, cornbread. All of it courtesy of Evan. All of it delicious. They ate on paper plates with their legs dangling over the side of the dock. The sun was setting now. Overhead, the sky was streaked with red and purple. The moon was rising. There were, Mitch reflected, worse ways to spend an evening.

“Maybe that niceness thing of Bitsy’s is all an act,” Jamie plowed on. “Maybe she’s the tramp of the century. She’s got plenty of opportunity, what with the kids out of the house and Red gone half of the time.
Maybe
she’s even a killer. Have you thought of that?”

“You don’t actually believe any of that, do you?” Evan asked him. “I mean, I had no idea you felt this way about her.”

“I don’t,” Jamie assured him with a wave of his hand. “I’m just hypothesizing.”

“Well, if you don’t start behaving yourself Mitch and I will leave you here. Won’t we, Mitch?”

“We will—lashed to the light tower.”

There were homemade brownies for dessert. Jamie disappeared below deck in search of them.

As soon as he did, Evan quickly turned to Mitch. “Mother told me you were locked in your cellar on Monday,” he said in a low, hushed voice.

“Most of the afternoon,” Mitch acknowledged, nodding.

Evan glanced furtively over at the boat, then back at Mitch. “I saw someone’s car parked in Dolly’s courtyard when I pulled in that day …”

“You mean you know who locked me in?”

“Maybe. I thought you might want to know. Who it was, I mean.

“You’re right. I did. I
do
. Who was it?”

Evan looked over his shoulder at the boat once more. And then, in an urgent whisper, he told Mitch who it was.

CHAPTER 8

DES RAISED A LONG, smooth leg out of the swirling hot water and examined her bare foot in the light of dawn, rotating her ankle slowly, splaying her toes, admiring the way the water gleamed on her pearly pink toenails. It was, in her critical judgment, a shapely, high-arched foot. A slender foot. A lovely foot.

It was not any goddamned ski.

She lowered her leg back down into the water, groaning. The soothing relaxation of the hot tub was just what she’d needed right about now. Her shoulders and back ached. Her sinuses were inflamed. And she was desperate for sleep—she’d worked straight on through the night. Just came on home, fed the cats and went on Dawn Patrol. Big Willie had inched another step closer to the cage. But he was still too smart for them. In fact, Des was beginning to suspect that the little man was laughing at them.

She reached lazily for her tumbler of chilled orange juice and took a long drink, wiping the perspiration from her face with a wash cloth. “Talk to me about Berger with an E,” she murmured across the tub at Bella. “That a Jewish name?”

“It can be,” Bella replied, swiping at the perspiration on her own round, flushed face. Actually, Bella’s face looked remarkably like a bunched fist when she didn’t have her glasses on. “Or it could be German. What’s his first name?”

“How do you even know I’m talking about a
he
?”

“If it were a
she
you wouldn’t be asking.”

“You should have been a detective,” Des said, grinning at her.

“I should have been a lot of things. But I just decided to become a fat old lady instead.”

“The name’s Mitch. He’s a New York movie critic.”

Bella’s eyes widened. “Do you mean
Mitchell Berger
?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“He’s only the single most respected film critic in America, my dear. And he’s definitely one of us. He writes with so much passion, such sensitivity. In fact …” She wagged a stubby finger at Des. “Are you sure he’s not gay?”

“He’s a widower.”

“He’s a major catch, is what he is. Free passes to every movie in town.”

“I don’t have time to see every movie.”

“Well, I do. And my niece, Naomi, is always looking for something to do. She’s a research chemist at Rockefeller University. Face on her like the young Joe Torre, but a very nice girl.” Bella peered at her slyly. “So … ?”

“So what … ?”

“Is he good-looking?”

“All depends on whether your idea of good-looking is the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

“What, he’s a
shlub
?”