The Bright Silver Star bam-3 Read online

  Groaning, Des put on her horn-rims and staggered downstairs barefoot in a tank top and gym shorts. She felt groggy and stiff all over after spending most of yesterday driving to and from New York. Her eyes were bleary and puffy.

  The coffee was brewing in the kitchen, where Ethel was even louder. That damned woman’s vibrato could shatter a plate glass window as far away as Delaware. Bella, who had to be clinically deaf, was parked at the dining table, eating her All-Bran and leafing through that morning’s New York papers.

  Their in-house cats all came scampering, hoping to convince Des that Bella had failed to give them a morning treat. Des knelt to pet them before she called out, “Morning, Bella!”

  “Good morning, Desiree,” Bella yelled back to her.

  “Um, haven’t you got your Ethel cranked kind of high for a woman whose roommate packs a loaded semiautomatic weapon?”

  “My bad.” Bella immediately went charging into the living room to turn it down. “That’s what my grandson, Abie, always says. ‘My bad, Grandma. My bad.’ The boy starts Harvard next month and he talks like a three-year-old. Would you rather listen to someone else?”

  “I think I’d like to ease into today with a little silence, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Bella shut off the stereo and sat back down. “Very nice piece about Tito Molina by your handsome Mr. Berger in today’s paper,” she said, stabbing at it with her stubby finger. “It has a lot of heart.”

  “Mitch felt real bad about what happened, plus he was a genuine fan of the man’s work.” Des poured herself some coffee and took a sip, scanning it over Bella’s shoulder. “What do they have on the investigation?”

  “That Lieutenant Tedone isn’t ruling out homicide. Neither is the medical examiner.” Bella licked her thumb and flipped her way back to the front page. “Here it is… ‘The medical examiner is characterizing the circumstances of Mr. Molina’s death as questionable.’ Is that true?”

  “Reasonably,” Des responded, yawning. “What do the tabloids have?”

  Bella’s face dropped. “You don’t want to know.”

  Des immediately spread the Daily News and Post out on the table for a good look. Both featured page-one photos of a hysterical Esme Crockett arriving at the gate to Chapman Falls with her fat, bloodied lip. The News was awash with speculation about the lip. Sex was the culprit. They even quoted an unnamed source close to the golden couple as saying, “They liked it rough.” Des wondered just exactly who this source was. The Post, meanwhile, was already trying to link Mitch to Tito’s death: “Although Mitchell Berger is not considered a suspect at this time, an unnamed source added, Obviously, the authorities want to learn everything they can from him.’ ” Which definitely made it sound as if they thought he was hiding something. Who was this unnamed source?

  And how can I get my hands around his or her throat?

  “Nu, what happens now?” Bella asked eagerly.

  “Another day in paradise,” Des replied, burying the tabloids under Mitch’s paper so she wouldn’t have to look at them. The cats roughed up her area rugs in much the same way after one of them had puked on the floor. “Thought I’d start out with another tour of Jellystone with Yogi and Boo-Boo.”

  “Okay, I’m nodding but I don’t actually understand what you’re saying.”

  “Then I’ll put on my uni and saddle up. Got me some parking tickets to write.”

  “Desiree, what do you think happened to Tito?”

  It was a hazy, humid morning, the sky the color of dishwater. Des went over to her windows overlooking the lake and slowly stretched out her hammies, feeling the tightness in her legs as she bent down to touch her toes. “What I think,” she said, “is that it’s not my job to think about those things anymore.”

  “But you must have an opinion. You can’t just turn it on and off like a faucet.”

  “Can, too.”

  The doorbell rang now. Des padded to the door and opened it.

  It was the Crockett girls.

  Esme with her wild, uncombed mane of blond hair and her raw, bruised lower lip. The actress wore a pair of military fatigue pants, a tube top, and a somewhat dazed expression on her lovely young face.

  Martine held her firmly by one arm, a brave, determined smile creasing her own face. “Go ahead and tell her, sweetie. Tell Des what you’ve decided.”

  “The kittens,” Esme announced to Des in a trembly voice. “I want to see the kittens. Can I?”

  “You totally can,” Des assured her. “I never turn away a prospect. We were just having some coffee. Can I pour you ladies some?”

  “We’re all set, thanks,” Martine said, the thin soles of her chic patent leather sandals clacking smartly on the polished wood floors as she strode in. “Good morning, Bella!”

  She and Bella launched into cheery chitchat as Esme fell to her knees and started playing with Missy Elliot, Christie Love, and the rest of the in-house crew.

  “Hi, there,” she cooed, stretching out on the floor with them. “Hi, girls.”

  “Some of them are boys,” Des pointed out. “That big orange stud standing directly on your hooters is Kid Rock.”

  “Figures.” Esme giggled, stroking him gently.

  Martine looked around at the house admiringly. “You’ve done wonders with this place, Des. It’s absolutely darling.”

  “I like the light,” said Des, who had never before in her life known someone who used the word “darling” to describe, well, anything.

  “Your boyfriend’s article was real nice,” Esme said to Des. “But he was wrong about Tito’s script, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “There are no pages. They don’t exist. Never have. The project was all just a fantasy. A lovely, lovely fantasy.”

  “Des, may I be frank?” Martine cut in briskly. “Esme felt, we both felt, that it would be a good idea to make her available to you right away this morning. She wants to help the authorities any way she can. And there are some… things she’d like to get off of her chest.”

  “Would this have anything to do with your lip, Esme?”

  “It would,” Martine answered for her.

  Esme was back into playing with the cats.

  “I appreciate you coming forward.” Des said, starting toward the kitchen phone. “I’ll reach out to Lieutenant Tedone and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

  “No ball,” Esme said abruptly. “No lieutenant.”

  Des stopped in her tracks. “You just said what?”

  “I want to talk to you, Des. I like you.”

  Des smiled at her. “I like you, too, Esme, but I’m not involved in this investigation. I’m just the resident trooper.”

  “Mommy, I don’t like this now,” Esme said, slowly shaking her head from side to side.

  “Just take it easy, sweetie. We’ll figure something out.” To Des, Martine said, “You could be present at the questioning, couldn’t you?”

  “Could you?” Esme asked her pleadingly.

  “I can request to be present, if you’d like,” Des responded carefully. “But that’s strictly the lieutenant’s call. Before we go any further, does your lawyer know you’re here?”

  “She’s fired him,” Martine answered.

  “I hate lawyers,” Esme lashed out suddenly. “They get paid to lie.”

  “You don’t have to tell Des that,” Bella pointed out. “She was married to one.”

  “What about Chrissie?” Des wondered. “Where is she this morning?”

  “Chrissie worked for Tito, not Esme,” Martine said frostily. “She’s been sent packing as well.”

  “She’s left town?”

  “We should be so lucky. She refuses to go, Tito’s death being such a huge story and all. But she no longer represents Esme’s interests and she’s no longer living with her.”

  “Mommy’s moved in with me,” Esme said.

  “I thought she could use the company. It means poor Dodge has to hold down the fort alone at our pla
ce, but he can manage for a few days.”

  “Des, can’t I just talk to you?” Esme pleaded once again.

  “Yes, can’t we do that?” echoed Martine, who seemed real anxious to avoid the standard Major Crime Squad channels herself.

  Des wondered why. Was she just being protective of her daughter or was there more going on here? Mitch had told Des all about Martine and Jeff-not that Des had for one second been able to get her mind around it. Had Martine also been sleeping with her own son-in-law? Was she the other woman who Tito was meeting up at the falls? Was such a thing possible?

  This was Dorset. Of course it was.

  “I have to shower and throw on some clothes,” Des said. “Bella will take you down to the garage and introduce you to the kittens.”

  “The kittens!” Esme clapped her hands together like a little child. “I want to see the kittens!”

  “Take your time. Get to know them. Then we’ll figure something out, okay?”

  Bella led the Crockett girls downstairs. As soon as they were out of the room Des phoned Soave and told him to get his ass over there. Then she jumped in the shower.

  She was buttoning her uniform when the doorbell rang. She racedto the door and answered it. Bella and the girls were still down in the basement.

  “Thanks large for the heads-up, Des,” Soave said as he came through the door with his chest puffed out, bulked-up muscles flexing inside his shiny black suit.

  “No problem, Rico. I’m just glad you were nearby.” They’d set up a temporary command station over at town hall.

  Yolie came in a bit more slowly, her brown eyes flicking around at the contents of Des’s house with intense curiosity. Today she was wearing a loose-fitting dark blue top made of a synthetic silk that didn’t cling so conspicuously to her front end. A conscious choice, Des figured.

  “Girl, you live here?” Yolie marveled, her voice hushed. “This is sweet! And look at that deck. You can sunbathe buck out there if you want to. Mind if I ask, what’s the rent on a place like this?”

  “I own it.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Rico, is it okay with you if I sit in? Esme might feel more comfortable.”

  “Cool with me,” he said, smoothing his former mustache. “Is there a lawyer?”

  “She canned him.”

  “Even more cool.”

  “You folks want some coffee?”

  “That’d be great, Des,” Soave said.

  The two of them went out on the deck while Des poured it. The Crockett girls came back upstairs now, minus Bella.

  “Bella said to tell you she’s taking her ‘shtarker’ walk,” Martine informed her. “Whatever that means.”

  “Once around the lake,” Des translated. “It’s three-point-six miles, the last mile uphill.”

  “So many sweet kittens,” Esme said dreamily. “I just love the Pointer Sisters, especially the one with the white paws.”

  “That’s Bonnie. They’re a sister act-you want one you have to take all three.”

  “Can I, Mommy?”

  Martine was gazing out at the deck. “That’s the officer who was at the falls yesterday,” she observed. “And that woman with the braids was there, too.”

  “What do they want?” Esme demanded.

  “To talk,” Des said gently. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be with you.”

  At the sound of their voices Soave and Yolie came back inside. Soave approached Esme slowly and with tremendous care, as if she were made of fine crystal and were liable to shatter if he squeezed her too hard. “I am incredibly grateful that you could give us some time this morning, Miss Crockett. Anything you can tell us about your late husband will be a tremendous help.”

  “Where’s Tito?” Esme demanded.

  “Tito?” Soave was instantly thrown. “The body’s… He’s in Farmington, with the medical examiner.”

  “When can I bring him home?”

  “Soon. A few days.”

  “Please answer me this, Lieutenant,” Martine said. “Is my daughter a suspect?”

  “At this point no one is a suspect. We’re still trying to determine what happened.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Well, what makes you think Esme knows anything?” she demanded.

  “Martine, this is strictly an informational interview,” Des said.

  “That’s right,” Soave agreed. “Informational.”

  “Well, okay, then,” said Martine, apparently satisfied.

  They sat around Des’s dining table. Major Crimes didn’t usually tape record informational interviews, although a signed, written statement might be asked for later. For now, Yolie produced a notepad and pen, and parked her rippling bare arms before her on the table as if she were getting ready to arm wrestle somebody.

  From across the table, Esme watched her every move warily. The actress sat next to her mother, gripping her hand tightly.

  Des had her own eyes on Soave, who took a sip of his coffee and then sat back with his hands clasped behind his head, which told her that Yolie was his inquisitor. Des sat back in her own chair, curious to see Boom Boom’s moves.

  “How are you feeling today, Esme?” Yolie asked, raising her chin at her assertively. She was nervous around these women. Des could tell.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “I understand you’ve been under a doctor’s care since Tito’s death. Are you presently under the influence of any medication?”

  Esme shot a sidelong glance at her mother, then raised her own chin at Yolie. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question, please,” Yolie said brusquely.

  “No, this is the real me,” Esme responded, smiling faintly. “You know, I just love your scar.”

  “You love my what?” Yolie said, fingering her cheek selfconsciously.

  “It makes you look so gangsta.”

  Now it was Yolie who was thrown. “Um, let’s try to stay on subject, okay? Esme, when did you get that lip injury?”

  Esme lowered her eyes, coloring slightly. “The other night.”

  “The night Tito died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to tell us how it happened?”

  “Well, Tito had been out all evening. He was pissed at me, because I wanted him to go to the beach club with me and he wouldn’t.”

  “Where did he spend his evening?”

  “I don’t know,” Esme replied, twirling her blond hair around her finger.

  “You have no idea where your husband was all evening?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  Yolie narrowed her eyes at her across the table. “Was that typical?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, where did you go?” she asked, growing a bit frustrated by Esme’s vagueness.

  “Nowhere. I stayed home. They were running an I Dream of Jeannie marathon on TV Land. Do you like that show? It’s the one with the astronaut. I am so into it.”

  “Were you with her, Mrs. Crockett?” Yolie asked Martine.

  Martine shook her head in response.

  “Was there anyone else in the house? A maid? Cook?”

  “We don’t like to live like that,” Esme said, making it sound as if Tito were still around, still choosing how to live. “We have some daytime help is all.”

  “A local widow does the shopping and cleaning,” Martine explained. “The realtor set it up.”

  “Gotcha,” said Yolie, jotting down the information in her notepad. “So no one else was around?”

  “Well, there was Chrissie,” Esme offered.

  “Your publicist?”

  “Former publicist,” Martine said.

  “She was out in the guesthouse,” Esme revealed. “It’s over the garage. It has a separate entrance and everything.”

  “Could she hear what went on in the main house?”

  “I really don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Ok
ay, we will. How would you describe your husband’s mood that evening?”

  “He was pissed at me. I just told you.”

  “I’m speaking more generally now. Was he morose or depressed?”

  Esme stared at her in astonishment. “He was Tito.”

  Yolie stared right back at her. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning he told me all the time that James Dean had the right idea-live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. He always talked about doing himself in.”

  “Did you think he meant it-or was he just styling?”

  “Tito was never about styling,” Esme shot back defensively.

  “What time did he come home that night?”

  “Around midnight, I think.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He went straight to our bedroom and put on a pair of jeans instead of the swimming trunks he was wearing. Then he started rummaging around in his closet.”

  “He was searching for something?”

  “Maybe. I guess so.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “No, I have no idea.”

  “Esme, did he keep a gun in the house?”

  “No way. Tito hated guns.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “He said he was going right back out again.”

  “And what did you say to him in response?”

  “That he should stay home with me. I got kind of pissed, and that’s when…” Esme trailed off, her bruised lower lip quivering.

  “That’s when he hit you?” Yolie pressed her.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he strike you with his fist or his open hand?”

  “With his fist.”

  “He punched you, in other words.”

  Esme nodded, Martine stiffening noticeably.

  “Did he knock you down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you suffer any other injuries as a result?”

  “Not really.”

  “Were you angry?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess you were angry that your husband punched you in the damned mouth? Come on, girl, stop fronting me.”

  “Yes, I was angry.”

  “And what did you do about it?”

  “Nothing! He stormed out the door and I never saw him again- not alive, anyway.”