The Blood Red Indian Summer Page 4

  “Don’t go running off again!” Winston called out as Callie started down the stairs. “I’ve got something huge here for you!”

  “Winston, behave!” Luanne barked as she began to towel him off. “I can take it from here, Mitch. Thank you so much.”

  By the time he’d made it outside Callie was getting ready to ride off on her bike, her art portfolio slung over one shoulder. She was quite a gifted painter. Her miniature still lifes were amazingly luminous.

  “Callie, are you okay living here?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Callie possessed a voice that was, well, nasal. She sounded a lot like a spacey high-school girl. Looked like one, too, for that matter. She was twenty but she could easily pass for sixteen. Barely five feet tall with long, straight blond hair, chubby chipmunk cheeks and big gray eyes. Mitch doubted she weighed over a hundred pounds. She hid her slender figure inside an oversized, paint-splattered T-shirt and baggy jeans.

  “I mean that Winston is getting worse. Has he ever?…”

  “Not to worry, Mitch. He’s totally harmless.”

  “Plus it smells awful inside of that house. Maybe we should find you somewhere else to stay.”

  “No way. I’m totally cool here. My room has an incredible view of the water. And the girls let me fling paint half the night out on their sun porch. I can put on an old bikini—or not—and just let it fly. Which, like, totally keeps me sane. Because once you walk in the door of the academy everything you do has to represent. I have a great set-up here, honest. Besides, when Winston’s lucid he’s really very insightful about my work. He was a marvelous draftsman. Um, okay, maybe sometimes I…” Callie hesitated, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. “I do get the feeling he’s, you know, watching me when I’m flinging paint. From outside the window, I mean. But that could just be my imagination. And, hey, if it makes him happy to stand out there eyeballing my tush, it’s no big. Besides, I have an open invite to crash with June on board the Calliope any time.”

  Callie had been romantically involved with June Bond for a couple of months. Thanks to him, she’d landed a cushy part-time gig as the Bond Girl on those inane “Just ask Justy” commercials that ran day and night on local TV.

  “Can I give you a lift to school? We can throw your bike in back.”

  Callie shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Why not?”

  He hoisted her bike into the back of the Studey and made room for her on the front seat. She got in next to him and Mitch eased the truck down the long, rutted gravel drive. He offered her a donut. Callie declined. He helped himself to one. “How’s June doing?”

  “He’s fine,” she answered as Mitch inched out into the traffic snarl on Turkey Neck. “Except he doesn’t want to sell cars anymore. Never did, if you ask me. He’s just been trying to please his father. As if.”

  “What does he really want to do?”

  “Sail the Calliope down to the Florida Keys. His dream is to work on sailboats there full-time. Restore them and sell them for a profit. It’s something he’s real good at, Mitch. The Calliope was an absolute wreck when he bought her. Now she’s a thing of beauty. He … sort of wants me to sail down there with him,” Callie added with a casual toss of her hair.

  “And when would you do that?”

  “This weekend.”

  Mitch shot a startled look at her. “That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”

  “It’s totally sudden. He just dropped it on me last night. He really, really wants the two of us to get away from this place.”

  “Are you saying he wants you to quit the Dorset Academy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

  “I don’t get it, Callie. What’s the big rush?”

  “Don’t ask me. He’s just real unhappy here.”

  “Are things okay between June and his dad?”

  “As okay as they ever are. Justy rides him awful hard.”

  “And how about between you and Justy?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-leese. Not you, too. Everyone figures that because I’m so sucky in those commercials that I must be doing him. Darlene, the last Bond girl? She totally was. I hear Bonita caught the two of them getting busy on the sofa in the customer lounge. An epic screechfest went down. Next thing anybody knew there was a sudden opening for a Bond girl.” Callie changed her mind and reached for a powdered donut, munching on it as they broke free of the traffic on Turkey Neck and started cruising up Old Shore Road toward the Historic District. “Justy gave me the job as a favor to June. He knows I really need the money to help cover my tuition. Although he still owes me like a thousand bucks from the last spots we filmed. Mitch, I swear he’s never put a move on me. Not that he’d ever get anywhere. I mean, God, he’s fifty-five years old. He smells like cheese.”

  “Do you get along okay with Bonita?”

  “I guess. She’s not really my kind of person. She’s a total taker. She broke up Justy’s marriage to June’s mom, you know.”

  “Justy had a little something to do with that.”

  “June thinks Bonita took advantage of him. Justy tries to come across as all take-charge but he’s really just a horny, clueless trog who drinks too much. Bonita sized him up right away and moved in for the kill. Or so June thinks. He doesn’t like her very much.”

  “You say Justy owes you money. What’s up with that?”

  “I think he’s having cash flow problems. People aren’t buying cars like they used to. There was nobody around the place last time I was there.”

  “Do you think that’s why June is suddenly so anxious to leave—because Bond’s Auto Mall is circling the drain?”

  “Mitch, I really wish I knew. But I don’t.” Callie sighed woefully. “Are you going to eat that last donut?”

  CHAPTER 3

  “I MAY NOT BE a football star but I have rights, too,” proclaimed Stewart Plotka, who was holding an impromptu news conference on the shoulder of the road just outside Tyrone Grantham’s driveway. The camera crews practically engulfed him. “I’m here for some justice. And I’m staying here until I get it.”

  Plotka was short, tubby and on the whiny side. As photo-op proof of how grievously he’d been injured by Da Beast he wore a highly theatrical black eye patch over his left eye and a splint around his right hand. Picture the world’s shlumpiest pirate and that was Stewart Plotka. The man looked about as dashing as a baked apple standing out there in the hot sun in his sweat-stained knit shirt and rumpled Dockers. His slickly tailored power lawyer, Andrea Halperin, towered over him in her stiletto heels.

  Des stood there watching them, fuming. She was pissed at herself for letting Bob Paffin move her around. Not that the old weasel had left her a way out. He knew how to get ugly when he needed to. And, with a rich resident like Justy Bond climbing up his ass, he needed to.

  “I have a right to be here,” Plotka went on. The news crews were pretty much blocking the entire road now. The trooper on traffic detail—a big, empty uniform—had lost control of the situation. “And I’m staying here until Tyrone Grantham owns up to what he did to Katie O’Brien.”

  Des strolled on over and said, “I hope you don’t mean here here, Mr. Plotka. Because you’re impeding the flow of traffic.”

  “Mr. Plotka has a legal right to speak,” asserted Andrea Halperin, who had sleek auburn hair and an intensely self-important air about her. “We’re on public property.”

  “And I work for the public. I’m Resident Trooper Desiree Mitry and I’m informing you that you are creating a safety hazard. Please move along.”

  “My client is not going anywhere. He has taken up residence at the Saybrook Point Inn and he intends to show up here each and every day until Mr. Tyrone Grantham owns up to what he’s done.”

  “I said please move along.” Des kept her voice calm for the cameras. If she wasn’t careful it could bottom out on her and she could come across like Barry White on a bad hair day
. “Move along.”

  Andrea Halperin knew how to get her client on TV. She also knew when to cut and run. She steered Plotka toward a black Mercedes that was double-parked on the shoulder of the road. They climbed in and sped away, Andrea behind the wheel. The media throng promptly began shouting questions at Des. She ignored them as she strode toward the front gate. A tall, impassive blond trooper stood guard there.

  “Hey, Oly,” Des said, smiling at him. Trooper Olsen was a pro who didn’t get all weird around her because she was a she. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  “Nothing?”

  “Orders straight from the top.”

  “I’m going in.”

  “Are they expecting you?”

  “They are if they’re watching CNN.”

  He pushed a button on the inside of the gatepost. The gate swung open and Des started her way up the long, winding gravel driveway toward the house. The Grantham place had been built during the boom years of the nineties. It resembled a cluster of giant glass Kleenex boxes, some laid out lengthwise, others standing on end. A pair of Cadillac Escalades—one black, one white—was parked out front, along with a silver Range Rover, a blue Porsche 911 Carrera convertible and a tan Lexus SC 430 two-seater. Also a Dodge minivan and a beat-up old Ford pickup. All of the vehicles had New York plates except for the pickup, which had Texas plates.

  Des rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a lanky, way long young black man in a loose-fitting T-shirt and swim trunks. He was long enough to be a baller—six-feet-eight or nine, easy—and sported a retro-eighties high-top fade, a hairstyle she hadn’t known was staging a comeback. “Yo, lookie here, we got us Resident Trooper Des-aye-ray Mitry!” he exclaimed, flashing her a playful grin. “Ain’t nobody messes with you, sister. When you say move along you mean move along. I’m Big Tee’s cousin Clarence. Clarence Bellows. But since you and me’s about to fall in love just call me Cee, awright?”

  It was bright and sunny inside the glass house. From the entry hall Des could see floor-to-ceiling river views. Hear a television blaring. Also hear someone playing jazz chords on a piano. Someone who could really play.

  Clarence stood there with his hands on his hips, admiring her from head to toe. “Aren’t you the cutest thing with your big hat? Girl, you have got to come back when you’re not packing heat.”

  “That will be quite enough, Cee.” A much smaller black man wearing gold-framed glasses appeared next to Clarence in the entry hall. “Resident Trooper Mitry did not come here to lip with you. Pleased to meet you, Trooper. I’m Rondell Grantham. Tyrone is my brother. Half-brother, to be precise. We share the same mother. Neither of us ever knew who our father was. Nor did she. I’m three years younger than Tyrone.”

  “And a midget,” Clarence pointed out.

  Not a midget, but Rondell Grantham stood no more than five-feet-eight and was so compactly built Des doubted he weighed more than a buck-forty. He wore a white oxford cloth dress shirt, tan gabardine slacks and polished brown Ferragamo loafers. His hair was trimmed high and tight. “I was informed that Dorset’s resident trooper was a highly competent young woman of color,” he said to her. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. We all have.”

  Now a broad shadow fell across the entry hall and the famous Tyrone Grantham stood before her in a tank top and gym shorts, his heavy lidded eyes watchful and curious. The warrior athlete wasn’t nearly as tall as his cousin Clarence. He stood a mere six-feet-three. But he was as wide across as three grown men and it was all muscle. His gleaming shaved head didn’t sit atop his bulging neck so much as it receded into it. His biceps were the size of boulders. His thighs were as big around as an average man’s torso. Tattoos of snarling lions, tigers and attack dogs covered practically every inch of skin that Des could see. So did the battle scars of his brutal profession. His broad, flat nose had been broken countless times. His face scratched and gouged. Jagged surgical scars adorned both knees and both shoulders. His huge knuckles were battered and the index finger of his left hand stuck out at an odd angle.

  Tyrone Grantham was an utterly savage-looking man. Yet he seemed totally relaxed and at ease. “Glad to know you, Trooper,” he said, a boyish smile creasing his face. “Did you meet my little brother, Rondell? I’ll bet he didn’t tell you he has a graduate degree in business from Wharton. He isn’t one to brag. I can’t tell you how proud I am of him. When we were coming up I looked out for him. Now he looks out for me. Right, little man?”

  Rondell gazed up at his brother worshipfully. “That’s right, big man.”

  “Damned right. Little brother manages my investments and various ventures. I’m presently expanding into the music business. We’ve installed a recording studio right here in the house. Cee’s a sound engineer with skills. We got us some big plans. Hey, what are we standing out here for? Come on in.”

  There was an immense fieldstone fireplace in the glass living room and a sunken seating area of white leather sofas. A very pretty, very pregnant young black woman was plopped on one of the sofas watching CNN on a sixty-inch flat screen TV—a live report on what was going on right now outside this very house. Which was, Des decided, a tiny bit surreal. The focal point of the living room was the hugest home aquarium she’d ever seen. Half a dozen pale gray sharks were swimming around in a water world of brightly colored coral reef.

  “It’s two thousand gallons,” Tyrone said, following her gaze. “Saw a tank just like it one night at a club in Tribeca and said I’ve got to have me one. An outfit in the city designs them, installs them, everything. Those are black tip reef sharks you’re looking at. I can watch them for hours. Always want to make sure you have six. It’s all about team. Fewer than six and they prey on each other. More than six and you’ve got a jailbreak. Turn off that TV, will you, Cee? We have a guest. Trooper Mitry, say hello to my lovely wife, Jamella.”

  Jamella eyed Des with a gaze that was anything but friendly. It was guarded, streetwise and extremely protective of who and what was hers. “Hey,” she said.

  “Glad to know you,” said Des, who’d read all about Da Beast’s twenty-three-year-old bride. Jamella Jameson was a professional dancer out of Houston who’d toured with Beyoncé before she’d snagged the NFL’s biggest, baddest star. She was a natural beauty with smooth skin and sculpted lips. Her strong jaw and high hard cheekbones gave her a distinctly Native American look. She wore her hair long and braided. The maternity shift she wore was an unusual, brightly patterned patchwork design that was quite lovely.

  Tyrone settled himself on the sofa next to Jamella and took her slim hand in his big, battered one. “Sit, sit, Trooper. Can I get you anything to drink? You hungry? Moms just got back from the store. She can fix you anything.”

  “I’m good, thanks.” Des perched on the edge of a sofa, big hat on her knee. Somewhere in the house someone was still playing a piano.

  Rondell sat directly across from her, watching her alertly. Clarence sprawled his long self out next to him.

  “Take your big feet off my sofa,” Jamella scolded him.

  He obeyed her at once. “Sorry.”

  “Let me take a wild guess,” Tyrone said to Des. “The powers that be sent you here to tell me to behave myself, am I right?”

  “No, you are not.”

  He frowned at her. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Trying to head off trouble.”

  “You can’t,” he stated flatly. “Trouble’s going to find you. It always finds me. Like that clown Plotka out there. The man’s nothing but a lying shakedown artist looking for a cheap payday.”

  “Our attorney calls it nothing more than civil extortion,” Rondell said. “A thorough criminal investigation was conducted. Tyrone was cleared of any and all criminal assault charges.”

  “Damned right,” Tyrone agreed. “Plotka intruded on my private space, okay? Came up to me in that Dave & Buster’s when I was having lunch with Jamella after practice.
Started claiming that I done this and that to his fiancée. Who, I swear, I’ve never met in my life. He got very abusive. His language was inappropriate. It’s a family restaurant. Our fans bring their young kids there. He was way out of line. Jamella can tell you.”

  She nodded. “He called my man ghetto trash. And me a skanky ho.”

  “He got in my face,” Tyrone continued. “I simply tried to excuse him from my face. Did I put my hand on his chest? Yes. Did I shove him? No. The man slipped and fell. Did he suffer any injuries as a result of falling? No. I guarantee you he has a perfectly healthy eyeball under that patch he’s sporting.”

  “That so-called doctor of his is a quack,” Rondell said. “When an independent physician examines Mr. Plotka as part of the civil proceedings the man’s injuries will be revealed as utterly bogus. That’s why we’re refusing to settle with him. He won’t get one nickel out of us.”

  “But the damage is already done,” Tyrone said regretfully. “The Players Union wanted me to fight my suspension. I’m accepting my punishment. Never should have put my hand on the bastard. A man my size has to learn how to control himself. Mind you, that’s easier said than done. I don’t know how to dial down. I get paid to never dial down.”

  “But he’s learning how,” Jamella pointed out. “When we’re together he’s just a gentle teddy bear. And he has never once put his hands on me without it being about our love for each other. The Tyrone Grantham I know is a good man.”

  “And I intend to be a good father to our baby. I haven’t been to my other babies. Truth? I don’t even know what it means to be a father.”

  “But he’s going to learn that, too,” Jamella said. “That’s what this time off is all about—learning.”

  “It’s been a wake-up call for me, no question. I let my family down, my teammates down. I miss the game like you wouldn’t believe. But everything happens for a reason. This is my opportunity to change how I go about my business. I’m all done being bad Hercules. I’m not looking to get in any more fights. Not looking to rip any more pub. No more trash talking…”