A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Whit said.

  ‘Pete hated classical music,’ she said. ‘He hated anything touched by beauty.’

  Lucinda Hubble gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk, and he sat. She eased herself down into a heavy leather armchair.

  ‘Your daddy’s already called, and he and Irina have brought us a lovely casserole. It’s something Russian and quite unpronounceable, but I’m sure it’s delicious. So thoughtful. You thank them again for me, honey.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I will. And I won’t keep you long now. I just need to ask you some questions so I can make a determination on cause of death.’

  ‘Of course.’ She placed her hands, palm down, on the expansive smooth teak of the desk.

  He wondered if she knew about him and Faith. She had given no sign – no sly smile, no slight frown of disapproval.

  He led with a suggestion for suicide. ‘How would you describe Pete’s state of mind in the past few weeks?’

  ‘Depressed,’ Lucinda said. ‘He felt he had wasted his life because of the… particular career he had chosen.’

  ‘You knew about the porn?’

  Lucinda flinched at the word but nodded. ‘I found out a couple of years ago. I called Pete at his home. He was apparently in the middle of shooting a film.’ She crumpled the handkerchief. ‘I could hear the women in the background. Laughing at me. Hollering about which one would get to appear in a scene with my son first.’ She touched at her blue eyeglasses. ‘Not what a mother ever wants to hear. I hung up. I told Faith. She already knew, she’d been shielding my so-delicate feelings. I was devastated, of course. I didn’t speak to him again until he came back to town.’

  ‘I think the press will find out,’ Whit said quietly.

  ‘Not from me, they won’t. And if they find out from you or from Detective Salazar, or any member of either of your offices, I will hath more fury than hell,’ Lucinda flared. ‘I can’t have Sam knowing about this. I just can’t.’

  Not to mention the voters. ‘Do you think Velvet is going to stay quiet?’

  ‘I can’t control her.’

  ‘Did Pete say why he was coming home?’ Whit asked.

  ‘He said he no longer wished to pursue his acting career.’ Whit believed the words adult films or dirty movies or skin flicks were never going to pass her lips.

  ‘How did he plan on supporting himself?’

  ‘He didn’t say. I assumed he had savings, or could find legitimate work. He does know – knew – film production. Perhaps at a television studio in Corpus Christi or with Jabez Jones’s outfit.’

  ‘How much contact did you have with Pete after he returned to Port Leo?’

  ‘An hour, here and there,’ Lucinda said. ‘The chill had gone deep for years.’ She sank slightly into the bulk of the cardigan. ‘And selfishly, I did not want to be disappointed by him again. Pete thrives on disappointing others. I was happy to see him, but I wanted him to rehaul his life. I wasn’t willing to get too close until I thought he was sincere.’ Lucinda perceived the reaction in Whit’s face. ‘Perhaps I sound harsh, but mothers are mortal, too.’

  ‘No, I know it must have been tough for you. He told you nothing of this Corey film he planned?’

  ‘I didn’t know one word until Faith told me this morning. But I doubt Pete would have completed any real film. Bless his heart, he didn’t have the talent. The drive.’

  ‘I’m wondering why Pete chose Corey as a subject, after all these years.’

  ‘Penance, I suppose. He blamed himself for what happened to Corey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Aren’t you the youngest of a whole passel of boys? Didn’t your brothers take care of you?’ She offered a wan smile.

  ‘Yeah, when they weren’t bossing me around or beating me up.’

  Her smile faded. ‘Corey disappeared on a weekend when I was out of town on business. He vanished while he was on Pete’s watch, so to speak. Pete never forgave himself.’ She shrugged. ‘I think he’s been killing himself, slowly, for a long time. When certain people do wrong, they turn away from the world. Isolate themselves, slip on the hair shirt and self-destruct. It’s why he went into porn, and I think it eroded every bit of self-respect he had.’ She looked at Whit hard. ‘I’ve always believed you have to put your troubles behind you and soldier on.’

  ‘Maybe he came across new information about Corey’s disappearance. Like that Corey was still alive.’ It was a balloon to float.

  The silence hung for nearly ten seconds. ‘I am certain Corey is dead.’

  ‘Why?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Because Corey would have contacted us if he was alive. He wouldn’t have let me suffer for all these years.’

  ‘Why did Corey run away from home?’

  ‘Don’t resurrect the other worst day of my life.’ For the first time she showed raw emotion, anger flaring her nostrils, her cheeks reddening.

  Whit waited. Lucinda dragged her fingernails through her mop of red hair and gave a pained sigh.

  ‘I will never be able to author a book on good mothering, Judge. Taxpayers are easier to corral than willful children. Corey got involved with drinkers. Dopeheads. All to punish me for the time I was spending in Austin and the higher standards of behavior I expected from my boys. After their daddy died I let them run wild, do what they wanted, but once I was elected, they had to toe the line. It was not too much to ask of them. Pete tried, at least, but Corey slipped the leash like a wild dog.’

  ‘I know. I remember him, you know.’

  ‘Yes. He would have been about your age, now, wouldn’t he?’ She pondered Whit’s face wistfully.

  ‘You don’t think he’s living happily on a commune in Montana or a farm in Virginia?’

  ‘Does that really happen with most missing teenagers, Judge?’ Lucinda asked with a touch of frost. ‘I’d be overwhelmed to know Corey was in some idyllic retreat. Let me assure you the uncertainty of not knowing what happened to Corey is an ongoing thorn in my heart.’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to Pete, Senator?’ Whit asked.

  ‘A couple of days ago. I wanted him to come to dinner alone, but he wouldn’t come without Velvet. He declined the invitation, told me he’d talk to me soon.’

  ‘I’m curious. How had you and Faith explained Pete’s absence to Sam?’

  Lucinda smiled thinly. ‘We told him Pete worked in industrial films – you know, training tapes, corporate tapes for business conventions. Sam accepted it. Pete never told him any different – it was part of the agreement for him to see Sam.’

  ‘Did Pete ever talk about a change in the custodial arrangement?’ Whit watched Lucinda’s face turn pale.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Pete was contemplating suing for custody of Sam.’

  The silence filled the study until Lucinda leaned forward and her chair squeaked. ‘Judge, have you lost your mind? Be realistic. How on earth would Pete stand a chance in a custody hearing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Whit said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been serious. No family court would give Sam to Pete.’

  ‘Did he ever ask about joint custody, now that he was back?’

  ‘That would be an issue between him and Faith,’ she said sternly, and Whit thought, Yeah, right, like you wouldn’t be all in the middle of that.

  ‘Last point,’ Whit said. ‘The boat Pete was staying on, it’s owned by a family suspected of being involved in a drug ring. Y’all know anything about them?’

  He could almost hear a political future boiling away in the room.

  ‘Most certainly not,’ Lucinda managed to say. ‘Pete’s friends were his friends, and his associates have nothing to do with us. I would expect you would not leak that news to the press as well.’ A vein throbbed in the hollow of her throat.

  ‘So you didn’t try to find out who was giving him room and board when he came back?’

  ‘I don’t like what you’re implying, Ju
dge.’ For the first time he saw anger storm in her eyes, her jaw set, her mouth narrow.

  ‘Sorry, but I find it hard to believe you just let him waltz back in the middle of an election and didn’t research his friends, his benefactors, his purpose in being here.’

  ‘I can’t control what you believe. But I would be very careful as to what you imply to the world.’ He saw her scrutinize him with new eyes. He was not being, he supposed, the easygoing Whit Mosley who liked to wander the beach and never put two shakes into a job.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Sam.’

  Her shoulders stiffened. ‘Of course. Assuming that his mother or I am present. He is a minor, after all.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘But’ – she raised a finger – ‘I ask that you not discuss this custody idiocy with Sam.’

  ‘I can’t promise that. I’m sorry. I need to talk to him about any subject relevant to his father’s death.’

  ‘I won’t have you subjecting him to Velvet’s foolish notions. I’m assuming she’s the one claiming Pete wanted custody?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pathetic attempt to hurt us and I won’t permit it.’

  Whit kept his voice mild, out of respect for her loss. ‘This is how it works. I interview him, and you or Faith can be there, and if there’s nothing he can add, fine. Or I can call him as a witness at the inquest. Put him on the stand.’

  Her fingertips worked along her palms, awkwardly kneading the flesh. ‘Why don’t you let me discuss it with his mother?’

  ‘That would be fine.’ Whit stood and offered his hand. She shook it, but the cozy neighborliness had evaporated.

  He saw himself to the door, but before he left the Bach CD suddenly roared in the study, the icy cleanness of the notes as loud as hammers.

  In the late afternoon the teenagers – aimless, tans not faded from summer gold – were out in meager force. Two girls sat cross-legged on an arc of crushed shells at one end of the beach. A boy waded in the gentle surf, black jeans neatly rolled up past thick calves, dragging a bamboo stick in the water, watching it cut a wake through the waves.

  Claudia parked in the small, sand-smeared asphalt lot that fed off the old Bay Highway. From the lot she could see the whole, nearly straight line of the beach that terminated on the south with several acres of wind-bent oaks, and the private fishing pier on the north for Port Leo’s nursing home. The pier, she remembered, didn’t get much use, but two healthy-looking old ladies, their faces shadowed by big, neon-colored sun hats (one magenta, one turquoise), stood on the pier, trolling simple rigs with slack lines.

  The elderly women reminded her of David, begging her to attend his Poppy’s party. David was looping a hook back into her flesh, securing it into her jaw, making sure she could not dash from whatever shadow he might cast across the water of her life.

  She saw Heather Farrell easing herself down the mangy slope of grass to the flat of the hard-packed beach, a notebook under her arm, a sandwich in her hand, the girl chewing and tossing a scrap of crust to a hovering gull. Other gulls swooped near, pleading with cries, waiting for the generosity to be extended. Heather popped another two morsels upwards and then ran, leaving the gulls to sort out the buffet. She sat, kicked off her shoes and ate, keeping her feet just beyond the encroaching tide.

  Claudia sat down next to her.

  ‘You wolfed that down,’ Claudia said. ‘You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.’

  Heather dusted the crumbs from her fingers with a quick slap. She tucked a fleck of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth onto her thumb, then wiped her thumb on her jeans. ‘Do you always criticize other people’s table manners?’

  ‘We’re not at a table.’

  ‘Slap me. You really are a detective.’ Heather watched the Gulf inch toward her feet, then retreat. She kept the notebook close to her, on the other side from Claudia.

  ‘Brought this for you to sign.’ Claudia produced a statement. ‘Read it first and make sure it’s correct.’

  Heather scanned the document and signed her name at the bottom. ‘There. Perfect. Satisfied?’

  ‘You sleep okay last night?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Amazingly unrattled by finding a dead body.’

  Heather dragged a hand through her hair. ‘What am I gonna do, run home to Lubbock?’

  ‘I can help you find a real place to stay.’

  ‘Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction, officer?’ Heather asked. No insolence laced her voice. ‘Little Mischief’s not in Port Leo proper.’

  ‘The sheriff’s department might consider you a vagrant. Heather. Camping out here.’ She could call David, ask him to check on this beach later this evening.

  Heather shrugged. ‘I moved.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘A friend’s house.’ She wiggled toes at the froth of the surf as it kissed her heels. ‘Since you’re gonna ask me for all the details, her name’s Judy Cameron. She lives on the west side of Port Leo. I’m crashing there. So you don’t need to follow me around. I’m perfectly safe.’

  ‘Judy have a phone number?’

  ‘She didn’t pay the bill and got disconnected, but her address is still in the phone book. 414 Paris Street. Beige brick house with a motorcycle out front.’

  ‘Why don’t I give you a ride back there now?’

  ‘Why don’t you quit hassling me?’ Heather asked. ‘Look, I’m all warm and gooey inside from your concern, but I’m fine. I’m a grown woman.’

  ‘If there’s anything you haven’t told us about Pete’s death, you’re going to be hip-deep in trouble. I won’t be able to protect you then.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have another cop here to play bad, if you’re good?’ Heather laughed. ‘You ought to watch more TV and get your shtick down.’

  ‘Why’d you buy Greyhound tickets this week? Two of them?’ Claudia asked.

  Heather turned her gaze back out across the bay to the hump of Santa Margarita Island. ‘You’re a busy bee.’

  ‘It was easy to check.’

  ‘Judy and I thought we’d go to see friends in Houston. That okay with the local Nazi regime?’

  ‘I don’t want you leaving town before this inquest.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to wait around forever.’

  Claudia fished a card out of her pocket. ‘In case Judy kicks you out.’ She jotted numbers on the card and handed it to Heather. ‘That’s got my home and my office number. And my ex-husband’s number – he’s a deputy with the sheriff’s department.’

  ‘He cute?’ Heather asked.

  ‘Very,’ Claudia said. ‘Call. I’m around twenty-four/ seven.’

  ‘I’ll program you on my speed dial. Thanks.’

  Claudia dusted the sand from her rump and walked away. When she reached her car, she watched Heather sitting, notebook open, sketching with a pencil, the sunset painting the low clouds orange and purple, the light beginning to fade.

  Two pelicans glided across St Leo Bay with graceful swoops, the tips of their wings barely brushing the water. Claudia watched them fly, and then she drove back to town.

  The two old women lumbered inside the nursing home, their cackles of laughter drifting down the beach to Heather. A Caspian tern, squeaking its nasally call, dove down into the darkening water, its bill bloodred but not from prey. The tern shot back into the sky, wet, dinner-less. Heather watched it. You don’t always get what you want, babycakes. The tern tried again, farther out into the bay. Heather watched the surf-walking boy and the two chatting girls leave the beach. When she looked back out, the tern was gone. Shame. She opened to a blank page and began to sketch out the muscled wings, the probing beak, the egg-shaped head.

  She stopped as the sun set behind her. She wished Sam were here, to drink red wine, cuddle up close to her, run his tongue along the backside of her ear. But he wasn’t coming. No escape from the Hubble guardians. No escape at all -

  A hand grabbed her shoulder.
>
  17

  Whit Mosley and Faith Hubble had first made love – an altogether too kind term, considering the bourbon and muscle cramps involved – in July. They met at a wind-down party after three days of ShellFest, Port Leo’s annual salute to all things crustacean and culinary. Over ten thousand fairgoers, both locals and tourists, jammed the St Leo Bay area to guzzle beer, buy crafts, stomp to forgettable jazz and blues and country-western acts, and to deplete the shrimp and oyster populations through structured gluttony. Lucinda judged a shrimp recipe cook-off, glad-handed voters, and raced back to her Austin condo with Sam in tow to hear a classical piano concert at UT.

  Faith didn’t. She lingered in town, hanging out at the Shell Inn, drinking bourbon in a back booth with a clutch of old high school girlfriends. The women’s group slowly merged with two more groups, which is what happens in a small bar where nearly everyone knows everyone else and has been drinking for three days. Tables were pushed together, drinks ordered again, and Faith sat next to Judge Whit Mosley. She vaguely remembered his brothers from her school days, knew he was the youngest of the wild and handsome pack of Mosley boys. Even though now a judge he dressed like a townie bum without two dimes, in his frayed, sun-faded orange polo shirt and weathered khaki shorts and Birkenstock sandals. But the legs leading to the sandals were nicely formed, and she liked his odd gray eyes and the direct and knowing way he smiled, not at all put off by her height or weight. She grinned at the quiet way he indulged the drunken boasts of his friends when the topic turned to fishing, not joining in but not deflating his buddies’ hackneyed tales, and although his polo shirt was old and the neon orange a color out of style, the chest and arms beneath the fabric were tanned and firm.

  He didn’t look like any judge she ever knew.

  She had been lonely for a long time, plowing all her time into Lucinda’s career, and no one had given her jokes a sincere laugh in a long while. He offered her a ride home; she was drunk. She asked him to come inside and have a cup of coffee and a couple of aspirin to help sober themselves up (although she had watched him nurse a single Corona for two hours and knew the only drunk one was herself), and while they stood chatting in the kitchen and the coffee brewed, she surprised herself by reaching out for him and saying, ‘Is that a gavel or you just happy to see me?’ Her jokes got worse with more bourbon.