The Shimmering Blond Sister Page 5

  Bitsy considered her reply carefully. “Connie’s a good friend. She and her husband, Fred, split up when J. Z. was a small boy. She raised him on her own, and that boy . . . how shall I put this? He was a real stinker, Mitch. The sort of rotten little rich kid who’s always stealing things and getting into fistfights. By the time J. Z. was thirteen, he was into alcohol, marijuana, cocaine. Connie couldn’t handle him. She sent him off to live with his father in New York City. Fred owned an art gallery in Soho, a couple of chic restaurants. He enrolled J. Z. in one of the best private schools. But he had no better luck with the boy than Connie did. J. Z. got himself kicked out of one school after another. Ended up out in New Mexico at a special school for problem kids. Where he did settle down. He even got accepted at Cornell. But he barely lasted a month there before he was back in New York City, working as a roadie for alternative rock bands, which I believe is a polite way of saying he dealt drugs. And used them. He and all of his rich, spoiled friends. They partied day and night, perfectly content to squander the best years of their lives. J. Z. always did well with the girls. He was handsome and wild and a bit dangerous. One night, he and a very pretty Park Avenue heiress totaled her BMW in East Hampton and almost killed someone. She was behind the wheel—and high on cocaine at the time. Went to jail for a year in spite of her daddy’s pull. J. Z. ended up back out here living in Connie’s guest cottage. By then he’d thoroughly fried his brains on drugs. What the kids call a homeschool Ph.D.—as in Permanent Head Damage.”

  “How did he and Kimberly hook up?”

  “He was helping Courtney Borio paint the Farrells’ house on Turkey Neck. Courtney was a burnout case himself from the Vietnam War. J. Z. went to work for him and, lo and behold, stuck with it. Kimmy was home from Bennington for the summer. The poor girl fell hard for J. Z. Convinced herself that with a little love and understanding, he’d do great things with his life. Dex and Maddee opposed the marriage, naturally. She went ahead with it anyway, naturally. Dex and Maddee bought them the condo in the Captain Chadwick House as a wedding present. That’s how the Farrells came to own it. Gosh knows they couldn’t get in there now if they tried.” Bitsy let out a sigh of regret. “Kimmy and J. Z. didn’t live there for long. She completely washed her hands of him. Took off for Oregon and didn’t come back for years. Connie has never spoken one word to me about why Kimmy cleared out so fast—other than to say it was a private matter. Mind you, that didn’t stop people from gossiping about what really happened.”

  “And what was the consensus?”

  “That it was something of a sexual nature. Courtney Borio happened to be gay. He had a longtime thing going on with a fellow up in Chester. Anyhow, when Courtney first took J. Z. under his wing there was a lot of whispering that J. Z. might be . . . so inclined. When Kimmy upped and left him like she did, well, the whisperers thought they knew why. Not that anyone actually knew. But it made for a good, juicy story.”

  “What do you think happened, Bitsy?”

  “I think J. Z. broke that poor girl’s heart. Don’t ask me how, because I have no idea. But I do know that J. Z.’s a breaker of hearts. He always has been. He can’t help himself. That man can be . . . difficult. In fact, some people think that in order to get along with him you have to be able to speak psycho. Not true. But he’s not all there. Still stoned on drugs half of the time, if you ask me.”

  “And yet you keep hiring him. Why?”

  Bitsy’s blue eyes locked on his and held them. “Because this is Dorset, Mitch. We may not be perfect. Far from it, in fact. But we always take care of our own. Never, ever forget that.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A narrow dirt road snaked its way through the meadows and tidal marshes of the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve, a peninsula that jutted out into Long Island Sound at the mouth of the Connecticut River. The dirt road ended at a barricade. Beyond it was the narrow, wooden causeway out to Big Sister Island. Des inserted her coded plastic security card to raise the barricade and then eased her cruiser thumpety-thump-bumpety out to the forty acres of Yankee paradise that Mitch was lucky enough to call home. There were five precious old Peck family homes out on Big Sister, not counting his caretaker’s cottage. A decommissioned lighthouse that was the second tallest in New England. A private beach and dock. A tennis court. There was fresh, clean sea air. There was peace.

  Quirt, Mitch’s lean, mean outdoor hunter, came darting over to bump her leg with his hard little head as she climbed out of the car. Quirt was one of the two rescued strays she’d convinced Mitch to adopt. Des bent down and stroked him, feeling herself relax for the first time since she’d driven away from the Captain Chadwick House.

  She kept a yellow string bikini at Mitch’s that was positively indecent. She went inside the house, kicking off her shiny, black shoes. Peeled off her uni and ankle socks. Put the tiny thing on. She left her horn-rims on the bathroom shelf. Didn’t need them. Didn’t need to worry about her hair either, which she wore short and nubby. She grabbed a towel and started down the sandy path to the beach, feeling the sun-warmed sand between her toes.

  Mitch was sitting on the float a hundred feet out, with his feet dangling in the water and a bottle of beer in his hand. The beer cooler sat beside him. He waved to her. Des waded in, then dove underwater and swam toward him, welcoming the water’s delicious coolness all over her body. She surfaced and pulled herself, wet and shiny, up onto the float, stretching her fine self out next to him.

  “Sorry, miss, but this is a private float. You’ll have to pay a toll.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Will that do?”

  “We’ll consider it a modest down payment.”

  Mitch pulled a Corona from the cooler and opened it for her. She took it from him, her eyes eating him up. She still could not get over how hard and cut he was. He’d been a flesh prince when she first fell for him—man boobs and all. Not anymore. He was a hunk.

  She took a long, grateful drink of her beer, sighing contently. “I have been missing you all day, Armando.” Which was her pet name for him now that doughboy no longer applied.

  “Back at you, master sergeant. What took you so long anyhow?”

  She told him about Augie, her voice rising with anger as she described the ugly little public scene he’d provoked.

  Mitch studied her curiously. “You’ve dealt with drunks like Augie a million times. Why are you letting him get under your skin?”

  “You mean aside from the fact he’s a racist, sexist boor?”

  “Seriously, why are you?”

  She took another drink of her beer. “Because he was on the job. I don’t like seeing what’s happened to him. But enough about that fool. How was your day?”

  “Great. I ran into an old flame. She lives right here in Dorset now. We’re invited over for drinks tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, you just said what?”

  He leaned over and kissed her, this time long and lingering. “Beth lived across the hall from me when I was a kid. She was a single mom. I looked out for her boy Kenny. Used to drag him to see old movies with me. He’s a computer geek up in Cambridge now. Comes here every weekend because—get this—he’s engaged to my yoga teacher, Kimberly. She’s Beth’s neighbor at the Captain Chadwick House.”

  “So this would be Beth Breslauer?”

  “Her name was Lapidus when I was growing up,” he said wistfully. “To me, she’ll always be Beth Lapidus.”

  “Mitch, I would swear you’re blushing right now.”

  “Am not.”

  “No, no, you totally are. Is something going on between you two that I should know about?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You just called her an old flame, remember?”

  “Des, she was my very first big-time crush. I was thirteen and she was this incredibly sexy divorcee with knockers out to here.”

  Des glanced down at what was inside of her bikini top. Or, more precisely, wasn’t. “Since when
are you into knockers out to here?”

  “All thirteen-year-old boys are into knockers out to here. Who was yours?”

  “Who was my what?”

  “First big-time crush.”

  Des stretched out on her back, gazing dreamily up at the milky blue sky. “George Michael. I had posters of that man plastered all over my room.”

  “Was this back when he was still with Wham or had he already embarked on his trailblazing solo career?”

  “Hey, did I chump you about your first crush?”

  “Yes, you did. And I’m very mad at you.” He ran his hand up her smooth, bare flank, caressing her. “Very, very mad.” Now he was licking the dried salt from her belly button. “Absolutely, positively furious.” His tongue sliding lower and . . .

  “Mitch, they can see us!”

  “Who can?”

  “The eye in the sky. Google Earth, NASA, whoever.”

  “Let ’em watch. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

  She sat up, rearranging her teeny top. “I’ll race you inside.”

  “What’s in it for me if I win?”

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  They were barely in the door before they were out of their suits. They jumped into the shower together and washed off the sand, hands all over each other. And then they were up in his sleeping loft taking it nice and slow and tender. It wasn’t about performing. It was about them. And, God, was them something good.

  As dusk approached they lay there in each other’s arms, eyes glittering, unable to keep the silly grins off of their faces, not even trying. Mitch’s indoor cat, Clemmie, lay curled up between them, purring. A sea breeze had picked up, cooling the airy little cottage.

  “Can I interest you in some dinner, master sergeant?”

  “You can interest me in just about anything right now.”

  Mitch put on a T-shirt and shorts and went outside to fire up the grill. She got into his No. 15 Earl the Pearl Knicks jersey and stretched out on a lawn chair, sipping a cold glass of Sancerre while he raided his garden for fingerling potatoes, tomatoes and basil. He put the potatoes on to boil, then flopped down in the lawn chair with a beer. They gazed out at the water, so comfortable with the island’s quiet and each other that they felt no need to talk.

  Except she did need to talk—about the case she was working. She had no partner to spitball with. Mitch knew this.

  Which was why he blurted out, “How do you know for a fact that it’s always the same guy?”

  She frowned at him. He was never short of insights. Most of them whack. But, somehow, he did see things. “Um, okay, you’re going where with this?”

  “What if you’re dealing with a gang of flashers? It’s not as if the ladies have given you anything more than a vague description, right? Average height and weight. Wears a ski mask. For all you know, each lady could have been visited by a different weenie waver.”

  “You’re not wrong about that. But why are you thinking it?”

  “Because this whole thing’s a goof.”

  “Mitch, it’s no goof.”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s just the kind of dorky stunt a bunch of bored teenaged boys would pull off. Like the Mod Squad, remember?”

  “Who could forget them?” There had been five of those boys—high school garbage heads who’d taken to spray painting obscene graffiti all over Dorset. “And that was no goof, Mitch. They almost burned down Center School, as you may recall. But keep talking.”

  “You’re not dealing with a sexual predator who’s out there preying on attractive young women. He, or I should say they, have strictly chosen rich old ladies. Plus you’ve got that petty nuisance stuff in the mix. The dead skunk. The funeral home’s sign. I’m telling you—it’s a bunch of pimply kids. That also explains why it always happens on the weekend. Because their parents go out to dinner or the movies on the weekend. They aren’t around to keep an eye on the little weasels. Tell me, have any of the ladies said the perp was . . . why are you smiling?”

  “You said perp. You’re just so cute when you do that. Sorry, go on.”

  “Have any of them described him as being, you know . . . ?”

  “Locked in the upright position? Not a one. And, believe me, it has really, really been fun talking tumescence with the old girls.”

  “So he gives them a limp wave and then he runs. Which means he’s not doing this for a sexual thrill.” Mitch got up to check the grill. The fire was ready. He put the corn on to steam and sat back down next to her. “I’m telling you, girlfriend, this is no pervert. It’s a gang of pranksters.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit that it plays your way—in the abstract.”

  “What about in the real?”

  “Not so much. We’ve got profiles of every kind of human depravity you can imagine—and then some—in our criminal data bank. Your flasher is typically someone who has no gang to run with. He’s lonely, sexually frustrated and often confused about his sexual orientation. But it’s funny that you brought up the Mod Squad. I talked to one of them today—Ronnie Welmers. He’s a junior at Middlebury College in Vermont now. Had a summer job on campus that ended two weeks ago. He’s been home visiting his dad since then.”

  “Hmm, interesting. Are you liking him for this?”

  “Not really. Ronnie’s cleaned up his act. Plans to go to business school.”

  “Wait, I thought you just said he’s cleaned up his act.”

  “But he still likes to hang with his ‘homeys,’ as they so quaintly put it here in Funky Town, USA. I kept that boy’s ass out of jail. Ronnie owes me big time. Told me he’s been to a couple of keggers, caught up with old friends. Some of whom still go to the high school. All of them were talking about the Dorset Flasher. And he swears that not one of them has the slightest idea who he is. It’s the best-kept secret around. They all think it’s pretty hilarious.”

  “It does have its humorous side, you have to admit.”

  “Mitch, there’s nothing funny about it. This guy is ruining my life. We patrolled the Historic District in force last weekend. And yet, somehow, he managed to hit four more old ladies without us getting so much as a glimpse of him. I’d swear he was getting around the village via the sewer system except—”

  “Sure, sure. Just like Harry Lime in The Third Man. God, did Orson Welles slay in that film or—?”

  “Except Dorset doesn’t have a sewer system. Meanwhile, I’ve busted my hump working my way through every single loser boy in Dorset. Anyone who’s been picked up for drugs, stealing, fighting in the past five years. Swamp Yankees and rich kids. And I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Whoever he is, he’s smart and he’s careful. He doesn’t wear a wristwatch or rings on his fingers. Nothing that could identify him. He leaves no traces behind. Not a single shoe print. He defaced the funeral home’s sign with a plain old Sharpie that you can buy anywhere. A friend of mine rushed that dead skunk through the lab up in Meriden for me. No fingerprints. He wore gloves when he handled it.” Des took a sip of her wine. “I’ve got a theory, too. And I would never admit this to Bob Paffin in a million years. . . .”

  “What is it, Des?”

  “That we’re dealing with a bright, pissed-off sixteen-year-old boy who has been marinating in self-pity all summer. And when school starts he’ll crawl back into the woodwork and the incidents will stop.”

  “If that’s the case then how are you going to catch him?”

  “I’m not going to catch him, Mitch.”

  “You mean he’s going to get away with it? That’s not a good ending.”

  “We don’t always get happy endings. This is real life.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Trust me, girlfriend, you still need a rewrite.”

  Darkness was falling by now. He put the fish on to cook while she went inside and made a salad out of his ripe, juicy tomatoes, fragrant basil leaves and the buffalo mozzarella. She dressed it with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, then mashed up the fingerling potatoes with a drop more olive oil, plain yogurt an
d a whole lot of fresh dill. After that she set the table, lit the candles and opened another bottle of Sancerre. By then the grill chef was coming in the door with the smoky striped bass and steaming ears of corn.

  “Actually, I did have one promising lead,” she told him as they dove in, starved. “I haven’t said anything because you happen to know the guy. I can talk about it now because I’ve crossed him off of my list. But you can’t breathe a word of this, deal?”

  “Deal,” he promised. “Who are we . . . ?”

  “Hal Chapman, your skullet-head trainer.”

  “Hal? No way!”

  “Yes way. Hear my thing, okay? The principal at the high school poked around in some old files for me. Back when your boy Hal was fifteen, he got in trouble for behaving inappropriately toward a female classmate.”

  “Behaving inappropriately how?”

  “He exposed himself to her out by the bleachers at lunch. The girl’s parents declined to press charges so the law didn’t get into it. School handled it internally. Counseling and so forth. And Hal was a model citizen after that. Even got a full ride to play football at Boston College.”

  Mitch nodded. “He blew out his knee freshman year and dropped out.”

  “He bitter about it?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be. He’s always cheerful. A good trainer, real enthusiastic. He lives in his parents’ old house on Griswold Avenue. They’ve retired to North Carolina. His dad worked for Electric Boat, I think. I don’t know a whole lot more about Hal—aside from the fact that he does pretty well with the ladies.”

  “He does real well,” she said, munching on an ear of corn. “I shadowed him this week. Tuesday night he got busy with this hot little hostess, Celine Sullivan, who works at the Rustic Inn. She spent the night at his place. Wednesday night he was with Shaun English, that tall, good-looking young thing in the Town Assessor’s Office. He spent the night at her place. And last night your boy had himself a double-header. First he got sandy-rumped at Bluff Point with a young married lady named Lisa Neville. She’s a client of his at the club. Her husband travels a lot on business. After Lisa went home to the kids, Hal got busy down at Rocky Neck with Doreen Joslow, another of his clients. Also married. You’ve got to admire his stamina. Like I said, I’ve crossed him off of my list. He just doesn’t fit the profile. He’s not lonely. He’s not angry. And he’s for sure not sexually frustrated. That man’s out there living the dream.”