The Blood Red Indian Summer

by David Handler

  CHAPTER 10

  MITCH HAD ALREADY DEVOURED his fourth biscotti by the time he turned off Old Shore Road and started his way through the Nature Preserve. Pressured. He was feeling unusually pressured. He absolutely had to send his Halloween Scare-a-Palooza column off to Lacy this afternoon. And clean his house from top to bottom for tonight’s quasi-monumental dinner party. And go for a three-mile run so as to work off the truly alarming number of calories he’d been mainlining over the past seventy-two hours. And try on every single pair of pants he owned so as to determine if any of them were creeping northward toward his armpits. Plus he felt an overwhelming urge to take a long, hot shower after his little chat with Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin. He was positive that Plotka had spit shrimp salad on him. Andrea? She’d just made him feel soiled.

  As Mitch neared the barricade to the Big Sister causeway, he came upon a gleaming blue Porsche Carrera convertible parked there with its top down. Rondell Grantham stood leaning against it, neatly dressed in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks. He was a very serious, professional-looking little guy—aside from the half-empty fifth of Grey Goose vodka he was chug-a-lugging. He seemed to have been weeping. His eyes were red and swollen behind his gold-framed spectacles.

  “Can I help you?” Mitch asked him through the Studey’s open window.

  “Yes, sir, you can,” he answered thickly. Wasted. Rondell was totally wasted. “Are you … Mr. Berger?”

  “I am.”

  “I am sorry to bother you but my family has suffered a terrible experience. My brother’s wife … Her sister washed up on your beach.”

  “I know. I’m the one who found her. And I know you, Rondell. We met last night at the party. I was with Resident Trooper Mitry. I escorted Mr. Lash home, remember?”

  Rondell peered at him, his gaze unfocused. “Of course. Please forgive me. I’m a little … upset.” He took a big gulp of the vodka, holding the bottle out to Mitch. “Care for some?”

  “No, thanks. It’s a little early for me.”

  “I hardly ever drink. Maybe a glass of champagne at New Year’s.”

  “Rondell, was that bottle full when you started in on it?”

  “Yes, I believe it was. I opened it. Needed a drink.” He took another gulp, wavering as he stood there. “Has Resident Trooper Mitry … told you anything?”

  “I know Kinitra’s pregnant, if that’s what you mean.”

  Rondell let out a grief-stricken sob. “Who would do such a thing to her?”

  “Rondell, would you like to come out for a cup of coffee?”

  “Actually, I was wondering … I would very much like to see the spot where you found her.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I almost lost her. Want to see where she was found. That make any sense?”

  “Sure, it does. I’ll be happy to show you. Nice car you have, by the way.”

  “Thank you. It was a birthday present from my brother.”

  “Why don’t you leave it here? We can take my truck, okay?”

  Rondell was certainly an agreeable drunk. He opened the Studey’s passenger door and climbed right in, bottle in hand. “This truck is very much an antique type of truck, is it not?”

  “It is an antique type of truck, yes.”

  “Most interesting.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  Mitch steered it across the wooden causeway and pulled up outside his cottage.

  Rondell squinted at it through the windshield. “This is very much an antique type of house, too. Rather modest in scale. I thought it would be much grander.”

  “It’s plenty big enough for me. I live by myself.”

  “Really? I personally have never lived by myself. Wouldn’t even know how. I’ve always lived with my brother. Or a-a succession of college roommates. None of them liked me very much. Do you like me, Mitch?”

  “Sure, I like you fine. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because most people do not. They consider me to be a drippy, dweeby sort of individual. I never spent much time with my roommates. I was always at the library studying. I had to be. I couldn’t let Tyrone find out my secret.” He drank down some more vodka, hiccoughing slightly. “Would you like to know my secret?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not very smart.”

  “Who are you kidding? You don’t get an MBA from Wharton by being a dummy.”

  “No, listen to what I’m saying. Listen. The others were so much smarter. I had to play catch up at the library every single night. Cram and cram and…” Rondell noticed the groceries that were piled on the seat between them. “You do your own cooking?”

  “I do.”

  “You’re an accomplished type of person, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m what they call a renaissance schlub.”

  Rondell blinked at him. “May I see the inside of your home?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mitch stowed the dinner groceries in the fridge while Rondell flopped down on the love seat with his vodka bottle, gazing around at the living room.

  “Very nice home, Mitch,” he observed.

  “Just do me a favor and don’t call it sa-weet.”

  “Wasn’t going to. I would be very happy in such a house. It’s exceedingly atmospheric. You play the guitar?”

  “I make some noise.”

  “Kinitra plays the piano.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Rondell set the bottle down sharply on the coffee table. “I would like to see where you found her.”

  Mitch led him down the path toward the beach. Rondell walked slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other as if he were on a tightrope. It was still warm and muggy out. The sky was a hazy summer sky. And yet Mitch could feel a slight change in the air. A breeze was starting to pick up. A few sailboats were out there trying to catch hold of it.

  Rondell peered out at them. “Tyrone has a cigarette boat.”

  “I’ve seen it. And heard it.”

  “I hate the thing. It’s so childish.”

  “We’re all children inside.”

  “Very true, Mitch. You are a profoundly deep individual.”

  “That’s me, all right. I was voted North America’s Deepest Critic at the Cannes Film Festival last year.”

  “Were you really?”

  “That was a joke, Rondell.”

  He nodded sagely. “Another reason why nobody likes me—I have no sense of humor whatsoever.”

  “I can give you some homework if you want. A thorough grounding in the films of Preston Sturges ought to help. Plus a steady diet of Abbott and Costello, The Three Stooges, Daffy Duck … Tell you what, I’ll put together a list.”

  “I would appreciate that very much.”

  Mitch had left an orange safety cone where they’d found her. The tide had gone out since then. The cone stood well back from the water’s edge.

  As he approached the cone Rondell began to cry. He fell to his knees and flattened his hands against the sand, holding them there as if he were trying to soak up Kinitra’s aura. “She … was naked when you found her?”

  “She had on a white sleeveless T-shirt and panties.”

  “But you could see through them.”

  “Well, yeah. They were soaking wet.”

  He looked up at Mitch accusingly. “You saw her private bits.”

  “I’m not the only one who did.”

  “Shut your filthy mouth!” Rondell staggered to his feet and threw a wild roundhouse right at Mitch, who ducked it easily and stuck out his leg, tripping him. Rondell sat down hard on the sand, gulped and then proceeded to gaack up that bottle of Grey Goose along with, seemingly, everything he’d eaten in the past three days.

  “Feel better now?” Mitch asked him when he was all done.

  “I suppose,” he replied weakly, kicking sand over the mess.

  “I wasn’t disrespecting her, Rondell. All I meant was that my parents were with me when I found her. They saw her, too. So did
the Jewett girls.”

  “I understand. Absolutely, totally my mistake. I apologize. Would you care to hug it out?”

  “Not necessary. We’re good.”

  “I love her so much that it hurts,” he confessed. “It physically hurts, Mitch. Right here in my chest. Kinitra’s my angel. You should hear her sing. You should be around her. She’s … so beautiful. All I ever dream about is the day we will be together.”

  “Does she feel the same way about you?”

  Rondell shook his head. “Not yet. She still thinks of me as someone who’s too serious for her. Bordering on dull. My brother keeps telling me to lighten up around her. Be more casual. He’s even taken to buying me hipper clothes. Tell me, is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rondell sat there on the sand, hugging his knees to his chest. “I realize she’s not going to fall for someone like me at this particular stage of her life. She’s about to become a huge singing star. She wants a handsome movie actor or professional athlete, not a glorified accountant. And I’m okay with that for now. I’ll be proud to manage her career for her. Keep her finances in order so she won’t get robbed blind like so many young performers do. And, over time, my hope is that she will eventually see me the same way I see her. I’m patient. I can wait for years if I have to. Because, for me, there’s no one else.” He let out a forlorn sigh. “My brother thinks I’m a fool. He’s had hundreds of women. Possibly even thousands. They literally throw themselves in his path at clubs, at parties, wherever he goes. Mind you, that was before he met Jamella. Now he has to toe the line. She makes sure he does. Watches his every move. Believe me, you do not want to piss that one off.”

  “How about Clarence?”

  Rondell looked at Mitch blankly. “What about him?”

  “Does he think you’re a fool?”

  “Cee aspires to nothing more than an endless parade of party skanks.”

  “Has he ever shown any interest in Kinitra?”

  Rondell shook his head. “She’s not his type. Besides, if he goes anywhere near her, Jamella will tell Tyrone to send him packing.”

  “You say that Tyrone thinks you’re a fool for feeling like you do about Kinitra. But he’s a married man himself now, soon to become a father. Doesn’t he feel that way about Jamella?”

  “Love her, you mean? No, that’s not actually possible. Tyrone doesn’t know how to place someone else’s happiness ahead of his own. He’s not made that way. Jamella is what you’d call a career move. His future in the NFL depends upon him proving to the commissioner that he has matured. And nothing says maturity like a wife and a child.”

  “You make it sound awfully calculated.”

  “Only because it is. I’m not being critical. I love my brother. But he is who he is. And I-I…” Rondell choked back a sob. “I don’t know anything.” He hiccoughed, his eyes twirling around in their sockets. “Mitch, I don’t feel so good.…”

  * * *

  A swarm of media people surrounded Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin as they stood outside the Grantham estate, holding their press conference. Andrea was waving an article of clothing for all of the cameras to see. It was red. A shirt or blouse.

  Mitch had to honk at a dozen cameramen to move so he could pull into the driveway. Trooper Olsen was on duty there at the gate.

  “What’s the earth-shattering news, Oly?”

  “Plotka claims he has Katie O’Brien’s blouse with Grantham’s semen all over it. The lawyer’s demanding Grantham give up a DNA sample.” Trooper Olsen shook his head in disgust. “That Plotka comes off like a no-good shakedown artist.”

  “Only because he is one.”

  “But the insane thing is he could be telling the truth. Given Da Beast’s history with the ladies.”

  “Yes, he could. I’m afraid there are no clear-cut heroes in this movie.”

  Trooper Olsen peered across Mitch at his unconscious passenger. “Did Rondell get trashed or something?”

  “Just had a bit of a shock. I didn’t think he should drive.”

  The trooper opened the gate. Mitch drove on in and parked by the front door behind a black Escalade. He got out and rang the doorbell. No one answered it. He rang it again. Finally, he heard footsteps and the door was opened by the immensely fat Chantal Grantham. She had a Swiffer Duster in her right hand, a bucket of soapy water in her left hand and an intensely hostile expression on her face. A vacuum cleaner was running loudly in a nearby room.

  “What do you want?” Chantal demanded. Before Mitch could respond, she turned around and hollered, “Don’t forget under the sofa cushions, too, Monique!” Then she turned back to him, eyeing him suspiciously. “Well?…”

  “I’ve driven Rondell home, Mrs. Grantham.”

  “Why you want to do that for? His Porsche break down?”

  “His Porsche is fine, but he wasn’t in any shape to drive it.”

  “He sick or something?”

  “He’s passed out drunk.”

  Chantal shook her head. “That can’t be. Rondell doesn’t care for alcohol. Never touches it.”

  “Well, he touched it today.”

  She glared at Mitch accusingly. “You got him drunk, didn’t you? I knew I didn’t like the look of you. Sneaking around in the woods like you was.”

  “Mrs. Grantham, he was already drunk when he showed up at my place. He’s very upset about Kinitra.”

  “Oh, I get you…” Chantal’s gaze softened a bit. “He’s so young. All of those college degrees of his yet he’s still a little boy when it comes to women.” She hesitated, her brow furrowing. She seemed to be making up her mind about something. “You be seeing that girlfriend of yours today?”

  “Yes. We’re having dinner later.”

  “Tell her from me that today was laundry day, okay?”

  Mitch stared at her. “Laundry day?”

  “Laundry day.”

  “And she’ll know what that means?”

  “Just shut up and tell her, will you?” Then she turned around and yelled, “Cee, get your bony ass out here right goddamned now!”

  Clarence came running, looking freakishly tall and wiry in his tank top and gym shorts. He was drenched with sweat, his muscles popping. “Yo, whassup?”

  “Rondell’s passed out drunk in this here gentleman’s pickup. Put him to bed, will you? And don’t say nothing to Tyrone.”

  “Awright.” Clarence went out to Mitch’s truck, opened the passenger door and threw his little cousin over one shoulder with ease. “You were at my party last night with the trooper, weren’t you?” he asked Mitch.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you found Kinitra on the beach this morning.”

  “Right again.”

  “Hang out a sec. Want to talk to you.”

  Clarence carried Rondell inside. Chantal followed him. Mitch waited there by his truck until Clarence returned, pulling the front door shut behind him.

  “Tyrone and myself been doing some reps in the weight room,” he explained, mopping his sweaty brow with a gym towel. “Lifting settles him down some. Helps him deal with the monster inside. And the monster is definitely loose. I hear he almost tore up that whole clinic when he found out Kinitra’s pregnant.” Clarence glanced down the driveway toward the front gate. “We were watching ESPN in the gym just now. Saw that clown Plotka claiming he’s got Tyrone’s spooge all over some blouse. Big man was ready to sprint down the driveway and strangle the little bastard on live television. I told him, yo, that’s what he wants you to do. He’s trying to rile you.” Clarence wadded up the towel and tossed it at the front porch. “He freaks me out when he gets this way. He needs Jamella to calm him down. But she has to be at the hospital with Kinitra.” He eyed Mitch up and down curiously. “So what happened to little man?”

  “He wanted to see where I found her. Showed up at my place drunk as a skunk.”


  “Where’s his ride?”

  “Parked at the foot of the causeway. It’ll be fine there until someone has a chance to fetch it.”

  “I’ll go get it right now. I can use a run. It’s just under two miles from here if you cut through those woods at the end of Sour Cherry Lane.”

  Mitch looked at him in surprise. “I thought only the old-timers knew about that footpath.”

  “You thought wrong. I always familiarize myself with the surrounding terrain. Tyrone likes to take nature runs. Six, eight miles at a clip.”

  “I can give you a lift if you’d rather. I’m heading right back there.”

  Clarence’s face relaxed into an easy grin. “You talked me into it. Let me just get his keys.”

  Mitch got in behind the wheel and waited for Clarence to join him, car keys in hand. The Studey’s cab wasn’t exactly spacious. Clarence had to fold his long self in carefully, limb by limb.

  “You have enough legroom there?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m good.”

  “Think I need a new truck?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Just asking.”

  Outside the front gate, Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin were still holding the media throng transfixed. No one paid any attention as Mitch rolled on out of there, working the Studey through its three-speed overdrive transmission.

  Clarence said, “I wanted to thank you for that heads-up you gave the trooper about the hole in our fence. The fencing company’s going to put in a whole new section tomorrow morning.”

  “What about until then?”

  “I drilled some holes in a sheet of plywood and wired it into place over the hole. Should do the trick unless someone really wants in. And if they do, there’s no stopping them, am I right?”

  “I’m afraid you are.”

  “Chantal and myself paid a social call on the Joshua sisters and Mr. Lash. Brought them a mess of food.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Wasn’t my idea. Let me tell you, those are some strange old ladies.”

  “Pretty standard for Dorset.”

  “And that house of theirs with all of those antique clocks tick-tocking away.” Clarence shook his head in amazement. “I felt like I was walking right into that Tennessee Williams play. The one with the little glass figurines.”