The Blood Red Indian Summer Page 9

  “What’s the Deacon up to?” he asked, fetching a Bass Ale from his fridge. Quirt was nose down in the kibble bowl enjoying a late night happy meal.

  “Watching a rerun of NCIS, what else?”

  “Is he wearing his jacket in the house?”

  “He is. I was thinking I might burn it when goes to bed—except I swear he never does. You get Winston home okay?”

  “I did. Someone cut a hole in the fence between the two properties. That’s how he got in.”

  “Did Winston do it?”

  “He says not. I did find wire cutters in his toolbox, but my money’s on a tabloid scuzzball.”

  “I’d believe that. I’ll tell the Granthams in the morning. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Da Beast was a lot nicer than I was expecting him to be. I kind of liked him, I must confess.”

  “He can be very likeable. He can also change gears uber-fast.”

  “So shall we talk menu for tomorrow night?”

  “Serve whatever you want, Mitch. I won’t be eating a single bite.”

  “That’s my girl. Have I told you recently how adorable you are?”

  “I’m not feeling very adorable right now.”

  “Beg to differ, thinny.”

  “Sleep tight, doughboy.”

  His stomach was rumbling. He’d never managed to eat any dinner. He cooked himself up those grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches he’d been starting to make and devoured both sandwiches while he trolled on his computer.

  Sure enough, twenty-seven seconds of shaky video-phone footage of the heavyweight Clarence Bellows-Winston Lash bout was already up and streaming on a high-traffic celebrity gossip site, which was calling it a “rumble” between a member of Da Beast’s “crew” and “an unidentified, pajama-clad man.” Mitch couldn’t believe how far the goalposts of the news business had shifted. Editors used to wait until they had an actual story before they ran the visuals. Now the raw video was the story. By morning it would go viral, which did Tyrone Grantham no good. Then again, his cousin Clarence hadn’t done him any favors either.

  Mitch washed up in the kitchen, but was still way too wired to sleep, so he opened another Bass and put on Anywhere, Anytime, Anyplace, a circa-1949 recording by John Lee Hooker and his Coast To Coast Blues Band. He powered up his monster stack, grabbed his sky blue Stratocaster and sat in on “Come Back Baby,” laying down his riffs behind John Lee’s low, seductive growl, bare toes wrapped around his wah-wah pedal as he reached for it, found it, felt it.

  It was nearly three by the time Mitch climbed up to his sleeping loft and burrowed under the covers. He was asleep instantly. And swore his head had barely hit the pillow when his phone started ringing and ringing on the nightstand.

  He groped for it, groaning. “Hello?…”

  “Rise and shine, Boo-Boo! Everybody out of the sack!” His father sounded up as a pup. Always did. “Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I? You said you get up early.”

  “I-I do, but…” He let out a huge yawn, blinking. “Pop, it’s still dark out. What time is it?”

  “Five-thirty.”

  “Are you getting ready to leave the city?”

  “Nope. We’re here.”

  “Where here?”

  “At the foot of your causeway. But we can’t get out to the island. There’s a barricade blocking our way. You have to hit a buzzer or something?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “So hit it already, will you?”

  “Wait, you’re here?” Mitch’s brain was still not quite firing on all its cylinders. In fact, he thought the chances were good that he was actually still asleep. “What time did you leave the city?”

  “We set the alarm for two-fifteen. Had our coffee and All-Bran, locked up your apartment good and snug and were out the door by three o’clock sharp. Are you going to raise this barricade or what?”

  “Sure, sure. Right away…” Mitch staggered downstairs and hit the buzzer by the front door, his bleary eyes still swollen half-shut. He threw on a T-shirt and shorts and ran a hand through his mop of curls. Flicked on the porch light. Sure enough, they were pulling up in the driveway in a rented Ford Focus.

  He went out into the muggy pre-dawn warmth and hugged and kissed them both. It had been nearly a year since they’d made it up from Vero Beach.

  “Is Desiree here?” Chet demanded to know. “It’s fine by us if she is. You don’t have to hide her in a closet. We’re all grown ups.”

  “She’s home with her dad. He’s recuperating from bypass surgery, remember? And I don’t have any closets.”

  “What’d he say?” Chet was hard of hearing but refused to acknowledge it. Just talked really loud. Pretty soon everyone else was, too.

  “He said he doesn’t have any closets,” Ruth told him.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Everyone has closets.”

  “We can’t wait to meet her, sweetheart.”

  “Yeah, when are we going to meet her, Boo-Boo?”

  “Tonight. We’re all having dinner here. And … could you do me a huge favor and not call me Boo-Boo in front of Des? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “But I’ve called you Boo-Boo your whole life.”

  “I know this, Pop.”

  “And Maisie never minded that I called you … ouch!” Chet yelped as Ruth’s elbow collided with his ribs. “Okay, son, if that’s how you want it.” His eyes fell on Mitch’s Studey. “Hey, your truck is sa-weet. What year is it?”

  “A ’56.”

  “Sa-weet. I haven’t seen one of those babies in years. Can we take it out for a spin? Come on, let’s take it out for a spin.”

  “Pop, are you high on greenies or something?”

  “He’s just excited,” explained Ruth. “We’re happy to see you.”

  “Likewise. Come on in. I’ll make us some coffee. And when the sun comes up I can show you around the island. Then I’ll take you to your bed and breakfast. Sorry I can’t put you up here, but it’s real tiny, as you’ll see.”

  They followed him inside, gazing around as he flicked on the lights.

  “Man oh Manischewitz, this place is straight out of an American history book,” Chet exclaimed. “Did George Washington sleep here?”

  “Actually, he slept on Sour Cherry Lane before he crossed the Connecticut River. It was a ferry landing in those days.”

  “No closets, Ruthie. He wasn’t kidding.”

  “Of course he wasn’t kidding.”

  Mitch got his first good look at his parents now—and their appearance alarmed him. They weren’t ancient. His dad was sixty-four, his mom a year younger. Yet both of them had … shrunk. His dad had always proclaimed himself to be six feet tall on the button. Yet Mitch towered over him, even barefoot. Chet had always been stocky, too. But he’d been on such a strict diet to bring down his cholesterol and blood pressure numbers that he actually looked gaunt. He wore his salmon-colored Florida slacks way up near his armpits. The lines in his face were deeper. His salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than pepper. He was still his same old peppy self. Mister Go-Go-Go. But he came off less like Chet Berger and more like Jiminy Cricket.

  Was it he who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

  Or was it his mom—who had turned into one of those stooped little white-haired ladies that Mitch always offered his seat to on the subway. Ruth wore a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Once a librarian always a librarian. She had on a floral-patterned blouse, pink slacks and a pair of those bone-colored walking shoes that are the official footwear of AARP members who reside in the Sunshine State. Mitch’s mom was a shy, sensitive woman. But very direct. She said what she meant—just did so in a much quieter voice than his dad. Then again, Bobcat Goldwaith was quieter than his dad.

  Was it she who had the grapefruit-sized tumor?

  “You’re looking well, sweetheart. And I’m glad you let your eyebrows grow back. You reminded me of—”

  “Joan Crawford, I know.”

  “I
was going to say Robert Taylor.”

  “Wow, there’s a name you never hear anymore. He was such a huge star in his day. Yet he’s totally vanished into the celluloid haze—along with the likes of John Hodiak, Farley Granger and Elliott Gould.”

  Chet made a face. “Don’t mention that bum Elliott Gould around me.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with?…” Mitch noticed the dreamy look on Ruth’s face. “Oops, I forgot. He was your chief competition for Mom’s heart.”

  “My entire adult life I’ve had him hanging over me,” Chet grumbled. “She even watched that stupid Friends on TV because every once in a while he’d turn up as Ross and Monica’s father. He’s a fat old man now, you know.”

  “He is not,” Ruth objected. “And I could say a few words about your girlfriend Sharon Gless, mister. So behave yourself.”

  By now the sun was rising up out of the Sound. Mitch went into the kitchen and put the coffee on, groping around in the cupboard under the sink for his reserve box of Cocoa Puffs. He helped himself to a starved handful out of the box, cursing himself for not having bought more donuts yesterday. It had been appallingly shortsighted of him.

  Clemmie sauntered into the kitchen and had some kibble.

  “Since when are you into cats?” Chet wanted to know.

  “Des rescues feral strays.”

  Clemmie padded out into the living room, sniffed at Mitch’s folks and elected to go back up to bed. Another rough day at the office.

  When the coffee was ready, Mitch filled three mugs and asked his folks if they wanted to check out Big Sister while they drank it. They did. He led them down the path toward the lighthouse and the narrow strip of beach. There was a soft early-morning haze hanging over the tranquil water. A great blue heron was having breakfast at the water’s edge. It took flight in the direction of the river. Mitch could hear the flapping of its wings.

  “This is just lovely, sweetheart,” Ruth said as they strolled along. “It’s the sort of a place that you dream about.”

  “I still can’t believe I actually live here. I keep waiting for someone to notice me and yell, ‘Hey, you with the curly hair—get the hell off our island!’”

  “I was hoping for real autumn weather,” Chet groused. “The McCoy.”

  “Soon, Pop. We’re supposed to get a storm tonight.” Mitch took a sip of his coffee and said, “Okay, give it to me straight—which one of you is dying?”

  His parents exchanged a confused look.

  “Dying?” Chet repeated dumbly.

  “Is it you or is it Mom? Tell me everything right now. I mean it.”

  Chet shook his head. “What in the heck are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about all of those ‘appointments’ that you had in the city. I’m talking about you showing up here in the middle of the night.”

  “We like to beat the rush hour traffic.”

  “Pop, you practically caught up with last night’s rush hour traffic. I know you two. Something’s up.”

  “Nothing’s up. Everything’s sa-weet.”

  “And will you please stop saying that? You’re driving me ka-rayzee.”

  “Everything’s fine, sweetheart,” Ruth assured him. “We’re both fine.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what’s going on?”

  “Lots of stuff,” Chet said. “We’re ‘happening’ people.”

  “Pop, I swear…”

  “We’ll discuss it tonight, okay? First, we want to meet Desiree. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Sure you can.” Chet squinted at the beach up ahead of them. “What’s that lying in the sand—is it a seal?”

  It lay a hundred feet ahead of them at the edge of the water. It was dark-skinned and shiny. But it was no seal. It was a young black woman. She appeared to be naked. She also appeared to be dead.

  Mitch dashed toward her with his father in hot pursuit. She lay facedown in the sand. She was not naked. Her thin, sleeveless undershirt and panties were just so plastered to her wet skin that they were see-through. The undershirt had been torn in several places. Mitch turned her over. She was freezing cold to the touch—the air was warm but the water in the Sound wasn’t. She was a teenager, no more than eighteen. A beautiful girl with a voluptuous figure. Her knees were badly scraped. There were fresh bruises around her wrists and throat. Also atop her thighs. Someone had gotten rough with her.

  “Here, let me…” Chet had been a lifeguard at Jones Beach in his youth. He fell to his knees, wiped the caked sand from her face and stuck his ear to her mouth, listening closely. “She’s alive but she’s barely breathing.” He performed mouth-to-mouth on her, then listened once again, shaking his head. “She’s full of water. Got to get it out of her.” He flipped the girl back over onto her stomach, turned her head to one side and pressed firmly against her back with both hands. She coughed up some seawater. He pressed again. More water came up. “Mitch, I’m going to stay with her. You run back to the house and call an ambulance, okay? And bring back plenty of blankets.” He turned her back over and tried more mouth-to-mouth on her. “Hurry, son. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  The girl coughed once again—except this time she abruptly regained consciousness, her big brown eyes gazing up at them wildly. “Don’t make me go back there!” she cried out. “Please don’t make me go back there!” Then she passed out and stayed out.

  CHAPTER 7

  BY THE TIME DES got out to the island Marge and Mary Jewett had already loaded the girl into the back of their EMT van in Mitch’s driveway. Mitch was standing there with an adorable little sun-browned couple who were instantly identifiable as his parents. Mitch had his mother’s dense curly hair and busy little rabbit nose. And his father’s bright, probing eyes. Happily, Mitch did not share his father’s fashion sense. Mr. Berger’s salmon-colored slacks were yanked up so high it was a wonder the man could swallow.

  “Morning, Des,” Marge said wearily as Des climbed out of her cruiser.

  “Back at you. Feels like I just saw you ladies ten minutes ago.”

  “It was ten minutes ago,” Mary said.

  Des hopped into the van with the girl, acutely aware of Mitch’s parents watching her. “What have we got here?”

  “Collateral damage from that party, we’re figuring,” Mary said. “Meet Jane Doe.”

  Jane Doe was an African-American in her teens. She had an oxygen mask over her face and an IV tube in her forearm. She was swaddled in blankets.

  “The Bergers got most of the water out of her,” Mary said. “Her lungs sound pretty clear now. We’re oxygenating her and giving her fluids for dehydration. Her blood pressure’s a little low but she’s stable and conscious—although she won’t tell us who she is or what happened to her.”

  “All she has on is her underwear,” Marge said, lowering her voice. “Her panties are intact but her T-shirt’s torn. She has fresh bruises on her thighs and around her wrists and throat. Her knees are all scraped up, too. We’ve phoned ahead to Shoreline Clinic for a SANE.” Meaning a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner.

  Mary bent down and removed the oxygen mask from the girl’s face. “How are you doing, hon?”

  “Fine,” she answered hoarsely. She didn’t look fine. Panicky was more like it.

  “Would you like to tell us your name now?”

  “I can do that,” Des said, studying the girl with great concern. “It’s Kinitra Jameson. Her older sister, Jamella, is married to Tyrone Grantham.” Des crouched down close to her. “What happened, Kinitra?”

  Kinitra wouldn’t say. She just shook her head.

  “Were you out on a boat? Did someone attack you? How did you get all of those bruises?”

  Kinitra shook her head again, then started to cry—huge, wrenching sobs.

  Des turned to Marge and said, “Get her up to the clinic. I’ll be along after I speak to the Bergers.”

  “And you’ll notify next of kin?”

  “That, too,” Des said as
she climbed out.

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, I’m just lucky all over.”

  Mary pulled the rear doors shut from the inside as Marge got behind the wheel. The van started its way back toward the causeway.

  Des strode toward the Bergers, her pulse quickening.

  Mitch was grinning at her in a most unfamiliar way. He looked as if his upper lip had been Krazy Glued to his top teeth. “I guess this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” he said, his voice soaring at least an octave higher than usual. “Ruth and Chet Berger, I’d like you to meet the one and only Desiree Mitry.”

  “This is a real pleasure, Desiree,” Chet said effusively. “Mitch has told us so much about you. Except he didn’t tell us you were so beautiful.”

  “Or so tall,” Ruth said, gazing up, up at her.

  “It’s the hat,” said Des, who suddenly felt as if her own top lip had been glued to her teeth.

  “Is that poor girl going to make it?” Chet asked.

  “She’ll be okay.”

  “I marked the spot where we found her,” Mitch said. “Want to see it?”

  “Is there anything to see?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then it can wait. I need to contact her family now.”

  “So you’ve got an I.D. on her?”

  “I know her. She’s Tyrone Grantham’s sister in law.”

  His face dropped. “Uh-oh…”

  “Uh-oh is right.” Des turned back to his parents and said, “This is really not how I planned to meet you folks. And now I’m afraid I have to run.”

  “Do what you have to do, Desiree,” Chet said. “Besides, the best way to get to know someone is to watch them at work. Not at some artificial dinner party.”

  “Which we will, in fact, be having later on,” Mitch pointed out. “Artifice and all. But you’re absolutely right, Pop. It so happens that the two of us met because of her work. Dinner came much, much later. First, she had to make sure I wasn’t a murderer.”

  Chet’s eyes widened. “You thought Boo-Boo was a murderer?”

  Des blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what did you just—?”

  “Nothing,” Mitch blurted out. “He didn’t say anything.”