by Thomas Kies
I blinked and shook my head. “I know, I was just kidding,” I lied. I wanted him so bad I could already taste him. I wanted to hold his body close to mine and never let him go.
“Look, I know I asked you to have a drink over at the boat club, but I also promised to take you and Caroline out for Mexican. Margaritas are sounding real good to me. How about we go our separate ways for a few hours and then we hook back up at my place around seven?”
I couldn’t stop looking into his beautiful blue eyes. “Okay.”
“And after we eat, maybe we can drop Caroline off at her aunt’s and then have a nightcap at your place?”
“Okay.” I was on an incredible emotional high, supplemented of course by a vodka buzz. We walked back up the dock, across the perfectly manicured yard, past the waterfall, and onto the blue-green tiles that defined the perimeter of the pool.
“I’d better say good-bye to the Elroys,” Kevin said.
I let him wander off to look for our hosts, after which we would drive away in Kevin’s beat-up truck. It wasn’t a white charger, but it was plenty good enough for me.
“Genie,” purred a familiar voice behind me. “What a nice surprise.”
My heart nearly stopped cold in my chest.
I turned. It wasn’t a nice surprise at all. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I was looking right into Frank Mancini’s chocolate brown eyes. “Jesus.” I felt slightly off-balance. He was literally the last person I expected, or wanted, to run into. “I don’t see you for over a month and then every time I turn around, you’re right there. You’re like a skin rash I can’t get rid of.”
Frank stepped up close to me with a smirk. “I guess it’s fate.” He was dressed in khaki shorts and a black polo shirt with the name of his boat emblazoned in red on the pocket, Renegade. “How do you know the Elroys?”
I don’t know why I was surprised to see Frank there. He’s a lawyer; Pete Elroy’s a lawyer. Piranhas swim in schools.
“I’m here with a friend.” I looked around, oddly relieved that Kevin wasn’t standing next to me. After all, I’d slept with Frank last night and, only minutes ago, told Kevin that I love him. I don’t hide guilt well.
Frank squinted out over the Sound, trying to recall what Kevin looked like. “Is it the guy you were with the other night at the Shorefront Club?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he an attorney?” Frank asked.
“No, he has a real job.”
Frank blinked and smiled. He takes a verbal punch pretty well.
“Are you here with Evelyn?”
“She’s still in the Hamptons.”
“Here alone?”
He shook his head. “Remember that client from last night? The one I dumped to spend time with you?”
“Sure, the bimbo with long blond hair and the boob job.”
“Jill,” he said. “Her name is Jill. I’m working on a probate case for her.”
“I’ll bet you are. You like women and probate cases.” I looked across the patio until I spotted Kevin. He was talking to Pete Elroy, who was still obviously bragging about his grill. In the meantime, I was getting ready to call an end to this particular conversation. “So where is Jill?”
“Inside,” he answered. “Bathroom.”
I grabbed a crabcake off a tray as a young man in a white shirt came by with hors d’oeuvres. “Wish I could stay and chat, but I’ve got a life.”
Frank frowned and grabbed me by the hand. “Stay for a minute. Have another drink.”
I swallowed the crabcake and washed it down with the final swallows of my vodka. “The last thing I need to do is have another drink with you, Frank,” I snarled as quietly as I could.
I noticed that the crowd on the patio was growing. There must have been thirty people now, not counting the Elroy boys and their friends. I tried to locate Kevin again, but couldn’t find him. Had he gone inside to say good-bye to Becky?
“Why do you say that?” Frank asked.
“Frank, I really don’t want to get into it here with you, but I think it’s time we break it off.”
If I’d expected to see a shocked expression on his face, I was sorely disappointed. He sipped his glass of wine and continued to gaze at me, as if he was studying a witness in a courtroom. “Have I done something to upset you?”
“Look, I’ve found something in Kevin that I really need, something that I’ve been looking for my entire life.”
“Something I can’t give you?” he remarked, dryly.
“Frank, you were a pleasurable distraction. A genuine ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl. But I’m done. I’d like to get my life back on track and it ain’t gonna be with you.”
“So we’re done?”
I sighed. “Yeah, we’re done.”
“Then what was last night, a good-bye fuck?”
When he said it, I could hear the proverbial pin drop. The song on the CD player had just ended, conversation had hit an unnatural lull, and you couldn’t hear any boats out on the Sound.
I was sure that the entire crowd on the patio heard what Frank said.
And from the profoundly hurt expression on his face, when I turned and saw him, I was certain that Kevin had.
He’d been standing right behind me.
Frank knew that. He’d watched as Kevin had walked up behind me.
A waiter came by with a silver tray of crystal flutes filled with champagne. I picked one up and threw the contents into Frank’s face. Then I picked up a second one, put it to my lips and drank it one long gulp.
Before I was done, Kevin was already headed for his truck.
I looked back at Frank, who’d found a napkin to wipe his face. I hissed, “Asshole.”
“You’ll be back.”
***
When I got there, Kevin was already sitting in his truck, staring absently at the steering wheel.
I stopped when I was about ten feet away to study him. The way he sat in the truck by himself thinking about what he’d just heard broke my heart.
I felt a malignant lump of sorrow swell in my throat. This might to be the shortest long-term relationship of my life. Kevin was hurt. And damn it, damn it all to fucking hell, I’d caused it.
Running into Frank last night, then seeing him again a few minutes ago, what was that? Random action that happens on its own? A bizarre coincidence? Or is it like Frank said? Fate? A perverse, twisted act of fate?
Why was God doing this to me? Was this some kind of karmic joke?
Or worse, had I done it to myself?
I walked around to the passenger’s side and slid into the truck. Kevin started the engine without saying anything.
We rode in painful, awkward silence past the guard, his head down as he read one of his mystery novels in his tiny outpost, and across the bridge to the mainland. We never said a word as we took the back roads into Kevin’s neighborhood, turned onto Random Road, and then into his driveway.
It wasn’t until Kevin turned off the engine that I said, “I was drunk and stupid. I’m sorry.”
How many times in my life have I said that?
Still sitting in the silent Ford, he shook his head. “It’s not like we’re married.”
“I know. I’m still sorry.”
He sighed, opened the door, and slid out of the truck.
I did the same and started walking slowly toward my Sebring, resigned that our relationship was dead before it had even really started.
Then Kevin said something that I couldn’t quite make out.
I turned. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he’d just said, but I asked anyway, “What?”
His words were clearer, stronger, but it was obvious he was working to find a normal voice, “Still want to have dinner?”
I stopped in my tracks and took a step closer. “Dinner
?”
“Yeah, do you want to come by and pick us up for dinner around seven?” He held up a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He was struggling hard to make things okay.
I can’t tell you what that tidal wave of relief felt like. I couldn’t believe it. “Still feeling like margaritas?” My voice cracked with emotion, feeling tears of happiness welling up in my eyes and overflowing onto my cheeks.
He nodded and smiled gamely. “Yeah, hey?”
“What?” I was wiping tears away from my cheeks.
“Did you mean what you said back there?”
“Which part?”
“That you love me?”
I nodded and felt a fist sized lump in my throat. “Yeah, I love you.” I managed to whisper, afraid that I was going to cry some more.
He offered a wan smile. “Don’t sleep with Frank anymore, okay?”
I nodded again. “Okay.”
He turned and I watched as he walked up his steps and into his house. I saw, but barely noticed, how he’d been sweating. His forehead had been slick with perspiration.
I hadn’t taken serious note of any of it. I was too busy congratulating myself on my luck. I was too busy thinking that this was the guy I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
Besotted, I was blissfully unaware of the nightmare that still lay ahead. For the first time in a long while, it felt like I was on course and Kevin was the reason why. I had no way of knowing that the two of us were headed into the dark winds of a lethal hurricane.
Chapter Fifteen
Driving away, I was a limp rag, twisted tight until every drop of energy was wrung out of me. It had been one hell of a Sunday and it was still only four o’clock in the afternoon.
Naturally, I wanted a drink.
The nail-biting tension and wild windstorm of emotion that had blown through the last forty-five minutes of my life had all but scoured away my pleasant vodka buzz from the Elroys’ barbeque from hell. I considered driving down to the Sea View Tavern for an icy Absolute, but noticed that I was nearing Wolfpit Avenue, Jim Brenner’s street.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been sitting in a bar listening to Ted, my source who drove away in the night, accuse Brenner of killing six people. I had another attack of guilt. Last night I should have gone to Mike Dillon and told him what I knew. Every minute that the cops didn’t investigate this guy was another minute he had an opportunity to destroy evidence.
And every minute I didn’t interview him was another minute lost on writing a great story.
That little bit of guilt about not talking to the cops quickly vanished. I wasn’t supposed to do their job. I was supposed to do mine.
Pulling up to the front of his house, I noticed that the same Chevy Tahoe parked in the driveway last night was still there. It was gleaming black, newly washed and detailed. Shining in the afternoon sunlight, Brenner’s Auto Body was emblazoned on the doors.
Next to the SUV sat a candy-apple red Mustang. Ted had told me that Lynette thought that she’d been stalked by her ex-husband in a Mustang.
Behind the Mustang, a pale blue Taurus station wagon was parked. From the mud spatters and obvious neglect, the vehicle appeared well-used but ill-maintained. The back bumper sported a bumper sticker—“God is Watching You.”
A twenty-foot fishing boat covered with a tarp sat on a trailer next to the garage. Since I’d talked to the guard out on Connor’s Landing, the boat had taken on a new significance. Had it been in the water on Wednesday night?
How would I find out?
I parked at the curb and studied the house. With its trimmed lawn and tidy sidewalk and shrubs, it all seemed normal enough. Not the sort of place where a vicious killer might lay his head.
Taking a deep breath, I did my best to forget the unpleasantness with Frank Mancini on Connor’s Landing. I had to get my head back on straight. Other media outlets were out there circling like hungry jackals. I needed to keep my ownership of this story.
I grabbed my bag, checked inside for my recorder and can of mace. Then I walked boldly up to the front door and pressed the bell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the curtain to the living room window twitched, as if someone was checking me out surreptitiously through the window. Then a moment later, the door swung open.
“Can I help you?” a man asked. He was about five-ten, his shaved skull shining dully in the sunshine. He wore a closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard, and he studied me with blue eyes so light in color that they reminded me of polar ice.
Where had I seen him before?
“I’m Geneva Chase. I work for The Sheffield Post. Are you Jim Brenner?”
He didn’t react like I’d anticipated. I’d expected suspicion, reticence or downright hostility. Instead he blinked. “For a minute I thought you might be a detective.”
“Why?”
“I’m expecting their return.”
“The police have been here?”
He squinted at me, cocking his head, not quite sure if I was putting him on. “Of course they have. In a homicide, the first person the police suspect is the husband.”
“Or in this case, the ex-husband,” I extrapolated. “Are you Jim Brenner?”
He shook his head. “I’m his brother, Aaron. And just for the record, I’m Reverend Aaron Brenner. Would you like to come in?”
I debated the wisdom of walking into Jim Brenner’s house without letting anyone from my office know where I was. I had that tiny can of mace in my bag, and I also was sure that if anything happened, it would be pretty damned useless in keeping me alive. I don’t pride myself on reckless courage and I don’t normally put myself in a dangerous situation, but I needed this story. I didn’t want to be working the cop beat in Sheffield for the rest of my life.
Walking into the house past Reverend Aaron Brenner, I noticed that he didn’t look like most other men of God. He was lean, muscular, and dressed in khaki shorts and a faded gray tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. It didn’t take a genius to surmise that the primitively etched tattoos on his shoulders were probably from a stint in prison. One of the tats proclaimed, “Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Lord.” The other tattoo right under it was a blue and scarlet stone cross, painted against a patch of dark purple clouds laced with lightning bolts. From the impressive size of his shoulders and biceps, I deduced that he’d spent a lot of his time working out in the prison gym.
“What church are you affiliated with, Mr. Brenner?”
“Reverend Brenner,” he reminded me. “But you can call me Aaron. The United Christ’s Church of Freewill.”
I searched my memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
He didn’t bother to respond to my remark, but motioned me to follow him.
In the dark living room I could see a cloth couch, a leather recliner and a large flat screen television mounted on the wall. The walls were devoid of art and all the end tables had stacks of magazines and newspapers piled on top. This was a place that sorely needed some TLC.
I saw the indistinct figure of Jim Brenner across the room, outlined against bright sunlight, standing in the wide sliding-glass doorway leading to a back deck. He was like a shadow, gazing out into the backyard, his arms crossed in front of him.
From what little I could see, he was standing in what might be the only source of light in the whole house.
The curtains were drawn tight across the rest of the windows in the living room. The furthest corners lay in darkness. There was a faint odor of mildew. From my vantage point, I could see into the kitchen. The blinds in there were closed as well and I could barely make out the refrigerator and stove sitting heavily against the far wall in the shadows; green, red, and blue lights from the appliances glowed like lonely stars in an empty universe. I felt like I was in a tunnel and the proverbial light at the end of it was where Jim Bren
ner stood facing away from me.
I struggled with a brief bout of déjà vu. Earlier in the day I’d been in a place very much like this, Kevin’s bedroom. It struck me that Kevin and Jim Brenner could be very similar—both hiding, both living in darkness. They had both lost their wives. Cancer had claimed Kevin’s. A more grisly death had claimed Jim Brenner’s.
“Jim, this is Geneva Chase,” Aaron announced. “She’s a reporter with The Sheffield Post.”
Jim turned and looked at me.
That’s when I recognized him. He was the speaker at the AA meeting on Thursday night, the same night I got the call about the murders on Connor’s Landing.
What was it he’d said? That he wanted to hurt his wife and he wanted to hurt the man she married?
Then the paranoia set in.
Do I smell bourbon?
Jim had been staring out into the backyard. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the diminished light of his house. Then he stepped forward with an outstretched arm.
As I reached out and shook his hand, I could feel the strength in his grip and see the broadness of his shoulders. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he occupied almost twice as much space.
How had Ted described him? Like a linebacker?
My heart skipped a beat when I saw he had a glass in his other hand.
“How can I help you?” he asked in a low, husky voice.
Unlike his brother, Jim Brenner had a full head of dark hair. His face was clean-shaven but from what I could make out in the shadows, he had the ruddy color of a man who’d spent a good deal of his life as a drinker. Jim’s eyes were blue like his brother’s but less like ice and more like sky. And they were marred with the glassy red rawness of someone who was crying.
Or drinking.
He attempted a disingenuous smile marred by a chipped front tooth that glinted in the scant light.
“First of all, I’d like to say how sorry I am for your loss,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?”
“Sure,” he said. “Would you like something to drink?” He held up his own glass.
