The Blood Red Indian Summer bam-8

by David Handler

  He gazed through the windshield at the Bonds’ picture-postcard home with its multimillion-dollar view of the Sound. “These people make me sick.”

  “Welcome to Dorset, Popsy.”

  “Get us the hell out of here, Desiree. And don’t you ever call me ‘Popsy’ again.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “So, Buck, what do you think about these two crazy kids of ours?”

  The icebreaker play. Unreal. His father was actually going for the old icebreaker play. Hell, he’d probably been rehearsing that lame line all day.

  “I think,” the Deacon replied slowly, “that we all deserve a chance to be happy in this life. And no one should judge what does or doesn’t make someone else happy.”

  “Amen to that, Buck.”

  Damned if it didn’t work, too. The two fathers actually clinked glasses over the picnic table and took sips of their Sancerre.

  Seventeen minutes. Mitch began to breathe in and out normally for the first time since Des and her steely, six-feet-four-inch ramrod of a father showed up seventeen minutes ago. Seventeen whole minutes of forced small talk, awkward silences and even more awkward silences. There wasn’t a natural ease between the Deacon and Mitch’s incredible shrinking father. The Deacon wasn’t a relaxed or easy man. He’d shown up for dinner wearing a gray flannel suit. Chet had on a madras shirt and a pair of mango-colored Florida slacks snugged up to his sternum. Mitch really wanted to floor it to the Frederick House and nuke his father’s entire wrinkle-free wardrobe. Instead he got busy lighting the grill. Des was inside the house with Ruth fetching some nibblies.

  “Sa-weet spot Mitch has here, isn’t it?” Chet said as the two fathers gazed out at the Sound.

  “Beautiful sunset tonight, too,” the Deacon observed.

  Beautiful and rare. It was a blood red sunset. The western sky was pure crimson and the water had a rosy glow unlike anything Mitch had ever seen before. Meanwhile, from the south, ominous gray storm clouds were rolling in.

  Des and Ruth came out of the house now, Ruth carrying a bowl of those healthful unsalted soy nuts that taste remarkably like packing material.

  “This sure beats the early bird special at our coffee shop, doesn’t it, Ruthie?” Chet called out to her.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “I hope I can get our dinner cooked before it starts to rain,” Mitch said, studying the dark clouds.

  “It’s not going to rain,” Chet said with total certainty. “It can’t.”

  “Why do you say that, Pop?”

  “Because the sky’s all red. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ Everyone knows that.”

  “The Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, predicted rain.”

  “Then the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, is wrong.”

  “Not possible. Jim Cantore’s never wrong.”

  “Don’t get between Mitch and Jim Cantore,” Des advised Chet. “He has a huge man crush on him.”

  “I do not. I just happen to think he’s the greatest weatherman ever.”

  Which led to yet another awkward silence. The four of them sat together at the picnic table, Mitch glancing over at Des. She had a slightly panicked expression on her face. And he swore he could hear her stomach churning in the evening quiet.

  Happily, the Deacon dove in with an uber-lame icebreaker of his own: “Do you folks enjoy being retired down there in Vero Beach?”

  “No, we do not,” Chet replied. “That’s why we’re moving back to New York.”

  Mitch stared at him in shock. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

  Chet beamed at him. “We’re coming back. We’ve been saving the big news for tonight, what with this being a special occasion with special friends. We miss the city. We miss being alive. You know what Vero is? An outpost for a bunch of self-satisfied schnorrers who never did a goddamned thing for anybody else their whole lives. And all they do now is kvetch about their bunions and their lazy, ungrateful kids. We thought we’d be happy down there. We thought it was time to collect our pensions and take it easy. We were wrong. This whole retirement thing is a crock. If you’re not doing something then you’re not alive. Am I right, Ruthie?”

  “Absolutely right,” she agreed.

  “So that’s what these ‘appointments’ have been about?”

  Chet nodded. “We’ve been apartment hunting. I don’t think we can swing Manhattan anymore. You’ve got to be some kind of hotshot film critic to do that. But we found a very nice two-bedroom in Jackson Heights yesterday.”

  “I have a better idea,” Mitch said. “Why don’t you just stay in my place?”

  “Nah. We don’t want to cramp your style.”

  “But I’m out here most of the time. Besides, I don’t have any style.”

  “We’ve also been talking to people,” Chet went on. “An old pal of mine who’s got pull in the superintendent’s office, the folks at the Teacher’s Union. We’re still sorting out our options. It’s no secret that the city’s hurting for money. But they still need substitutes. And they always need volunteers. If just one kid at Boys and Girls High wants to sit down after school with a math tutor then I’m going to be there for that kid. I don’t care whether they pay me or not. Same goes for Ruthie.” He smiled at her. “Buck, this little lady was school librarian at a middle school in Washington Heights. Latino kids, mostly. English was a second language for a lot of them. She didn’t just check books in and out. She taught hundreds of them how to read those books. Their teachers didn’t have time. Their parents didn’t know how. Ruthie stayed after school with them in that library for hours. Then she’d walk the girls home through the lousiest neighborhoods you ever saw. But no one ever messed with Mrs. Berger. They didn’t dare. There are hard-working people out there, true American success stories, who never would have made it if Ruthie hadn’t been there. And nothing has changed. Those kids still need us. Especially the boys. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  “No, you don’t,” the Deacon said solemnly. “Too many of them are growing up in the street. No family structure or sense of belonging. So they end up in a gang and then we lose them.”

  Mitch raised his wine glass to his folks. “Well, I think this is great.”

  “Do you really?” Ruth asked, her eyes shining at him.

  “Really. It’ll be great to have you back.”

  Chet said, “Thanks. And if you feel like baking in the sun with a bunch of boring old people, the condo in Vero Beach is all yours. You, too, Buck. If you and a lady friend are ever looking to get away for a few days.”

  The Deacon said nothing to that.

  Chet didn’t leave it there. He couldn’t. He was obsessively nosy. Always had been. “Mind if I ask what happened between you and Desiree’s mother?”

  “Dad, maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Mitch cautioned over the sound of Des’s churning stomach.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind,” the Deacon said quietly. “She felt she wanted something else. Someone else.”

  “And how long ago was this?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Have you been dating?”

  “Not really.”

  “It was a yes or no question, Buck.”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  “You ought to. We’re not meant to be alone. I know a terrific guidance counselor at Boys and Girls High. Marcia’s a widow of color in her early fifties. Good-looking woman. I talked to her yesterday on the phone.”

  “He’s had a crush on her for years,” Ruth said tartly.

  “Does Sharon Gless know about this?” Mitch asked.

  “Buck, you’re coming into the city and the four of us are having dinner, okay?”

  “I’m still recuperating from my bypass surgery,” the Deacon said.

  “I know, but you will recuperate. And you will come to dinner.”

  “Go for it, Daddy,” Des said encouragingly.

  The Deacon hesitated. “It’s nice
of you to offer. I’m just not sure when that will be.”

  “Sure, sure. I understand. But I also know this-before long you’ll be back on the job kicking tuchos and feeling like a rooster again. Trust me.”

  Des stared across the table at Chet with a startled expression on her face. “I just realized something awesome…”

  “Which is what?” Mitch asked her.

  “How you became you.”

  Chet let out a laugh. “Who, this freak? We’re nothing alike. All Mitch ever did was watch old movies on TV. He was a walking encyclopedia of film credits by the time he was twelve. Why, I’ll bet he can still tell you… okay, who was the set decorator on Casablanca ?”

  “George James Hopkins,” Mitch answered.

  “And the assistant director of… The Glass Bottom Boat?”

  “Al Jennings. You’re lobbing me nothing but softballs, Pop.” Mitch munched on a handful of flavor-free soy nuts as the blood red sky turned to purple. Dusk was coming fast. “We’re losing our daylight. Would you care to move inside?”

  “Maybe we’d better,” Des said. “Sorry it took us so long to get here. We had to make a stop at Justy Bond’s house.”

  “Was this about that poor girl who we found?” Ruth asked her.

  “Yes, it was.”

  Inside the house, Mitch got busy turning on lamps while the others headed for the love seat and overstuffed chairs.

  “Mitch told us that she’s pregnant,” Ruth said.

  Des nodded. “Someone’s been sexually assaulting her-not that she’ll admit it.”

  “They never do. They’re too afraid. Believe me, I had more than my share of them. Nice, studious little thirteen-year-olds with baby bumps out to here. It broke my heart.”

  They settled around Mitch’s coffee table. Mitch filled everyone’s glasses. Clemmie checked out the Deacon’s lap and found it very accommodating. He stroked her gently.

  “Why were you at Justy Bond’s place?” Mitch asked Des.

  “Wanted to find out if June heard anything last night. The Calliope ’s well within earshot of Tyrone Grantham’s beach.”

  Mitch grinned at the Deacon. “So you two are working this case together?”

  “There is no case,” the Deacon responded, stone-faced.

  “June heard a struggle at two, maybe three a.m.,” Des reported. “Someone, presumably Kinitra, splashing around in the water. And a man calling to her. He called her ‘girl.’ June thought he sounded black.”

  “Do you have a suspect in mind?” Chet asked her.

  Des glanced uncertainly over at Ruth. “Are you sure this is what you want to be talking about?”

  “Absolutely. I want to know who did that to her.”

  Des took a small sip of her wine. “Tyrone’s wife, Jamella, is pretty much convinced that it was Tyrone.”

  “Clarence is right there with her,” Mitch said. “And you can put Rondell on the list, too. He showed up here this afternoon blind drunk. I had to drive him home. Which reminds me-I have a message for you from Chantal. She said to tell you that today was laundry day.”

  Des frowned at him. “Laundry day?”

  “Laundry day.”

  “And I’m supposed to know what that means?”

  “She wanted me to tell you. She was real intent about it.”

  Des glanced over at her father. “Maybe she found the rest of Kinitra’s clothing.”

  “Will that help you build your case?” Mitch asked.

  “There is no case,” he stated once again.

  A brisk wind picked up and began to blow through the cottage. Off in the distance, Mitch could hear a rumble of thunder.

  Chet eyed Des shrewdly across the coffee table. “You’ve got your eye on somebody other than Tyrone Grantham. Boo-Boo’s told us how razor sharp your mind is.”

  “Boo-Boo has a habit of exaggerating.”

  Mitch sighed. “Is there any chance I can get you to never call me that?”

  She looked at him through her eyelashes and said, “None.”

  “So who do you like?” Chet pressed her.

  “Stewart Plotka has a major grudge against Tyrone. He was in and around the Glen Cove vicinity eight weeks ago, and he and his lawyer are presently staying at the Saybrook Point Inn. The lawyer went to her room after dinner last night. He stayed at the bar until eleven. Maybe he slipped out after that and drove to Turkey Neck. Maybe he’s the one who made that hole in Tyrone’s fence. Maybe he burrowed through that hole and-”

  “And what?” Mitch interjected. “Waited around on the patio until Kinitra just happened to slip out in the middle of the night for a swim?”

  “Maybe they had a prior arrangement to meet.”

  “If that creep raped her, why on earth would she agree to meet with him?”

  “Because he told her he had some important information about Tyrone.”

  “Or possibly her sister,” the Deacon put in.

  “That’s good, Daddy. That totally works. The man’s shameless. And I wouldn’t call Kinitra overly bright.”

  Mitch nodded his head slowly. “Okay, but how did he set up the meeting?”

  “Easy. He bumped into her at the store some time in the past couple of days. Passed her a note. I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just saying it’s possible.”

  “Who else?” Chet asked. “Who else could have bumped into her and arranged this clandestine meeting?”

  “Des never uses the word ‘clandestine,’ Pop.”

  “She doesn’t? I thought all the pros used it.”

  “Maybe they do, but she doesn’t.”

  “How about hush-hush? Does she say hush-hush?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her-”

  “Boys, please!” Ruth scolded them.

  “There’s the neighbor, Justy Bond,” Des continued. “He’s clashed with Tyrone from Day One. His auto empire is collapsing. He drinks. The man’s your classic all-American mess. His wife, Bonita, claims he drank himself to sleep last night same as always. Except Bonita wasn’t in bed with him and therefore can’t be sure he didn’t go next door and attack Kinitra.”

  “Wait one second,” Mitch said sharply. “Where was Bonita?”

  “On board the Calliope with June. Not that either of them will admit it.”

  “But you can bank on it,” the Deacon said.

  Mitch reached for another handful of soy nuts. “So it’s like that?”

  Des nodded. “It’s like that.”

  Ruth said, “Desiree, is this Justy Bond devious enough to trick the girl into a late night meeting with him?”

  “He’s a car salesman. Need I say more?”

  “And what about his son, June? Is he a suspect, too?”

  “In theory? Yes. But I seriously doubt June is involved. He already has enough going on.” Des gazed down into her wine glass. “We also have to consider Tyrone’s other neighbor, Winston Lash. The old man knew about the hole in the fence. And he did bite that girl on the butt at Clarence’s party.”

  Chet’s eyes widened, “He what?”

  “Winston’s a dementia patient, Pop. He’s lost his sexual inhibitions, but he’s basically harmless. Hell, half the time the old fellow doesn’t even make any…” Mitch trailed off, scratching his head.

  Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Make any what?”

  “Never mind. I just thought of something I forgot.”

  “Are you going to share it with the rest of the class?” Chet asked.

  “It’s nothing. My point is he’s no rapist.”

  Chet said, “The girl consented to a rape examination at the clinic this morning. Clearly, she wants your help. So why won’t she accept that help and tell you the truth? Who is she so afraid of?”

  “Her big sister,” the Deacon answered quietly. “This is just us folks talking. But my own view is that Kinitra swam away like she did because of Jamella. Jamella has made a home for her, cared for her, supported her musical ambitions. Kinitra owes her a lot. An
d it’s eating her up inside.”

  “What is, Buck?” Ruth asked.

  “That she ‘let’ her sister’s husband have his way with her. Not that she could have stopped a two-hundred-forty-pound bully like Tyrone Grantham. If he was intent on having his way, there wasn’t a thing that girl could do.”

  “So you think Tyrone Grantham is your man,” Chet said.

  “There’s very little doubt in my mind that Tyrone Grantham is the father of that girl’s baby,” the Deacon said. “He wanted her. He took her. He’s been a taker all of his life. The league’s given him an official spanking. And he’s been mouthing all of the right words about changing his ways. But men like that don’t ever change.”

  Des stiffened, staring at the Deacon with a startled expression on her face.

  “What is it?” Mitch asked her.

  “Nothing. I just thought of something that I forgot.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.” Mitch heard another rumble of thunder. This one a bit closer. “The coals should be ready by now. I’d better put our fish on before the rain gets here.”

  Des’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and took the call. “Hey, Yolie… No, no, it’s okay. What’s?…” Her face dropped as she listened to what Yolie Snipes had to say. “Okay, I’ll be there in five.” She rang off, jumped to her feet and darted toward Mitch’s wardrobe cupboard, where she always kept a spare uniform. “Daddy, we officially have ourselves a case now.”

  The Deacon peered at her. “What case is that?”

  “Somebody just shot Stewart Plotka in the parking lot of White Sand Beach. He and his lawyer Andrea Halperin. They’re both dead.”

  CHAPTER 13

  White Sand Beach, which was the only stretch of precious sand anywhere in town that was open to all Dorseteers, was a dinky little public beach by most people’s standards. Two hundred yards wide at most, with parking for no more than a few dozen cars. There was a covered picnic area with a couple of picnic tables. And, during the peak summer months, there was a lifeguard on duty watching over a roped-off swimming area. After Labor Day, there was nothing. Just sand.