The Bright Silver Star bam-3 Page 16

  “You’ve got some bruises and scratches on your arms,” Yolie observed. “What’s up with those?”

  “They’re from before,” Esme responded, glancing down at them. “He and I… we fought a few days ago.”

  “So he had a habit of knocking you around, is that it?”

  “I-I wouldn’t call it a habit.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “We fought, okay? That’s what two people do when they love each other. They fight. They care. That’s what it means to be in love.” Tears began to spill out of Esme’s big blue eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t know anything about love, or you wouldn’t ask me anything so lame and insensitive and stupid!”

  Des got up and fetched her a tissue. “If I might just ask one quick question…” she interjected, hoping to cool things off.

  “Go ahead, Des,” Soave said, nodding his head approvingly.

  Yolie just stared across the table at her with her mouth open, clearly taken aback by the interruption.

  Des sat back down, flashing a warm smile at Esme. “The other day, you told me that those bruises happened during rough sex,” she reminded her in a slow, soft voice.

  Esme dabbed at her eyes, sniffling. “I know I did.”

  “So you were lying to me?”

  “I was. I’m sorry, Des.”

  “And that story about your lip in this morning’s Daily News?”

  “Also a lie. I don’t even know how it got there, but it’s a lie.”

  “Why did you lie to me about it, Esme? Was it to protect Tito?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I didn’t want you thinking just what she’s thinking.” Meaning Yolie. “That he was a bad person. He wasn’t bad. He was just messed up.”

  “Were you ever afraid of him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever threaten to harm you?”

  “Never.”

  “Okay, good. I just wanted to clear that up,” Des said. “We allknow how hard this is for you, Esme, and we appreciate it. You’re doing great.”

  “Really great, sweetie,” Martine agreed, squeezing Esme’s hand.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Des said to Yolie. “She’s all yours.”

  “You two were having marital problems?” Yolie asked, her tone a bit less prosecutorial now.

  “Yes, we were,” Esme said bleakly.

  “Straight up, was Tito seeing someone else?”

  Esme’s mouth tightened. “Yes, he was.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. I think it started after we came here.”

  “I see,” Yolie said, clicking her pen between her teeth thoughtfully. “Do you know who the woman is, Esme?”

  “No, but…” Esme trailed off, twirling her hair around her finger again.

  “But what?”

  “Tito was never faithful to me. Not ever. That’s just the way he was.”

  “And did this bother you?”

  Esme shrugged, saying nothing in response.

  “What happened after he punched you in the mouth?”

  “I told you that already,” she replied coldly. “He left.”

  “This was about twelve-thirty?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Did he take anything with him?”

  “A bottle of peppermint schnapps.”

  “And what did you do after he left?”

  Esme glanced over at her mother, reddening, then looked back at Yolie and shrugged once again, saying nothing.

  Soave tilted his head at the actress curiously.

  So did Yolie, who leaned forward a bit, her breasts jutting out over the table. “Esme, we believe that Tito died sometime between one-thirty and two. Were you at home at the time of his death?”

  “Not really,” she answered in a quavering voice.

  Now Martine was looking at her curiously, too.

  “Esme, where were you?” Yolie persisted.

  “Out,” she whispered.

  “Out where?”

  Esme sat there in pouty silence for a long moment before she turned to Des and said, “Do I have to answer that?”

  “I would if I were you,” Des advised. “They’re going to find out eventually. Better all the way around if they hear it from you.”

  “Well, okay,” Esme said reluctantly. “I was with a man.”

  Martine glared at her with withering disapproval. “You’ve been seeing someone yourself?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” she admitted guiltily. “After Tito split, I went to his place.”

  “And you stayed there with him how long?” Yolie asked.

  “Until maybe four in the morning.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went home.”

  “What did you think when you got home and Tito wasn’t there?”

  “I didn’t think anything. I took a shower and went to bed.”

  “You weren’t worried about where he was?”

  “No.”

  “Who is this man, Esme?”

  Again the actress turned to Des. “Do I have to say?”

  “It’s kind of necessary, Esme. Tito’s death is still unexplained, and this man is in a position to vouch for you.”

  “Well, if you say so…” Now Esme’s face broke into a naughty little smile. “It’s Jeffrey Wachtell.”

  The composed beauty of Martine’s face instantly turned harsh and ugly. “Why, you little whore!” she cried out, smacking her daughter hard in the face.

  Des grabbed Martine roughly by the wrists and yanked her to her feet. “Okay, we’re not having any of that in my house!”

  “Yo, what the hell is this?” Soave wondered, baffled.

  Esme scarcely reacted at all. Just sat there, unfazed, as her split lip started to ooze fresh blood. Clearly, this was someone who was used to getting hit. Des had encountered her share of female punchingbags before, but they were never rich, pretty, and white. In this regard, Esme was a first for her.

  “Why did you come back?!” Martine screamed at her daughter, struggling in Des’s grasp. She was a handful, amazingly strong. “You could have gone anywhere in the world-why did you have to come here?!”

  “Yolie, want to get her an ice cube and a towel?” Des said as she muscled Martine toward the French doors.

  “Got it,” Yolie said, springing into action.

  “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?! You wanted to hurt me!”

  “What if I did?” Esme shot back, sneering at her.

  “You are sick!”

  “Well, you ought to know!”

  “Okay, let’s take it outside,” ordered Des, hustling Martine out onto the deck.

  Soave followed them out there. “So, what, they’re both boinking this guy Jeff?” he asked, stroking his former mustache.

  “So it would seem,” Des replied, as Martine began to pace back and forth across the deck, hugging herself, utterly distraught.

  “Who is this guy, the stud of the century?”

  “Rico, I truly don’t know how to respond to that.”

  He went back inside now, shaking his head. Des stayed with Martine. It felt warm and muggy out there after the coolness of the house.

  “How could she do this to me, Des?” Martine sobbed as she continued to pace. “My own daughter-how could she?”

  “When you told me about Dodge you didn’t tell me that you were seeing someone else, too.”

  Martine stopped in her tracks. “You sound disappointed.”

  Des said nothing to that, just gazed at her.

  “Our marriage is not exactly healthy these days,” Martine confessed. “Dodge goes his way and I go my mine. Jeffrey is… not exactly Brad Pitt, I’ll grant you. But he’s funny and he’s sweet and he’s the most attentive lover I’ve ever been with. He bathes me. He reads Emily Dickinson to me by candlelight. He licks whipped cream from between my-”

  “Really don’t need to hear this part,” Des growled.

  “Do you have any idea w
hat that’s like after twenty-six years of Dodge?” Martine demanded. “Twenty-six years of wham-bam-good-night-ma’am? Jeffrey makes me feel like me again. And that sick little bastard has been having it off with my own damned daughter this whole time. I will hurt him for this. I will make a bow tie of his balls and-”

  “Martine, I wouldn’t say things like that in front of me.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to make threatening remarks. I’m just so hurt. I know exactly why she did it, too. To get back at me.”

  “For what?”

  Martine’s face darkened, but she didn’t answer. Just went over to the railing and faced the lake, her back to Des, posture rigid.

  Des studied her there for a long moment. “Martine, were you and Dodge home in bed together when Tito died?”

  “I do believe I can see Bella from here,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand. “That fierce little bowling ball of a person striding along the footpath at the edge of the water. See her?”

  “If Esme was with Jeff when it happened…”

  “It means that I wasn’t,” Martine acknowledged. “I was home.”

  “Was Dodge home with you?”

  “It’s very pleasant out here, isn’t it?” Martine said evasively. “Still, I would have thought there’d be a bit more breeze coming off of the water.”

  Yolie came out there now to tell them she was done with Esme. Martine asked if she could take her daughter home. Yolie said she could, but only after the lady solemnly promised to behave herself.

  Yolie remained with Des after Martine had gone inside. “Girl, is this your idea of better manners? Because I can get this for free back in the projects morning, noon, or night.”

  “I was as surprised as you were.”

  “Word, did I just choke in there?” she asked, glancing at Des uncertainly.

  “No, not at all. It’s all okay.”

  “But you took the ball out of my hands. How come?”

  Des kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to criticize Sgt. Yolie Snipes.

  But Yolie wasn’t having that. “Please tell me,” she pleaded. “I’m not on my home court here. And I get, like, no help from Soave when it comes to how to behave.”

  “Well, okay,” Des said. “You were moving in for the kill, which is fine. But you didn’t see that she was on the verge of wigging, which isn’t fine. That’s a delicate young performer in there. She just lost her husband. If you’d kept at her one minute longer, she would have shut down on you completely.”

  “Kinder and gentler is not my style.”

  “I’m not saying it should be. Do what works for you. Keep the funk alive. Just keep an eye on your subject’s temperature gauge, too. Know when to back off.”

  “Yeah, I can be a raw dog sometimes,” Yolie admitted, nodding her head. “Especially when I’m uptight. I mean, she’s so famous and all. Only, why did she say that to me about my cheek?”

  “She’s an actress. Everything in her world is make-believe. Pay no attention. You’re doing fine.”

  “Real?”

  “Real.”

  “Big thanks,” Yolie said gratefully. “Ready to go?”

  “Go where?” asked Des, frowning.

  “Interviews. Soave wants you along, since you know the people.”

  “Okay, sure.” Des started back inside, then stopped. “Oh, hey, you didn’t give up anything to the tabloids yesterday about Mitch, did you?”

  “Who, me?” Yolie let out a huge laugh. “Not even. Soave won’t let me anywhere near the press. ‘One voice, one message,’ he always says. Between us, I think Tawny’s on the receiving end of a big happy whenever that little man sees himself on television. Why are you asking?”

  “Just curious,” Des said, smiling at her. “Come on, girl. Let’s do Dorset.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It was such a sultry, sticky morning that there wasn’t even a breath of breeze out on Big Sister. Mitch could barely make out the Old Saybrook Lighthouse through the haze as he stood at his windows, drinking his morning coffee and listening to the shrill whine of the cicadas in the trees. The Plum Island workboat was chugging its way out, the Sound as calm as a bathtub. But no summer yachtsmen were setting out for a day’s sail. There was no point in leaving the boatyard when the weather was like this.

  He hadn’t slept well. For one thing, Clemmie was way unhappy about him traipsing off to New York that way. She made her displeasure known by bounding across his bed like a playful faun every half hour all night long. In Clemmie World, this was known as payback.

  Not that Mitch would have been able to sleep anyway. Not after he’d made the mistake of checking the Web sites of the New York tabloids to see what they’d be featuring about Tito’s death in their morning editions.

  Garbage, that’s what.

  Snide quotes from unnamed sources implicating him in Tito Molina’s death. Dirty hints that he knew more than he’d let on, possibly even had something to do with it… Obviously, the authorities want to learn everything they can from him… Why on earth did someone, anyone, think he was holding out? Mitch didn’t have the slightest idea. But he did find it deeply, deeply disturbing. Despite his own best efforts, he was being turned into a featured player in this ongoing media sideshow… And costarring chubby, good-natured Mitch Berger as the thinking man’s Kato Kaelin… And now he had no control over what was happening to him. Zero. None.

  And so he’d tossed and he’d turned all night long as the ceiling fan stirred the warm, steamy air around his sleeping loft and Clemmie periodically leaped across his stomach, yowling. And he was up well before dawn, getting shaved and dressed. Naturally, as soon as he started stirring Clemmie curled up in his chair and went fast to sleep, one paw over her eyes to block out the rising sun.

  Mitch didn’t log on to his computer. He didn’t want to read any more stories connecting him to Tito’s death. He didn’t even want to look at his own story about Tito in this morning’s paper.

  What he wanted was to get his life back.

  He was looking forward to his daily hike with the Mesmers. He could use a good honest dose of Dodge Crockett’s upbeat reassurance, Will Durslag’s croissants and quiet strength, even Jeff Wachtell and his kvetching.

  But there was no Dodge waiting there in the haze when he trudged his way across the causeway with his birdwatcher’s glasses- just big Will and little Jeff.

  “Hey, man, we missed you yesterday,” Jeff called to him cheerfully.

  “I had to wait around for the police.”

  “Do they seriously consider you a suspect?”

  “I seriously don’t know. But I didn’t push Tito off any cliff.”

  “We all know that,” Will assured him, standing there with his knapsack filled with fresh-baked goodies. “Real nice article you wrote about him, Mitch.”

  “Thanks, Will,” Mitch said, peering down the misty path in search of Dodge. “Don’t tell me our captain’s actually late.”

  “Maybe Dodger ought to buy himself a wristwatch,” Jeff cracked.

  “Sure, let’s chip in and get him one,” Mitch joined in, still trying to fathom the concept of the little guy and Martine naked together. He couldn’t imagine what went through Jeff’s mind every morning as he walked along next to Dodge, stride for stride, knowing that he was shtupping the man’s tall, blond beauty of a wife behind his back. How did he feel-gleeful, superior, guilty, all of these things?

  “Dodge is never late,” Will said, frowning. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “He must be tied up with Esme this morning,” Mitch said. “Don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t,” Will said. “When I talked to him on the phone last night he said Martine was going to stay with her for a few days, and that he’d see us out here in the morning.”

  “So something came up,” Jeff said. “Come on, men, let’s march. I’ve got a full morning of unpacking ahead of me.”

  Will didn’t budge. “If somethin
g came up he would have called me,” he said stubbornly. Will always carried a cell phone on their walks in case Donna needed to reach him. He pulled it out of his back pocket and punched in Dodge’s number and waited as it rang, an intent expression on his face. “Machine,” he grunted, shaking his head. He left no message. “This is really not like Dodge, I’m telling you.”

  Mitch studied Will curiously. “Do you have a feeling something’s wrong?”

  “I really don’t know,” Will said with obvious concern. “But he was all by himself last night.”

  “Does he have a health problem that we don’t know about?” Jeff asked. “A heart condition or something?”

  “Hell no,” Will responded. “He’s in great shape.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?”

  “I just think we should go take a look, that’s all. Make sure he’s okay.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Mitch said. “You know him best.”

  “Well, I think you guys are wasting your time,” Jeff argued. “This is the only break I get all day. Me, I’m going to walk our walk.” And with that he marched off down the path, toes pointed outward in an exceedingly ducklike fashion.

  They took Mitch’s truck, Mitch helping himself to a warm croissant as he eased his way down Peck’s Point’s rutted dirt path to Old Shore Road. Will bounced along next to him, big and broad shouldered, his lean face etched with worry as he gazed out the windshield at the road. Mitch found himself wondering why. What did Will know that he wasn’t sharing?

  “I think I’ve figured out your secret,” Mitch said, munching.

  “My secret?…” Will seemed startled.

  “Your great-tasting croissants. I know how you do it.”

  Now Will’s face broke into a lopsided grin. “Okay, Mitch, take your best shot.”

  “Butter,” he declared.

  “What about butter?”

  “My theory is that when something tastes really, really good it generally has something to do with extra butter. A whole lot of extra butter. Would you say I’m right or wrong?”

  “Mitch, you are not wrong,” Will conceded, laughing.

  “You see?” Mitch exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew it.”

  The Crocketts lived on ten acres of lush green meadow and marshland overlooking the Connecticut River on Turkey Neck Road, an exclusive little lane that twisted its way along a narrow peninsula off of Old Shore Road. The land had been in Dodge’s family for many generations. Mile Creek ran along the edge of the property, which was enclosed by fieldstone walls that dated back to the 1820s, when the land was first cleared for farming.