The shimmering blond sister bam-7

by David Handler

  “Your roses look very nice, Mrs. Farrrell,” Mitch observed.

  “Why, thank you.” Maddee flashed a tight smile at him. “It’s not easy keeping them healthy, you know, what with the insects and diseases and ball-playing louts.”

  Mitch nodded politely, although he was unaware of any Captain Chadwick House resident who played any kind of ball, loutish or otherwise. “Mrs. Farrell, this is Lieutenant Very. He’s a police officer from New York City.”

  Very nodded at her. “How are you, ma’am?”

  “Rather alarmed, now that you ask,” Maddee replied loftily. “We both are. Isn’t that right, Dex?”

  Dex didn’t respond. Didn’t look up from his puzzle. Didn’t so much as acknowledge their presence.

  “A man has been beaten to death in the middle of the Historic District, Lieutenant. This sort of behavior is simply not Dorset, I assure you. Why would anyone do such a horrible thing?”

  “That’s what the state police are trying to ascertain,” Very replied.

  “Thirty-six across, Mr. Berger,” Dex said suddenly, tapping the puzzle with his pencil. “The clue is ‘Actor Ray.’ The answer would be

  …?”

  “That depends on whether you need four letters or six. If it’s four then I’d go with Aldo Ray. You may remember him as Davie Hucko in the Tracy-Hepburn movie Pat and Mike. If it’s six letters then they’re probably referring to Ray Liotta, the star of Goodfellas.”

  “Two, three, four letters…” Dex murmured. “And Aldo fits. I already have the O. Thank you, Mr. Berger.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten my invitation. The world is full of lunatics and bores. Do stop by for some lemonade and a talk.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  “Have you had any luck with that other matter?” Maddee asked Mitch.

  “Other matter?”

  “Gathering up your old clothes for the Nearly New shop. So many good, hardworking folks are doing without these days. Even if your things are a bit worn the Goodwill will gratefully accept them. Shoes, too, if any of yours are getting tight. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit. The adult male’s foot can grow as much as a full size larger, you know.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” he promised her as he and the lieutenant continued down the brick path.

  “Dude, is everyone in this town crazy?” Very wondered, shaking his head.

  “Pretty much.”

  There were a half dozen garage bays not counting Augie’s. His had yellow police tape over its locked double-wide door. Very yanked it away and punched a security code in the keypad. The automatic door promptly lifted open.

  “How did you know his code?”

  “Dawgie used Gina’s birth date for everything.”

  Augie had a rider mower and a John Deere Gator in there. A tool bench. An old refrigerator. And, center stage, a gorgeous red, vintage Pontiac GTO.

  “His pride and joy,” Very said, gazing at it. “She’s a ’65. 389 V8, four on the floor, chrome rally wheels, dual exhausts. They called that color Montero red. He always wanted one when he was a kid. Bought it for himself last year off of some rich guy in the Hamptons.”

  “I never had the slightest idea, Lieutenant. I lived across the hall from Beth and Kenny for all of those years and I had no clue about her husband, her family, any of it. All I knew was that she was a nice lady.”

  Very stood there nodding, nodding. “She must have been a real honey in those days, too. Hell, she still is. Vinnie has good taste, I’ll sure give him…” He frowned at Mitch. “Dude, you just got way red all of a sudden. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. So kindly back off.”

  “Hey, whatever.”

  “You want to know something, Lieutenant? No one in this world is who or what they appear to be. That’s the second most important thing I’ve learned since I moved to Dorset.”

  “What’s the most important?”

  “That WASPs have no idea what a real bagel is. Tell me the truth-was Augie right? Is Beth still in the family business? Have she and Vinnie been working the casino?”

  Very ran a hand through his wavy black hair. “The truth? I honestly don’t know. But I was definitely getting played just now by her and that old lady both. They’re slick operators those two. Moved me wherever they wanted to.”

  “Meaning what? That they’re hiding something more?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I have no idea what. But I sure would like to know.”

  “How much of this do you have to share with Sergeant Snipes?”

  “All of it, dude. Sorry, but this is a murder investigation.”

  “Understood.”

  Very pulled two pairs of white latex gloves from the back pocket of his jeans, tossing one pair to Mitch. “Never leave home without ’em,” he said, grinning at him. Then he felt around underneath the GTO’s rear bumper until he grabbed hold of a key case that was held in place under there with a magnet. He removed the key from the case and climbed the wooden stairway up to Augie’s apartment. Yanked the police tape from the door and used the key to open it.

  It was warm and stuffy inside Augie’s one-room apartment, which smelled of Aqua Velva, stale beer and dirty laundry. The decor had the flavor of a hot-sheet motel room in Secaucus, New Jersey. All that was missing was the cheapo landscape painting on the wall over his unmade bed. For art, Augie had a pinup calendar from a tool catalog thumbtacked to his closet door. Miss August was a busty blonde wearing red suspenders, a tool belt and a smile. Augie had a Pullman kitchen with dirty dishes piled high in the sink. An olive green lounge chair that was set before a thirteen-inch TV. A footlocker that served as a coffee table. There was a battered old oak desk. A chest of drawers. On top of that there was a framed photograph of a pretty young woman with dark hair.

  “That’s Gina,” Very said somberly. “He wanted to be buried next to her in Mineola. His plot’s all paid for. I’ll have him transported there after they release his body.”

  Mitch had a look underneath the bed. Augie’s Louisville Slugger was gone, just as Very had said it would be. Mitch could definitely make out its outline in the thick layer of dust under there. “I don’t get it-if this place was locked, then how did that bat end up out there last night? Des swore Augie didn’t have it on him.”

  “Obviously, she was mistaken.”

  “What if she wasn’t?”

  “She was. Had to be. That’s the only way it rolls. I’ll search the desk, okay? You check out the footlocker.”

  There were newspapers and empty beer cans heaped on the footlocker. Mitch removed them and opened it. Inside, he found a stack of old Playboy magazines from the late sixties. Each issue had been tucked inside of a protective plastic sleeve.

  “This guy was a serious collector,” he said, sifting through them. “He has Barbara McNair’s legendary nude pictorial from If He Hollers, Let Him Go. And here’s the classic Ursula Andress spread from July, ’66. Look at all of these-Julie Newmar, Pamela Tiffin, Stella Stevens…”

  “Anything in there besides old time peek-a-boobage?” Very asked as he riffled through the desk drawers.

  “Baseball cards. Shoe boxes full of them. Looks as if he has the complete Yankees teams from ’64 through ’72. But there’s not a thing in here that’s the least bit current.” Mitch closed the footlocker back up. “You having any luck?”

  “Nada. No notepads. No nothing. Wait, here we go…” He’d found his friend’s Nikon in the bottom drawer. Checked its register before popping it open. “No film inside, damn it.” Very got up and checked out Augie’s bathroom. Poked around in the medicine chest. Then went prowling into the kitchen, flinging open cupboards and drawers and, lastly, the refrigerator. “Got something here, dude.”

  “What is it, lieutenant?”

  “A cold six of Ballantine. I’m totally there. You want one, too?”

  “Why not?”

  Mitch joined him in the tiny kitchen and accepted a tall can of Balla
ntine Ale. Leaned against the sink, opened it and drank some down while Very peered inside the open refrigerator. It was empty except for the Ballantine, a carton of orange juice and assorted condiments. Clearly, the man didn’t do much cooking. Very reached for the mustard jar, twisted its lid off and poked his gloved index finger inside. Then he screwed the lid back on and did the same thing to the pickle relish, the ketchup and the mayonnaise. It was a large jar of mayonnaise. And when Very plunged his finger in down deep-son of a bitch-he found a smaller jar submerged inside. He removed it from its goopy hiding place and rinsed it off in the sink. Inside of it there was a roll of 35mm Kodak film.

  “Knew I’d find it eventually,” he said with quiet satisfaction.

  “I’m surprised that the crime scene investigators didn’t.”

  “Had no reason to, dude. They weren’t looking for it.”

  “What do you think is on it, Lieutenant?”

  “Dawgie’s last batch of surveillance photos, I’m hoping. That roll he FedExed me of you and Beth having smoothies together-when did he take those?”

  “Friday afternoon.”

  “These must be from Friday night. Or maybe some time during the day on Saturday.”

  “Why didn’t he get them developed? Why did he hide them?”

  “No idea. But we’ve got to find out what’s on this roll right away. Is there a place here in town that’s open on Sunday?”

  “No, but there’s a quickie photo center over in Old Saybrook. It’s in the shopping center across from the bowling alley.”

  “You telling me that’s what people do out here to launch their payload? They bowl?”

  “I can drive you over there.”

  “Not necessary. I’m on it. Just need you to run me back to your island for my bike.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’ve got other business to attend to. Still have to find myself a place to stay tonight, for one thing.”

  “If you run into any trouble with that let me know. My neighbor, Bitsy Peck, has at least eight spare bedrooms and loves company. And why don’t you come out for dinner later? If you don’t get a better offer, I mean.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.” Very sipped his Ballantine, gazing around at his dead friend’s dreary little apartment. “Not much to leave behind when you’re gone, is it, dude?”

  “No, Lieutenant,” Mitch said softly. “It’s not.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “What have you got for me, girl? And, please God, make it good,” blustered Yolie as she barreled across the lawn from her cruiser, fists clenched, jaw clenched, clenched. “Because I really need a break here, understand?”

  Des was stretched out on one of Mitch’s lawn chairs savoring the fresh sea breeze after spending so many hours at that damned desk-searching high and low on her computer screen, working the phone. Quirt lay underneath her, his tail swishing in the grass. The geese were flying overhead. The grill was lit. Augie’s killer was still on the loose. The Dorset Flasher, who either was or was not the same person, was still on the loose. Her father was having his chest cut open in three days. It was just a typical Sunday evening in paradise. “I understand, Yolie,” she said. “Chill out, girl. You’re so wired you’re giving off sparks.”

  “Damned media people keep messing with my head,” she huffed in response. “Demanding I feed them something for the six o’clock news. What do you tell them when you have nothing to tell them?”

  “That this is an ongoing criminal investigation. That you are pursuing numerous fruitful leads, are making excellent progress and have no new information that you can share with them at this time.”

  Yolie stuck out her chin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.”

  “Then you should be fine.”

  “Rico really doesn’t like me putting my face out there.”

  “Rico will really have to deal with it. Sit yourself down, will you? You have to learn how to pace yourself. We’ll talk it out over dinner.”

  Mitch had gone to fetch a bucket of sweet corn from Bitsy’s garden. His own fresh-picked salad greens were taking a bath in the kitchen sink. Two organic free-range chickens were marinating in olive oil, lemon juice, rosemary and garlic.

  He came trudging up the path now, a Corona in one hand, his bucket of corn in the other. “Hey, Yolie,” he called to her. “Can I get you a beer?”

  She shook her head. “No slow juice for me. I’m on duty tonight.”

  “In that case, how would you like a cranberry spritzer with a twist of lime and a sprig of my very own homegrown mint?”

  “Do I look like some skinny East Side Gap bitch to you?”

  “Down, girl,” Des cautioned her.

  Yolie puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, Mitch. Didn’t mean to bite you. I’m just a little stressed right now.”

  He grinned at her. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That cranberry… whatever sounds great.”

  “One spritzer, coming right up,” he said as a buzzer went off inside the cottage. Someone was at the causeway gate. Mitch fetched his binoculars from inside of the door and had a look. “Ah, good, it’s Lieutenant Very.”

  Yolie’s eyes widened with alarm. “What’s he doing here?”

  “I invited him to dinner. Hope you don’t mind.” Mitch pressed the buzzer to raise the security barricade and then went inside to make her drink.

  Des watched the New York cop ease his motorcycle across the wooden causeway, hearing its throaty roar.

  “I-I had no idea he was coming. None.” Yolie sounded even more wound up now-if such a thing was even possible. “It would have been nice if you’d warned me, girl. Just a teeny-tiny heads-up, know what I’m saying? I’ve been wearing the same clothes since yesterday. Smell like I’ve been living in a damned Dumpster for the past…” She broke off, fanning her face with her fingers. “Am I acting whack?”

  “Not at all. He’s really cute. And Mitch thinks he’s a nice guy.”

  “He does seem nice, doesn’t he?”

  Des got up and went inside. Mitch was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on Yolie’s drink. “Is this you pulling a Bella or what?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Master Sergeant.”

  “You do, too, Mister Matchmaker.”

  “Ohh… I see where you’re going with this. But you could not be more wrong. I had no idea Yolie was coming to dinner when I invited him.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “Uh-huh…”

  “But now that you mention it I’m glad she’s here.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because the guy’s desperately lonely. And when I first mentioned Yolie’s name to him he went ‘Woo…’ ”

  “Woo…? What’s that mean?”

  “That he thinks she’s hot.”

  “Mitch, he’d better not hurt her.”

  “What makes you think he’d do that?”

  “He’s a man, isn’t he?”

  “I knew it. Film noir weekend was a huge mistake. I should never have screened Out of the Past for you. Let’s try to think positive, okay? Lieutenant Very isn’t Robert Mitchum and Yolie’s not Jane Greer. Just leave them be.”

  He started back outside with Yolie’s spritzer and a cold Corona for the lieutenant. Des followed him. Very stood next to his bike yakking a mile a minute with Yolie, the two of them so hyper Des was sure they were about to lift right up off of the ground.

  Mitch handed them their drinks. “Any luck finding somewhere to stay tonight, Lieutenant?”

  “Afraid not. There isn’t a motel room to be had anywhere.”

  “I just spoke to my neighbor Bitsy. You’re welcome to bunk with her. She lives in that giant natural-shingled place over there. I can introduce you after dinner.”

  “Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.”

  “How did you make out with that other thing?”

  Very took a long, thirsty gulp of his Corona. “I made out,” he replied, leaving it there. Des had no i
dea what they were talking about.

  Mitch checked the grill and decided the fire was good to go. Fetched the platter of marinated chicken from the kitchen and set the pieces on the grill to sizzle, arranging the ears of corn around them.

  Very flopped down at the picnic table. “You get anywhere today, Sarge?”

  “Not unless you call nowhere somewhere,” Yolie grumbled, sitting down across from him.

  “Your people still haven’t turned up that ski mask?”

  “No mask. It’s gone. Or was never there to begin with.”

  “How about Dawgie’s body? Did they find any hairs or clothing fibers on him?”

  Yolie shook her head at him. “Nothing. And they can’t tell us much more about his assailant than we already knew. He, or she, swung that bat right-handed. Height’s anywhere between five six and six foot-depending on how low Augie was crouched as he crept through the brush in the dark.”

  Des took a seat with them. “How about the force of the blows?”

  “Average strength for a man. Above average for a woman. Meaning we can cross Bertha Peck off our list. Except she’s so tiny and ancient that she was never on it to begin with.” Yolie took a sip of her spritzer. “Those shoe prints they found down by the riverbank? Tread pattern belongs to a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars. It’s a unisex shoe. A man or woman could have been wearing them. Same old song-average-sized foot for a man, above average for a woman. They gave me their usual boatload of blah-blah-blah about the perp’s estimated weight and corresponding height, for whatever good that does.”

  Des made a face. “Which isn’t much.”

  “I don’t even pay attention,” agreed Very, nodding, nodding. “I’ve turned up big, fat perps with little, tiny feet. Pip-squeaks who wear a size twelve triple-E. That stuff’s meaningless. Sure sounds good when they do it on Law and Order though.” He peered across the table at Yolie. “So you’re nowhere.”