The EMS people had hiked down by flashlight and found Will Durslag dead on the rocks in almost the same exact spot as Tito Molina had been. Will was even lying on his back the same way as Tito. Same head trauma. Same everything. It was eerie just how exactly he had followed the great love of his life into death.
Since it was the middle of the night and Des needed medical attention, Soave had held off on taking a more detailed statement until the morning, when Des assured him it would all start to make sense. Then she had accepted EMS transport to the twenty-four hour Shoreline Clinic in Essex. Mitch followed in his truck.
Everyone was very nice to her at the clinic. A chatty technician xrayed her shoulder. A kindly nurse plunged her torn, bloodied fingers into a disposable basin of warm soapy water. The orthopedist who was on duty scrutinized her X-ray and pronounced it an anterior subluxation, which was physician-speak for a partially dislocated shoulder. There was some ligament damage, but the boneswithin the joint were not fractured. He assured her she would not need surgery and would soon be as good as new. After injecting her with a muscle relaxant he manipulated her shoulder back into place, gave her a sling to wear, and told her she might need physical therapy to restore her normal range of motion and strength. He also warned her that when a shoulder has popped out once there’s a greater likelihood that it will pop out again under similar circumstances. Not a problem, Des assured him. She had no intention of ever again clinging to the side of a cliff with a grown man hanging from her arm.
It wasn’t until she was signing her release forms that Mitch happened to tell the orthopedist that he was experiencing sharp pains whenever he breathed. That was when they x-rayed him and found the cracked ribs. Which they did not tape. They just told him to take it easy.
There was a twenty-four-hour pharmacy in Old Saybrook where they were able to get their prescriptions filled. By the time they got back to Mitch’s place her shoulder was starting to ache again. She swallowed a pain pill and climbed into bed with an ice pack, sleeping off and on. Clemmie stayed glued to her hip the whole night, watching over her carefully. Cats were amazing that way. They always knew when you were hurting. Des just hoped Mitch didn’t resent this, since he was prone to jealousy in regards to Clemmie, thereby demonstrating that he still didn’t totally understand cats.
He himself had stayed downstairs watching a tape of his favorite boyhood comfort film, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and putting away an entire box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies that he’d had squirreled away somewhere.
Now Des remained on her lawn chair, gazing at the sailboats out on the Sound, while Soave and Yolie went in to talk some more with Mitch and listen to the tape recording of his last conversation with Will Durslag.
Soave strolled back outside first, smoothing his former mustache, and came over and crouched beside her, carefully averting his eyes from her shapely bare legs. “I’ll tell the media we’ve been madeaware of the existence of a confession,” he said slowly. “Meanwhile, we’ll go hard after some physical evidence to backstop it. Could be we’ll find remains of burnt clothing in his Franklin stove with traces of Donna’s blood DNA on them. Maybe even find one of his hairs on the bedspread at the Yankee Doodle. That’ll at least put him at the scene. As far as Tito goes, I don’t think we’ll ever come up with anything solid.” Soave paused now, shaking his head at her. “You were right again.”
“I was?” Des shifted her sling, wincing. “How so?”
“It was about sex.”
“It was about love, Rico. Makes the world go around.”
“Your boy says that it was all his own idea to arrange a meet with Durslag-and bring his tape recorder.”
“True enough.”
“And that you were up there without his knowledge and just happened to be in the right place at the right time to save his fat, sorry ass.”
“He said that?”
“Everything but the fat, sorry part. What were you doing in the park at that time of night anyway?”
“Nosing around. Some local kids have been holding pot parties up there.”
“Uh-huh.” Soave narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. “Me, I’m figuring it’s a good thing he didn’t tell you his plan in advance- because then it sure might have smelled like the E-word.”
“The E-word?” Des gazed at him dumbly. “Oh, you must mean entrapment. Hell yeah. Smart of him not to do that.”
“You wouldn’t think they’d teach him stuff like that at film critic’s school.”
“Man’s a big-league journalist, Rico,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, well, your big-league journalist seems a little shook up, you want to know the truth.”
“He saw a man die last night. Almost lost his own life in the deal. He’s not used to that.”
Soave stood back up now, swiping at his shiny black trousers, and let out a sigh. “I have to tell you, Des, my life is a whole lot simpler when you’re not in it.”
“Yeah, but you miss me so much you can’t hardly stand it,” she said, smiling up at him. “Can you work with this, Rico?”
“We can work with it,” he said, which was his way of finally indicating to her that they were two people who really were there for each other. “And I still say you have the best legs in the whole damned state. Did you notice I didn’t stare at them once?”
“I did, Rico. And I was impressed. You’re a nascent feminist.”
“Okay, I don’t know what that means, but I’m looking it up.”
“You do that, wow man.”
He started back to his car as Yolie emerged from the carriage house with Mitch. “Girl, I left your keys in the ignition,” she said, coming over to Des.
“Great, thanks.”
“I’ve, um, decided to stick it out a little while longer with Soave.”
“Glad to hear that. You keep your eyes and ears open, you can learn a lot.”
“Dig, I’m not sure that what I learned on this one belongs in any how-to manual,” Yolie said, crossing her rippling arms in front of her boom booms.
“Why, what did you learn?”
“You’re supposed to assemble the facts until they point you at the truth, check? But this one’s ass backwards. The truth’s already a done deal and now we’re going looking for the facts.”
“In Hollywood they call that retrofitting,” Mitch piped up.
“Retro-what?” Yolie shot back, cocking her head at him.
“You insert an earlier scene as story foundation for the climax you ended up improvising on the spot.”
Yolie peered at him in confusion. “Sure, whatever…”
Des said, “Word, it’s the stuff they don’t teach in the manual that makes you wise.” She stuck her bandaged hand out to her. “Stay in touch, Yolie. Put a shout on sometime, hear?”
“I hear,” said Yolie, clasping it gently. “It was all good, Des. I’m wishing we can do this again.”
“That’s something else they don’t teach you.”
“What is?”
“Be careful what you wish for, girl. Because it just might come true.”
CHAPTER 15
Nuri Acar was methodically brushing a thick coat of tan-colored primer over the graffiti Dodge had spray-painted on his wall when Mitch pulled into the minimart for his morning fix. Nuri must have been on his second coat by now, because the red paint was becoming all but invisible to Mitch’s eye.
“That doesn’t look bad at all, Mr. Acar,” he said encouragingly.
“It will be fine.” Nuri smiled at him broadly. He seemed more at ease than Mitch had ever seen him. “All we have wished for since we arrived in Dorset is to be good neighbors. I am so glad that this matter is resolved now. I wish I knew how to thank you, Mitch.”
“Not necessary.”
“No, it absolutely is. Nema and I have decided that from now on we will accept no money from you for coffee or pastry. Gasoline only.”
“That’s insane. I can’t let you do that.”
“Mitch,
you must allow me to show my appreciation. To deny me is to insult me.”
“Well, okay, but the resident trooper won’t be happy about this. She’s very particular when it comes to my caloric consumption.”
“She is one very tough lady, our resident trooper,” Nuri observed quietly, his mouth tightening.
“Tougher than you can possibly imagine.”
“But she is also what you call a ‘straight shooter.’ And I respect her for that.”
“Good,” said Mitch, smiling. “Now I’m the one who’s glad.”
They shook hands, Mitch wincing slightly as Nuri gave his arm a hearty yank. The ribs felt okay unless Mitch made a sudden movement or, God forbid, sneezed. Then it felt as if someone were jabbing him with a boning knife.
Mostly, he was still just really resentful that Clemmie had chosen to stay up in the loft with Des after they got home from the clinic instead of on the sofa with him. He’d been hurting, too, after all, and wasn’t she his cat? Didn’t he feed her and tidy up her gaaacks? Where was the fairness in this? Where was the loyalty?
Deep down inside, Mitch figured he still didn’t totally understand cats.
He tried to slip one past Nema and pay her for his baklava and coffee, but she wouldn’t go along.
“Your money is no good here, Mitch,” she clucked at him.
“You knew, didn’t you, Nema?” Mitch said to her. “You saw Dodge throw that rock through your window.”
“I did, yes,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“We were afraid,” she replied, lowering her large, dark eyes.
“Of what?”
“Mr. Crockett is part of the hierarchy. A man with connections. Who knows, he could get our business license revoked. Possibly even get us deported. So Nuri felt it is best to keep quiet.”
“And you went along with him.”
“He is my husband,” Nema said, as if that answered everything.
For her, it did.
From there Mitch piloted his truck up Old Shore Road to the post office, munching on his baklava. He bypassed Dorset Street entirely so as to avoid the media crush at town hall, where Soave was busy putting out information about Will Durslag’s death. Thirty-six hours after the fact, Des’s former sergeant was still playing it very close to the vest until the forensics people up in Meriden finished sifting through those ashes in Will’s woodstove. Soave had still not made public Will’s tortured love affair with Tito Molina. All he was saying was that Will had been found dead at the base of Chapman Falls, that they were in possession of his taped confession, and that an investigation was proceeding.
He had not mentioned one word about Mitch’s involvement in Will’s death. This was fine by Mitch.
When he arrived at the post office he fetched his mail from his box and was starting back outside with it when Billie, the jovial old girl who worked behind the counter, called out, “Hey, Mitch, I got something for you. Been holding on to it.” She reached down under the counter and produced a torn, overstuffed ten-by-thirteen manila envelope. “Somebody dropped this in our mailbox out front the other night,” she explained, her eyes gleaming at Mitch with keen interest.
Mitch took one look at the envelope and immediately knew why. It had originally been addressed to Tito Molina-from a talent agency in Beverly Hills. Someone had crossed out Tito’s name and box number, and hurriedly scribbled Mitch’s name across the top. No box number or address for Mitch, no postage, no nothing. The envelope wasn’t even sealed shut.
“You owe me a buck sixty-five, my dear,” Billie said apologetically.
Mitch paid her and went back outside and got into his truck, his heart racing as he sat there staring at the envelope. He opened it. Inside he found a fat sheaf of lined yellow legal pages covered with crude, almost childlike handwriting.
On the first page a note had been scrawled in the margin: “Mitch, hope you like it. But please be honest-Tito”
It was his unfinished screenplay. He’d called it The Bright Silver Star.
Mitch devoured it at once, seated there in the post office parking lot. What he read turned out to be the heartfelt story of a sensitive, special little Chicano boy named Ramon who sees imaginary creatures he calls the Bad People and fears they are about to murder him in his sleep. Ramon has an Anglo mother who lives in her own dream world. His Chicano father, a day laborer, can’t understand either one of them. Enraged, he lashes out in a violent drunken outburst, beating Ramon’s mother half to death before he packs up and clears out.
Mitch found The Bright Silver Star brutal yet surprisingly delicate and poignant. It reminded him quite a bit of The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. In fact, it was written more as a play than a movie. The action, such as it was, consisted of a series of conversations that took place over a single day in a squalid two-room apartment. There were no exteriors, no camera directions. Tragically, there was also no second act. Tito had managed to write only the first fifty or so pages, leaving the crisis in little Ramon’s family life unresolved. Even so, this glimpse into the private hell that was Tito Molina’s childhood was so painful that it very nearly brought tears to Mitch’s eyes.
He was still sitting there in the cab of his truck, totally decked, when Martine Crockett pulled up next to him in her silver VW Beetle convertible, her golf bag tossed across the backseat. Mitch was pretty hard to miss there in his ’56 Studey half ton, but Martine did her best anyway, scrupulously avoiding eye contact with him as she got out and strode inside, her gait long and assertive.
Mitch took a deep breath and followed her in. He found her waiting in line to buy stamps from the vending machine. A couple of her lady friends were asking her how Dodge was doing.
“He’s home, he’s fine,” Martine replied with a brave smile. Her face was composed, her gaze clear. “We’re fine. It’s all just a terrible misunderstanding.”
Warm hugs were exchanged, lunch invitations extended. They weren’t shunning her. She was one of theirs after all, a cherished member of the inner circle, and by repudiating her they’d only be repudiating themselves. If she wasn’t afraid to show her face in public, they weren’t afraid to stand by her.
Mitch found this rather amazing, but he shouldn’t have. This was Dorset, where appearances mattered. Hell, appearances ruled.
And then her friends were gone and Martine was alone. She stiffened at the sight of Mitch standing there.
“How is he, Martine?” Mitch asked.
“Anxious to clear his name,” she answered tightly. Martine started to say something more, stopped herself, then plowed ahead. “He was very hurt that you turned against him, Mitch. I guess where you come from people define friendship differently.”
“Martine, how much did you know?”
Martine paid for her stamps and tucked them into her purse. “About what?”
“About Dodge and Esme.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Look, I don’t know what she or anyone else may have told you-”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’ve been lied to, Mitch. And you’ve chosen to believe those mean, ugly lies instead of the simple truth.”
“Which is?…”
“Esme has always enjoyed a warm, wonderful relationship with her father. And she… And they…” Martine’s lower lip quivered, her flawless blond composure starting to crumble. For one brief second, Mitch thought she might give in to the horrifying reality of what her husband had done to their daughter. But she didn’t. When it came to the fine art of keeping up appearances, Martine Crockett was a master. “They have nothing but love for each other-not that I expect someone like you could ever believe something decent or good about a man like Dodge.”
And with that she turned on her heel and marched stiffly out of there, leaving Mitch convinced of something he had never really believed about people before. Not until this very moment, standing in the Dorset post
office.
When someone can’t accept the truth about the person who they love, they don’t accept the truth. They accept the illusion instead.
They have to.
The news about Abby Kaminsky’s unscheduled appearance at the Book Schnook got out incredibly fast.
Kids wearing carp heads were lined up all the way out the door of the bustling food hall into Big Brook Road for the chance to buy an autographed copy of The Codfather of Sole. The Works was still doing a bang-up lunch trade, Mitch couldn’t help but notice. Rich Graybill was running the show for now.
Inside the Book Schnook, Abby was seated at a table in front of a giant Codfather of Sole poster, signing copies and chattering gaily with her excited young readers. Chrissie Huberman was near at hand, watching over her protectively. It was Chrissie who was responsible for the huge, last-minute turnout. She’d not only blitzed the local radio stations with ads but had hired a private plane to pull a sign along the shoreline beaches all the way from Madison to New London. Thousands upon thousands of beachgoers had seen the message.
Jeff was bustling back and forth between the cash register and the stockroom, his manner lively and animated. “Hey, it’s my main man Mitch,” he exclaimed brightly. “Did you walk this morning?”
“No, did you?”
“Couldn’t. I had to drive up to the warehouse in Springfield for copies of Abby’s book. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten here in time.” He deposited an armload on the table next to Chrissie. She immediately began opening them to the title page for Abby, who was signing books and shaking hands with the brisk, focused efficiency of an assembly line worker. Jeff started back to the cash register, where parents and kids were stacked up six deep. “Mitch, I don’t know how to thank you for this. You’re a true-blue friend.”
“You have a slightly different take on me than Martine does.”
Jeff gulped. “Shhh, not so loud,” he pleaded, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Abby.
Mitch lowered his voice. “What’s the official story, are you and Martine finished?”
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