The Blood Red Indian Summer Page 8

  “Medical condition my ass!” Clarence huffed.

  “No, my ass!” Asia sobbed. “Will I need to get, like, a shot?”

  “Here, hon, let me see…” Madge knelt behind her to examine her butt cheek. “No, he didn’t break the skin. It doesn’t even show. You’re fine.”

  Mary had Winston up on his feet now and was walking him around.

  “How did he get in?” Des wondered. “The estate’s fenced all the way around. There’s a trooper on the gate. How did he just waltz in here in his PJs?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Rondell answered. “But I assure you we will undertake a thorough security review first thing in the morning.”

  Des heard hushed, reverent oohs and ahhs now as Tyrone Grantham made his way through the crowd toward them, ignoring the partiers one and all. He showed no interest in the pretty girls in their bikinis. Or in the guys who were patting him on the back and capturing live footage of him with their phones. Only in the altercation. His hooded eyes flicked from Des over to Winston, then to the Jewett girls, Clarence and Asia before they returned to Des. “Who’s the old man?” he asked her in a low voice. “And why is he bleeding?”

  “He’s Winston Lash, your next door neighbor. Clarence punched him.”

  Tyrone grimaced. “Why you be wanting to do that, Cee?”

  “He tried to bite my girl Asia here,” Clarence explained.

  “Winston doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Mitch spoke up. “He has a medical condition.”

  Tyrone narrowed his gaze at Mitch before he turned back to Clarence and said, “I told you to keep it low profile. I also told you to collect their phones at the door. Don’t you get what’ll happen now? This’ll go viral.” He looked around at all of the partiers. “And you said a few friends.”

  “That’s all I invited, I swear,” Clarence insisted. “A dozen folks. It was Calvin who let all of these others in. I left him on the gate with the guest list.”

  “Yeah, that was a real smart play.” Tyrone’s eyes located his father-in-law, who was chatting up a pair of tipsy young babes as he floated there in the pool. “We’ll talk about this later, Cee.”

  “I swear I didn’t invite all of these people.”

  “And I said we’ll talk about it later.” Tyrone looked at Mitch again. “What sort of a medical condition?”

  “He has frontotemporal dementia. It’s a degenerative disease of the frontal lobe of the brain that causes him to do sexually inappropriate things. He doesn’t know he’s doing them.”

  “Are you his doctor?”

  “No, I’m a movie critic.”

  “Mitch is with me,” Des explained.

  Tyrone thawed slightly. “Oh, sure, you’re Mitch Berger. Glad to know you, man.” He stuck out a gigantic fist and held it there until Mitch bumped knucks with him. “I saw you on TV a while back dumping all over the new James Cameron movie.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like me.”

  “I didn’t agree but I admire your passion.” Tyrone stared at Winston intently. “I’ve got no beef with any man who has dementia. I’ve met retired players who had their bell rung so many times they barely know their own names. Can’t drive a car. Can’t feed their families. Breaks my heart.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You say he lives next door?”

  Mitch pointed toward the Joshua place. “Right over there.”

  “How’d he get in here?”

  “We’ll endeavor to ascertain that in the morning,” Rondell promised.

  Tyrone moved over toward Winston, who was seated in a chair now holding the ice pack to his mouth. “I want to apologize for what happened, sir. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. I’m Tyrone Grantham, your new neighbor.”

  Winston removed the icepack and said, “My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

  “Big enough. Can I help you get home or maybe send for someone?”

  “That would be me,” Mitch said.

  “He’s a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Winston noticed Mitch standing there and waved to him. “Hey, Brubaker, is this a party or is this a party?”

  Mitch gave him two thumbs up. “Winston lives with his late wife’s two sisters,” he told Tyrone. “They’re having a hard time of it. I make deliveries three times a week from the Food Pantry.”

  Tyrone’s eyes widened. “Real?”

  “Real.”

  “I thought this was a rich town.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Man, you push right back, don’t you? You’re all right. Figured you would be. Otherwise our resident trooper wouldn’t be wasting her time on you.” Tyrone turned to his little brother and said, “Ask Moms to pay a call on them tomorrow, okay? Maybe take them a mess of her fried chicken and potato salad. Tell her to make a whole lot. And you are going over there with her,” he informed Clarence. “Those ladies need anything done—a light bulb changed, brush cleared, carpet vacuumed—you’re doing it for them, hear?”

  “I don’t vacuum carpets,” Clarence said indignantly.

  “Yeah, you do,” Tyrone assured him.

  “Okay, whatever,” he conceded. “But we still got us a situation here. This old man sexually assaulted Asia. He should be arrested.”

  “What do you think about that?” Tyrone asked Des.

  “We can go that route. But if I charge Mr. Lash then I’ll have to charge Clarence, too.”

  “With what?” Clarence demanded.

  “You criminally assaulted him.”

  “I was defending my girl!”

  “You cold-cocked a helpless old man, Clarence,” Des pointed out. “And if you pursue this, you will get the attention of the media—especially given your criminal record.”

  Clarence’s eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

  “It’s my business to know.”

  “Maybe you ought to let it slide, Cee,” Tyrone suggested.

  “No maybe about it,” Rondell put in firmly. “We do not need more negative attention.”

  Des said, “Actually, it’s not up to you gentlemen to decide. Asia is the alleged victim here.”

  “That’s right, girl,” Asia said, nodding her head up and down. “And there ain’t no ‘alleged’ about it. He bit me.”

  “Do you wish to file a criminal assault charge against him?”

  Asia hesitated, peering over at Winston. “My grandmoms has Alzheimer’s. She don’t even know where she is half the time. I don’t want to break bad with some sick old man. That’s just wrong. Can we forget the whole thing?”

  “Yes, we can. We’ll call it a minor disagreement. Clarence, if you and Mr. Lash will shake hands on it, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m not shaking that pervert’s hand,” Clarence grumbled.

  “Yeah, you are,” Tyrone assured him.

  Reluctantly, Clarence went over to Winston. “Hey, I’m sorry, awright?”

  Winston grinned up at him. “My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you?”

  “Just shake my damned hand, will you, old man?”

  The two of them shook hands.

  Des asked the Jewett girls if Winston was okay to go home now.

  “He’s fine,” Marge said.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Mitch said, starting toward him.

  “Anything else we can do for you, Trooper Mitry?” Tyrone asked.

  “Yes, there is.” Des glanced at her watch. “While we were standing here having all of this fun, the clock just ran out. Pull the plug for me, will you? This party is history.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE OLD COOT BOLTED on him just as they were about to climb into Mitch’s pickup. Took off across the lawn and went crashing into the woods that separated the Grantham place from the Joshua estate.

  “Winston, where are you going?” Mitch cried out as he sprinted after him.

  “Home!” hollered Winston, who could scoot along pretty fast for someone in his bedroom slippers. Especially considering that Clarence had ju
st gone Tarantino on him. “Lila gets all weepy if I stay out too late. She was some kind of beauty in her day. But who wants an old broad when there’s so many young ones and so little time. Know what I mean?”

  “Not really, but that’s okay.” Mitch caught up with him, grabbing him by the arm. “You can’t get home this way. They put up a chain-link fence, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. How do you think I got here?” Winston yanked his arm free, feinted left and went right, speeding past Mitch. He had wicked playground moves. Possibly, a leash was in order. “Boy, that was some party,” he cackled gleefully from the wooded darkness. “Why, there were more bare-assed colored girls—”

  “Women of color.”

  “In the same place at the same time than I can shake my stick at.”

  Mitch groped his way along in the moonlit darkness, avoiding the trees and boulders as best he could. “Are you feeling okay, Winston?”

  “Never better,” replied Winston, who seemed to know exactly where he was heading. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Because you just got punched in the mouth.”

  “Dear, sweet Asia. I must come back and see her in the morning.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But we bonded. I felt a connection.”

  “Your teeth bonded with her ass. I’d hardly call that a connection.”

  “Shows how much you know. Women cherish a man who isn’t afraid to show his feelings. My God, there is something so intoxicating about tender young flesh. Nothing else like it on God’s green earth. He knows that.”

  “Who does, God?”

  “God? Who’s talking about God? I meant my good buddy. We’re a lot alike, you know. Have very similar tastes.”

  Mitch let that one slide on by. He wasn’t sure if imaginary playmates were part of Winston’s illness or not. He only knew that the old guy was starting to drive him loco. “Winston, we’d better go back to my truck now.”

  “What for?”

  “Because we’re lost in the woods in the dark.”

  “Are not.” Winston came to a halt, breathing heavily. “There’s the big boulder, see?”

  Mitch could barely make out a huge boulder looming before them. The eight-foot chain-link fence was just beyond it. “So?…”

  “So that’s where the hole is.” Winston felt around for a moment. Then, with a cry of delight, he got down on his hands and knees and scurried through the fence like a little boy. “Are you coming?”

  Mitch knelt there and discovered that a three-foot-square section of the fence had been neatly cut away. “Did you make this hole?” he asked as he followed Winston through it.

  “Not me,” Winston replied.

  “How long has it been here?”

  “Wouldn’t know. I just found it yesterday.”

  Mitch pondered this. The street outside of Tyrone Grantham’s house was swarming with photographers—any one of whom could fetch major bucks for candid shots of him relaxing poolside with Jamella. Or, better yet, with some hot, topless babe who wasn’t Jamella. Would one of those creeps cut a hole in the fence and try to sneak onto his property? You bet.

  As they neared the clearing at the edge of the woods Mitch could see lights in the windows of the old Joshua mansion. And floodlights were on out back. Callie was stretched out in a lawn chair on the patio. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t seem to notice their arrival.

  But Luanne and Lila sure did. The two of them rushed to the kitchen door, utterly distraught.

  “Winnie, what happened to your mouth?” Lila cried out.

  “He got punched,” Mitch informed them.

  “Who would do such a rotten thing?” Luanne demanded.

  “One of your new neighbors took offense at his behavior.”

  “But Winnie’s not well,” Lila protested.

  “He understands that now. It’s all been ironed out.”

  Lila examined Winston’s bloodied face, clucking over him. “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.” She took him by the hand and led him upstairs.

  Luanne remained with Mitch in the kitchen, which still smelled nasty even though he’d unclogged that drain. Some form of rodent must have died in a cupboard somewhere. The trick would be finding it. Sounded like a job custom made for cousin Clarence.

  “What did Winnie do?” Luanne demanded, hands on her hips.

  “Took a bite out of a young lady’s behind. Or tried to.”

  “Dear, dear. Mitch, I’m so sorry we had to drag you out into the night this way.”

  “No problem. That’s what neighbors are for. Speaking of which, your new neighbors will be paying you a visit tomorrow.”

  “You mean that football star?”

  “His mother and his cousin Clarence. They’d like to meet you. And Clarence is real sorry about what happened.”

  “Well, isn’t that sweet of them. It will be nice to have callers. And now, if you’ll please excuse me, I’d better go help Lila.”

  “Luanne, have you seen Winston with a pair of wire cutters recently?”

  She stared at him blankly. “Did you say wire cutters?”

  “I did. Do you own a pair? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

  “The toolbox is out in the mudroom. Help yourself,” Luanne said, starting down the hallway toward the stairs.

  The mudroom was off the kitchen. Mitch found a rusty toolbox on a shelf next to assorted mud-caked winter boots. It contained the usual household tools—including a pair of wire cutters. They were right on top, in fact. He stared at them before he closed the toolbox and went back out onto the patio.

  “Hey,” he called to Callie.

  “Hey,” she responded, stretched out there in a baggy T-shirt and jeans.

  He sank gingerly into an ancient director’s chair, positive it would give way under him. But it held. “I test drove a new Silverado today.”

  “I didn’t know you were shopping for a truck.”

  “I’m not.”

  Her big gray eyes searched his face carefully. “What did you find out?”

  “That June sucks as a car salesman.”

  “He hates it, Mitch. And his dad bullies him nonstop. That’s why he’s absolutely determined to set sail for the Keys as soon as humanly possible. Do you think I should go along or not?”

  “Callie, I can’t answer that one for you. I do think June will be happier if he strikes out on his own. He’s stewing in his own juices right now.” Not to mention Bonita’s. “But you two have only been together for a couple of months. And you’ve dreamt about coming to the Dorset Academy for years. You’re living out your dream here. You’ll be giving that up if you go away with him.”

  “I know that.” She sighed. “But I want to be with him. I can’t imagine not being with him. And what’s more important than love? It’s the only thing that really lasts, isn’t it?”

  Mitch didn’t go anywhere near that. He’d loved and lost Maisie to ovarian cancer. Loved and lost Des to her ex-husband Brandon. True, he did have Des back now. But for how long? Love didn’t last. Nothing lasted. All you could truly count on was the moment that you were living in right now. “Christmas break is just a few weeks away. You could finish out the semester, then fly down there and meet up with him.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “I can loan you the plane fare.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to pay you back for ages.”

  “So that’ll be my Christmas present to you. Just think about it, okay? Who knows, by then you may not feel the same way about each other.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “Is June seeing somebody else?”

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Because he’s been acting so strange the past few days. Like he’s, I don’t know, all torn up emotionally.”

  “You should talk to each other about it. That’s what couples do.”

  “You’re right, I guess.” She shrugged her narrow should
ers helplessly. “I mean, whatever.”

  Mitch said good night to Callie and headed back into the woods toward the hole in the fence, wondering if he should have told her everything. But it wasn’t his business to tell her about June and Bonita. That was up to June, wasn’t it?

  Well, wasn’t it?

  He found the hole easily enough but took a wrong turn somewhere in the woods on the other side and came out by Tyrone Grantham’s swimming pool instead of his driveway. The party was over. Everyone was gone—except for an enormous middle-aged black woman and chubby young black girl who were gathering up all of the plastic cups and paper plates and stuffing them into a trash barrel. The smell of perfume lingered in the air. Someone’s yellow bikini top was floating in the pool.

  “What do you want?” the woman demanded, glowering at him. “You some kind of a reporter?”

  “I was seeing Mr. Lash home. Just came back to get my truck. I’m a friend of the resident trooper. Are you Mrs. Grantham?”

  She nodded her head. “Chantal. I know you from the TV, don’t I? You’re that movie critic with the funny eyebrows.”

  “That’s me, all right. Except there’s nothing funny about my—”

  “This here’s Monique.”

  “Hello there, Monique.”

  “Hi,” she responded distantly, her gaze fastened on the pavement.

  “That bunch of no good leeches had no business here,” Chantal fumed as she tossed more trash in the barrel. “It was that old fool Calvin let ’em in. Hoping one of those girls would get so high she’d spend the night with him. I worked the streets, okay? I know what men are really like. Even you so-called respectable men. You’re all sick. And weak. Can’t control your evil impulses. We’re the strong ones. The good Lord knows that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she barked at him. “My Tyrone’s a good boy. He tries to do the right thing. But he’s had to fend for himself and Rondell ever since he was a child. I wasn’t there for him then. Now I am. So you go home and leave us alone, hear? Just go home.”

  * * *

  She answered her cell phone on the first ring. Always did.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I just climbed into bed.”