Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

The Taste of Black Lipstick by Sherrard Gray

Lieutenant Dean March stared at Lacy DeBeck lying facedown on the rug in his library, a red stain spreading out from his chest. A few feet from DeBeck was a leather armchair and a small table with a half-finished glass of whisky and a magazine, Tennis. A second armchair with its own table and glass stood opposite the first chair. Dean’s chief, Bunk Cummins, was measuring the body’s position with a tape.

Dean left the body and went to a tall woman standing by a set of french doors that led onto a balcony. She had introduced herself as Trish Hazelton, a name that rang a faint bell in the back of his head. White-haired and straight-backed, she stared bleakly across the lawn toward a red clay tennis court. “Poor Tiffany,” she murmured.

“Tiffany?” said Dean.

“That’s my granddaughter. She’s supposed to meet me here any minute. She has Wednesdays off from her regular job at Brooks Drugs and was going to help me clean. When she sees this...” Mrs. Hazelton sighed. “Tiffany isn’t much for violence. Well, who is?”

“Someone was,” said Dean. “Was the house unlocked when you came to clean this morning?”

“Oh no. But I have a key. When Lacy didn’t answer my ring, I let myself in. Came upstairs and—” She stopped. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

Hazelton? Didn’t a recent case involve that name? Something small but bizarre, even comical in a way, but he couldn’t place it. He’d ask Bunk when he got the chance.

Moments later the medical examiner and two plainclothes from the state crime lab showed up. Sketches were made, photographs taken, and the body rolled over. The M.E. confirmed death by a single bullet to the chest, and estimated time of death between eight P.M. and midnight the previous evening.

“No powder bums,” said the M.E., “so it wasn’t point-blank. The perp was probably sitting in this other chair.”

One of the lab technicians, a large man with bushy red hair, holding a magnifying glass, nodded. “Cosy scene, huh? The killer’s sitting in this chair having a drink and a smoke with DeBeck, chatting, maybe laughing, all of a sudden pulls out a gun and pow! I’ll tell you something else about the perp. He, she, was one careful dude. You can see where he wiped his prints off this glass and off the ashtray. We’ll take it all to the lab, though — glass, ashtray, cigarette butt.” With tweezers he picked up the lone butt, bent and long as if only one or two puffs had been taken, and placed it in a cellophane evidence bag. “And this book of matches from the Blue Note in Manhattan — hey, I’ve been there, great jazz club — and the magazine.” Bushy Head wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and looked around. “Well well well.” He walked to a wall mirror between two bookcases. Leaning against a shelf beside the mirror was a black tennis racket and two golf clubs. “The guy wasn’t too vain, was he? A full-length mirror in his library?” He had started to reach for one of the clubs, a driver, when a female voice sounded on the stairs.

“Gran? Are you up there? What are those police cars doing—” A young woman in soiled bluejeans with a yellow bandana wrapped around her head stepped into the room. “Oh my God.”

Dean thought he had seen her around town, but that wasn’t why he was staring at her. He sensed Bunk watching him and looked away.

Mrs. Hazelton gave the newcomer a hug, patted her on the back, and turned toward Dean and Bunk. “This is my granddaughter, Tiffany.”

Something clicked inside Dean’s head. “Snoop Doggy Dogg,” he said.

Everyone looked at him. The lab people and the M.E. exchanged glances.

“A CD, right?” said Dean.

The granddaughter narrowed her dark eyes at him while Trish Hazelton blushed and then laughed.

“You remember.”

Tiffany might not have been much for violence, but she and her grandmother seemed fascinated by the crime scene. Tiffany at least stood off to one side, but Mrs. Hazelton got in the thick of things, peering over the M.E.’s shoulder, even getting on her hands and knees to look for clues. At last Bushy Head said pointedly, “Excuse me, ma’am, but are you working for the Elizabethville PD?”

After the lab people had left, and while the M.E. was overseeing the removal of the body, Dean went over to Tiffany. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”

“You’re not as sorry as I am.” They stood by the french doors, where she had gone to smoke. Next to the doors was a wet bar with a bottle of Wild Turkey on its counter. She put the ashes into her palm and then into her jeans pocket. “Messy habit, huh?”

Dean was taking in her dark eyes and high cheekbones, her curving neck. He remembered now that her grandmother’s shoplifting case had been handled by another officer, T. J. Davison.

“I’m down to one pack a day,” said Tiffany. “Gran’s working hard on me to quit. On us to quit. She’s down to something like ten butts a day.” She lowered her voice. “You don’t suspect her, do you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Just wondered. Her swiping that CD from Ames. That was for me, you know. It was my birthday, and she didn’t have any money and wanted to get me something.”

Dean raised a hand. “Listen,” he said, “I wasn’t the one who pressed charges. It was the store owner, said he wanted to make an example of your grandmother, and your grandmother agreed.” It was coming back to him now.

“As I recall, the judge sentenced her to fifteen hours of community service, and she said, ‘No, that’s not enough. Give me at least twenty.’ You know something?” Dean watched the granddaughter, late twenties, close to his twenty-eight, blow the smoke away from him. “I think your grandmother’s a class act.”

A smile edged across Tiffany’s face. “Too bad you’re a cop.”

“Why’s that?”

She used her hand again for an ashtray. “I dunno,” she said, shrugging.

“So who’ve we got for suspects?” said Bunk. “Guess we’ll have to start with the grandmother and granddaughter. They both knew DeBeck. And the girl at least smokes.”

For some reason Dean didn’t mention that granny also smoked. “Motive?”

They were standing on the gravel drive. The only other person around was T. J., who had showed up to watch the house, keep rubberneckers away. The press had come and gone, and Trish and Tiffany had also left.

Lacy DeBeck’s three story mansion was probably the largest, fanciest house in Efizabethville, a town of four thousand that had once been a major granite producer and was now creating milk, cheese, lumber, electronics, and contented retirees. Its wooded hills and green meadows provided the perfect setting for retired bond traders and pediatricians.

DeBeck was neither a trader nor a doctor, but he had money and lots of it.

The house was flanked by wide lawns dotted with statuary and surrounded by woods. At the back a maple and beech wood rose to Shincracker Hill, which had been a favorite picnic spot of Elizabethvilleans until DeBeck, who had bought it ten years ago with the house, put up No Trespassing signs. The only visible evidence of any neighbors was a gray roof a quarter mile away seen through a gap in the foliage.

“Motive?” echoed Bunk. “Maybe he left them something in his will, and they didn’t want to wait.”

“I doubt that,” said Dean as a green Caddy purred up the drive. “They just clean his house; they aren’t related to him.”

A broad-shouldered man with a headful of wavy gray hair climbed out of the Coupe de Ville. Dean recognized Rob Clampitt, a realtor with an office on Main Street. A year ago he had fined Clampitt ninety-eight dollars for failing to come to a complete stop at one of the town’s two red fights.

“I just heard about Lacy over the radio,” said Clampitt. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

“It’s true, Rob,” said Dean. “You live around here, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Clampitt jerked a thumb toward the gray roof peeping through the trees. “What happened?”

“Looks like someone was having a drink with him in the library and popped him,” said Bunk. “Were you a friend of his?”

“Nobody was a friend of his. I got along with him okay, though. We played a lot of tennis together, an occasional game of golf.” Clampitt stared up at the library windows on the second floor. “I’ll miss him,” he said simply and wandered off onto the lawn, putting his hand on a statue of Aphrodite.

“There’s something else,” said Bunk to Dean. “DeBeck had a weakness for younger women. Remember that tax accountant he supposedly fondled last fall? She withdrew her complaint, and I’ll bet anything he paid her off. She was around twenty-five, same age as Tiffany.”

“Come on. You saw the granddaughter. She wouldn’t let an old jackass like him get near her.”

“Thanks,” said Bunk. The chief was fifty-two, same age as the deceased.

Clampitt, still looking dazed, had wandered back. “I heard that crack about Lacy. Don’t kid yourself Dean, he may have been in his fifties, but he was in great shape. Did you ever see him play tennis?”

The two cops shook their heads.

“He could beat most tennis players half his age.”

“Who are his relatives?” asked Dean.

Rob Clampitt raised a forefinger. “Just one, far as I know. A brother, Marty DeBeck, lives in Dutton Falls. I feel sorry for the guy, having to deal with this.”

“But look what he’ll inherit.”

An amused twinkle in Rob’s eye. “You haven’t heard Marty on the subject of inherited wealth, have you? Don’t get any ideas about Marty. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Rob’s eyes slitted. “You want to know who did this? Either some guy who didn’t like Lacy fooling around with his daughter or an old business partner.”

“Business partner?” said Bunk. “I thought he didn’t work. That he was independently wealthy.”

Clampitt nodded. “He was. But years ago, when he was living in New Jersey, he tried his hand at business. A chain of convenience stores, I think. I understand there were some pretty shady personalities involved.”

“Oh no,” groaned Marty DeBeck, clapping a hand to his forehead and making a little circle around Dean. He had been cutting the shaggy lawn in front of his swaybacked farmhouse with a push mower. He staggered about for a while, then shook his fist at the sky. “Why is life so unfair?”

Dean had taken his hat off in the presence of such elemental grief. “Sounds like you were really close.”

The brother stopped shaking his fist and looked at him. “Actually, I didn’t like him.” He groaned some more, kicked at a clump of mown grass, and took a second look at Dean. “Did you say he was shot? With a high-powered rifle?”

“No. With a pistol, from about ten feet away, we think. It looks like whoever killed him was having a drink with him in the library.”

“Yeah?” said Marty with a skeptical frown. “That must have been one fast, depraved human being. My brother was quick as a cobra. He was fifty-two but he could move like a twenty-year-old.” More forehead claps and groans. He wore Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt over an ample belly that said DUTTON FALLS PLAYERS, and strands of stringy gray hair stuck out from under a wrinkled cloth hat. Dean thought he looked like a bum — but a colorful, intelligent bum. “Poor bastard never had a chance,” said Marty.

“How do you mean?”

“Our old man made a pile in bathroom fixtures. Lacy inherited a couple mil and so never had to work. He dabbled in a few things, studied business in college — and flunked out — tried to run a bunch of convenience stores for a while, even thought of turning into a professional tennis player. But after each scheme petered out, he’d fall back on the old man’s coin. Like a woodchuck running back to its hole.”

“You didn’t inherit?”

A faint smile that rapidly got larger appeared on Marty DeBeck’s face. “I blew my inheritance on the horses. So now I gotta work. My wife too. I teach drama and poetry at U-37 — took today off to try to catch up on all the work around here — and my wife’s a claims adjustor for Nationwide. We’re part of the hardworking middle class, right? We wake up in the morning bitching about rich folks like my brother who don’t have to work, and we love it.”

“Won’t you inherit Lacy’s estate?”

A dark look passed over the fleshy face. “Yes. And it scares the hell out of me. On the other hand, Lacy was a notorious cheapo. Thought everyone was after his money, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he left it all to the Nature Conservancy or maybe an orphanage.”

“You’re hoping that he has?”

DeBeck didn’t answer for so long that Dean wondered if he’d heard. Finally he said, “I honestly don’t know.”

The rest of Wednesday, Thursday, and most of Friday were taken up with another visit to the crime scene, which netted nothing substantially new, phone conversations with the crime lab and the medical examiner, a bomb scare at Kellogg Union High, court appearances for a previous aggravated assault and a DWI, two car accidents, a stolen canoe on Henderson Pond, and other daily happenings in the life of a rural cop. And the usual mountain of paperwork. The crime lab had advised that the bullet in Lacy DeBeck was a hollow-point .32 and that no usable prints had shown up on any of the evidence. Finally, at five o’clock Friday afternoon, Dean, who had agreed to put in extra hours until the case was solved, ate an early supper at the Wishbone Cafe and, with Miles Davis playing “Sketches of Spain” on the tape player, drove over to Trish Hazelton’s.

It was still daylight when he pulled up outside the ranchhouse she shared with Tiffany on Catamount Road between a llama farm and a John Deere dealership. Smells of lilac and apple blossoms filled the air. A chicken coop stood next to a small, neat vegetable garden.

Stepping out of his squad car, Dean did a double-take. Mrs. Hazelton, wearing coveralls and a Blue Seal Feed cap, stood by the gate to the coop with a baseball bat in one hand. Three or four Rhode Island reds were scratching in the dirt, and soft cooing came from inside the coop where other hens were getting ready for bed. She smiled sheepishly as he came up.

“I didn’t know you played baseball,” he said.

“I don’t. It’s for getting eggs.”

“Uh-huh,” said Dean.

“It’s our rooster, Captain Ahab. Tiffany named him from a book she read in school a few years ago. You go in there for the eggs and he’s liable to end up on your chest.”

That’s when Dean saw it, standing in the doorway to the coop, sporting a bright red comb and yellow eye, a huge Plymouth Rock rooster. Captain Ahab wasn’t smiling, either. “He sounds like a mean customer,” said Dean.

“Heck, that’s the way roosters are supposed to be. That’s his job. Just like your job is to track down who killed Lacy.”

“And to ask unpopular questions.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Hazelton—”

“Trish.”

“—but I’d like to know where you and Tiffany were Tuesday night. The medical examiner says he was shot somewhere between eight and midnight.”

“Tuesday night? That seems a long time ago.”

“I know,” said Dean looking down at his shoes. “I should’ve gotten to this sooner.”

“ ’S’okay.” She touched his sleeve and gave him a grandmotherly smile. “I know how busy you are. Tiffany and I were here, wallpapering her room.” Trish Hazelton’s eyes widened. “My God, you don’t think one of us—”

“No, but I have to ask.”

“This is all Tiffany needs. She’s kind of fragile, you know. Doesn’t look it but she is. Her father—” Trish bit her lip and for a second closed her eyes. “Don’t get me started on him. He’s in Alaska now, thank God, but when she was younger he abused her. Big time. And her mother — my daughter Claire — is an alcoholic, can barely take care of herself, much less any children. Tiffany’s twenty-six and, sure, one day soon she’ll move out. But in the meantime I guess you could say I’m both her mother and her grandmother.”

Loud squawks issued from the chickens’ enclosure where Captain Ahab was chasing one of the hens. “Oh, come on, Ahab,” called Trish, “it’s getting to be bedtime.” She tapped the bat lightly against the chicken wire. “Did those guys from the crime lab find anything?”

Dean hesitated, then shook his head.

“I should have been a detective,” said Trish. “I think what you do is so interesting. Beats vacuuming rugs and dusting bookshelves, that’s for sure. You know what I think about the murderer? He wipes his prints off the glass, off that ashtray, doesn’t leave anything lying around. A real careful guy, looks like. But somewhere he screwed up. I’ll bet anything.”

“We should hire you.”

The door to the ranchhouse opened, and Tiffany stepped out on the small porch. Gone were the bluejeans and soiled shirt, the bandana around her head. She wore pressed slacks and a raspberry-colored blouse, and her dark hair was piled on top in a thick swirl. Across her wide mouth, black lipstick.

Dean’s mouth formed the word “wow,” but no sound came out. There was a sound from Trish beside him, though: a low chuckle.

“Hello, lieutenant.” Tiffany came down the steps twirling a small umbrella with a forefinger. “Any leads on who killed Lacy?”

“Not really.”

“Someone didn’t like him.”

“Did you?”

Tiffany came so close to Dean that he could smell a lemony perfume. She looked at him for a long time without speaking. A sadness about her, but also a spunkiness. She didn’t look like the type of person who wasted time dwelling on her hard background. “No,” she said. “He was too cheap and he was mean.”

“Mean?”

“If he had something he didn’t want, he might let you have it. But if he thought you wanted it, no way. I found a lampshade in the trash once that was perfectly good, so I got it out to take home. He saw me leaving the house with the shade and decided he hadn’t meant to throw it away after all.”

“If you didn’t like him, why’d you work for him?”

“I’ve wondered about that myself. Right, Gran? I mean there’s plenty of work out there cleaning houses. I didn’t care for him, but I loved his place. The three story house with the big library, the lawns and statues, the tennis court, and behind all that, Shincracker Hill. I used to take my lunch up to Shincracker, sit there on top of the world eating a sandwich. You can see into New York, New Hampshire, Canada from that hill. And Lacy owned it.” Her eyes had taken on a dreamy look. “Sometimes I would pretend I owned his estate. Dream on, right?”

She was looking at Dean but not smiling. He had never seen eyes that dark or that luminous before. They seemed to go right through him, skewer him, and he coughed into his fist and looked away.

“Oops,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Supposed to meet someone fifteen minutes ago. Have a nice evening.” She started across the lawn toward the garage.

“You too,” he called after her, and then blurted out, “On second thought...”

She turned, waiting.

Dean didn’t know what had gotten into him. He knew he could be reckless — a year ago he’d been arrested by a statie for speeding — but something about this woman made him more than reckless. Made him foolhardy. “If you’re going out with someone, I hope you have a lousy time.”

Without any hesitation Tiffany laughed. “I don’t know about a lousy time, but it will be less than exciting. George is nice but dull.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Dean. He watched the Nova pull out and go down the dirt drive.

“Do you like baseball, Dean?”

“Huh?” He turned to the grandmother, who had a knowing twinkle in her eye. He decided he needed to be more professional and squared his shoulders. “Excuse me?”

“Baseball.” Her steady blue eyes held his, and she raised the bat, took a short swing.

“Sure. I like baseball. Why?”

“Tiffany’s playing at Simmons Field tomorrow in that women’s softball league. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.” Trish tapped the fat end of the bat into her other palm. “You want to see someone who can move? Stop by tomorrow at three.”

“Mrs. Hazelton — Trish — I would love to, but I’ve got so much work to do I don’t know where to start.”

Saturday morning Bunk was leaning back in his swivel chair at the station, throwing darts at a blowup of Saddam Hussein pasted to a dartboard. “Why don’t I get better at this?” he said as the dart stuck in the edge of the board. From the far corner of the room Sergeant Bannister, bent over a computer and going through his fourth cup of bad coffee that morning, called out for Bunk to hang in there.

“You’d just better hope Heather doesn’t catch you doing this,” Dean told him. Heather was the police department secretary, with an office in the next room.

“An odd thing,” said Bunk, cocking his arm for another throw, “but I prefer darts to guns. I should’ve been born two thousand years ago when the cops were still using spears. I’d have been a better shot then, too.”

There was a loud thunk as the dart embedded itself in the walnut veneer.

The door to the squad room jerked open, and Heather’s face appeared, flushed under neatly curled, blue-rinsed hair. “How old are you, Bunk?”

“That’s an indelicate question.”

Dean was trying to keep from laughing, but he also felt a wrench. He suspected that Heather, recently widowed, had more than a professional interest in Bunk, who also, five years ago, had lost his spouse. But Bunk, though he clearly liked and respected their secretary, wasn’t responding. It was almost as if he liked being lonely.

The chief rose and headed for the dartboard. “I’ll have to get a bigger board,” he said.

Shaking her head, Heather went back into her office.

“Almost forgot.” Bunk was back in his chair. “This stuff just came back from the lab.” From a box on his desk he took out the whisky glass, the ashtray, Tennis magazine. “Charlie thinks the killer used a hankie to wipe his prints off the glass and ashtray. Oh, here’s something you might be interested in. A little souvenir of the case.” Bunk held up a matchbook with, on the cover, a trumpet amid floating notes and the words BLUE NOTE. “I saw another one of these in the library, so we know they belonged to Lacy, not the killer. Here, you’re into jazz.” He tossed the matches to Dean.

“Maybe a ghost shot him,” said Dean, turning the matchbook in his hand. He opened it, saw that only one match was missing, and shoved it into his pocket.

“We know one thing; this wasn’t a crime of passion, it was planned.”

“So who does that narrow it down to?”

Bunk had gone to the window, was looking at a light rain falling on Church Street. “This is enough to start me smoking again.” He turned and faced his lieutenant, his lined face grim. “Heather got in touch with Lacy’s lawyer, learned that his brother Marty is the main beneficiary, gets the house and close to two million. And get this. The rest goes to setting up tennis clinics in New Jersey for disadvantaged kids. Isn’t that something? Nobody seems to like the guy, but there was something there. He had a dream, I guess.” Bunk picked up a dart, set it down again. “So what about the brother? That house and two million bucks isn’t exactly pocket change.”

“He claims he’s happy being poor. Doesn’t want the money.”

“Oh boy.” Bunk sat on the sill, shaking his head. “You know what I like about you? You’ve been a cop for how long, three years now? You drive a souped up Trans Am, dig jazz, women aren’t exactly repelled by you, and yet you’re naive as the day is long. You actually believe a guy who says he doesn’t want to inherit two million bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Bunk pushed off from the sill. “Keep believing it because the world needs innocent people. But I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.”

It was quiet in the squad room, just a faint clicking from Bannister’s computer. Dean was tempted to put a hand on the shoulder of his chief but decided not to.

“What about Rob Clampitt?” said Bunk. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. You want to check him out?” Bunk smiled. “You know him better than I do. Didn’t you get him to make a little contribution to the town for running a red fight?”

“Well, look who’s here,” said Rob Clampitt, getting up from his desk. “My favorite arresting officer.” Clampitt was a large man with fading good looks, thick gray hair, bags under his eyes. But he looked alert and moved with a quick step. When Dean had pulled him over a year ago, Clampitt had grumbled and cursed but afterwards didn’t seem to hold it against him. The realtor nodded toward a side chair and sat back down behind his desk. A lucite cube on the desk held photos of himself, a woman his age, and two twenties-something children standing outside an RV. On a shelf behind the desk were several tennis trophies.

“Did I ever tell you about that traffic fine, Dean? My lawyer wanted to fight it, can you believe that? The same guy who cost me an arm and a leg over a septic system suit two years ago. You know what I told him?”

“No idea.”

“You’re fired. That’s what I told him. You know who does most of my law work now?”

Dean almost said “no idea” a second time; shook his head instead.

“Me.” Clampitt jabbed a thumb into his chest. “I’m my own lawyer — except for closings and stuff like that. The hell with all of them, they’re just in it for the money. Do you know what lawyers and sperm have in common?”

“No id — no, I don’t.”

“They both have a one-in-a-million chance of turning out human.” Clampitt chortled.

“Look, Rob, I have to be somewhere else soon. I’d like to know if you heard anything Tuesday night?”

“Negative. We’re about a quarter mile away, with woods between us. When did it happen?”

“Between eight P.M. and midnight.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Everyone’s a suspect.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see, Olla and I were watching an old Fred Astaire movie. At least part of the time. She’s gaga over Astaire, whereas I can take or leave all that twinkle-toe stuff. Probably from ten to eleven I was in my woodworking shop, and then it was lights out.”

“Any ideas?”

Clampitt rose and went to the window, fiddled with the cord of a Venetian blind. It had stopped raining; sunlight glistened on the metal roof of the lumberyard next door. “Beats me. It’s a funny thing, but I think I was one of the few people who got along with him. His own brother didn’t like him, nor the people who worked for him. The cleaning lady and her granddaughter, the guy who mows his lawn. The townspeople.” There was a catch in Clampitt’s voice as he turned from the window. “For the past two hundred years folks have been picnicking on Shincracker Hill, and then Lacy buys it and puts up No Trespassing signs. You’ve been up there, you know what it’s like. You can see the Adirondacks and White Mountains from it. The guy could be a real horse’s—” Clampitt caught himself, shook his head sadly. “I’ll tell you a story you won’t believe.”

“Try me.”

“Lacy and I had lunch together once in Montpelier — on him, believe it or not. We’d bet lunch over a set of tennis, and I won. He puts two quarters in the parking meter, we do lunch, get back in the car, and he doesn’t start the engine. After a while I say, ‘Everything okay?’ and he says, ‘There’s ten minutes left on the meter. Damned if I’m giving anyone a free park.’ ”

“Come on.”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe it. He could be like a little kid. You know, gimme that, it’s mine. But he was also vulnerable. Once, after I beat him in tennis, I said, ‘You’ll get me next time,’ and he said, ‘I doubt it. Let’s face it, I’m a loser. In everything I’ve tried. I’m an aging playboy — and not a very good one at that.’ ”

“But you liked him?”

Clampitt sat down slowly in his chair. “Some of the time. Especially when I was beating him in tennis.”

“One last question and then I’ll leave you alone. Do you smoke?”

“Nossir. I’ve got my bad habits, but smoking isn’t one of them, thank God.”

“A party?” said Dean into the phone.

“Well, not exactly a party. There won’t be a band or any dancing,” said Marty DeBeck. “But there will be a surprise or two. I hope you can make it.”

“Listen,” said Dean, “if you know who killed your brother, tell me now, okay?”

“This isn’t about that,” said Marty. “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to know. I always figured that sooner or later some irate father or husband would take care of Lacy, and frankly, I can’t say I feel sorry for him. So you’ll be there tomorrow at four?”

Dean said he would think about it and hung up.

Trish saw him before he saw her. He was pulling into the parking lot at Simmons Field when, out of the corner of his eye, he picked up a long arm waving to him from the sidelines. The game was already under way, the Misfits against the Hooties. About seventy-five spectators were scattered along the sidelines. The grass was still damp from that morning’s rain, but it was drying fast under a hot sun. To the west Mount Mansfield was shrouded in a blue haze. Trish came over to him by the first-base line.

“You made it,” she said.

“Yeah, I happened to be driving by and... can’t stay long, though.”

Trish nodded, her expression serious.

“I know how busy you are. So. Any luck with the case?”

Dean looked into her eyes bright with curiosity and shrewdness.

“Not much. Do you have any idea who did it?”

“I might have. But I’m not talking until I’m sine.”

“Who?”

Trish shook her head.

With a sigh Dean turned back to the game, watching Tiffany at shortstop for the Misfits, bent over, loose, pounding her left hand into her glove. “You still haven’t found a print?” asked Trish.

“Nope. Wow!” A ball had been hit to the left side of the infield. At the crack of the bat Tiffany started running; she dived, made a one-handed stop, plucked the ball from her glove, and, still on her knees, threw to first. The runner was safe but only by half a step. “Did you see that?” said Dean. “Ozzie Smith couldn’t do it better. Or Garciaparra.”

The blue eyes shone with pride. She gave him an appraising look. “You kinda like her, don’t you?”

Dean, pretending he hadn’t heard, kept watching the game.

“Okay, you don’t like her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Trish smiled and then folded her arms and watched the pitcher. After a minute she said, “I guess it’s pretty obvious how I feel about Tiffany. I told you about her father yesterday. He’s a long way off now, but the scars are still there. Do you know what the worst thing about that is?”

“No.”

“It’s made her jumpy around men. Way down deep she isn’t sure she trusts them. So she goes for the safe ones, like George, the guy’s she seeing now. To get George to do anything you have to fight a firecracker under his fanny. You know why I’m telling you this?”

“No.”

“It’s because — dam it, here I go.” Two fat tears raced each other down her cheeks. “If Tiff sees me...” She turned away from the game and faced the parking lot, and beyond the cars a blue-green hayfield waving in the breeze. “I want her to get past those scars. I want her to be with some guy who’s both gentle and a little crazy. You know what I mean? A guy you don’t have to light a cracker under.” She swiped a sleeve over her eyes and turned back to the game. “Sorry about that. Do you play baseball, too?”

Dean didn’t answer. Though it was a warm day, he felt a chill in his back. There was a question he knew he had to ask. “Did DeBeck ever try anything with Tiffany?”

“Lacy?” Trish gave a scornful laugh. “You better believe he did. But I set him straight.”

“How?”

“Told him if he made another pass at her he’d be playing tennis in a wheelchair.”

“What did he say?”

The grandmother rested a finger lightly on Dean’s chest. “He didn’t say a word.”

Sunday afternoon Dean walked into the squad room and found Bunk throwing darts. He had hung an old quilt behind the board to muffle any stray shots. “Chief, you know what day it is?” Dean slumped into his chair, draped a leg over the corner of his desk.

“Don’t worry, I’m not charging the town for this. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Like I have nowhere else to go.”

Bunk picked up another dart, cocked his arm. “You know what we’re missing in this case?” he said as he planted a dart in Saddam’s left ear. “Hey, I’m getting better. A piece of hard evidence. A fingerprint, a hair, or — if we get really lucky — the .32 auto he was shot with. Dean? Hey, Dean?”

“Huh?”

Bunk had come over and was waving a hand in front of his face. “You aren’t listening, buddy. Come on back to earth.”

“Sorry.” Dean dropped his foot off the desk and sat up. “I was wondering what black lipstick tastes like.”

“Black lipstick?” Bunk Cummins squinted hard at his young officer. “Are you okay? You need some time off?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Just rambling there. I see what you’re saying about hard evidence.” He took the Blue Note matchbook out of his pocket and tossed it in the air. “This is about all we’ve got. And it’s not gonna help us.” Idly he opened the flap, stared at the matches.

“What’s wrong?”

“One match gone. Left side. Nah, that doesn’t mean anything. This case has me thinking in circles.”

“What doesn’t mean anything?” The chief sounded a little impatient.

“Okay, I’m right-handed. If I were to take a match from here, I’d take it from the right side. Nine out of ten times. Maybe ninety-nine out of a hundred times. So does that mean the killer’s a—” Dean suddenly stopped, feeling that chill again.

“Goddammit, Dean, what’s up?”

That was maybe the third time in three years he had heard the chief swear. “Nothing,” he said. “Just babbling.” He pictured Tiffany making that great play at shortstop and throwing the ball to first. Nothing unusual about that — except it was with her left hand. He looked at his watch and stood. “Gotta go to the brothel’s little party I was telling you about. You coming?”

Bunk looked over at the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Probably not.”

When Dean pulled into the gravel turnaround at Lacy DeBeck’s estate, Marty DeBeck was standing in the portico in white ducks and a Hawaiian shirt with his arms spread wide like a revivalist preacher. A few people Dean had never seen before strolled about the grounds, taking in the statuary and tennis court. Off to one side, by the statue of Aphrodite, he saw Trish and Tiffany. On the porch with Marty was a man in a seersucker suit.

“Glad you could make it, lieutenant,” said DeBeck. “Look at this place, will you. This million-dollar house, the tennis court and lawns, four hundred acres of prime real estate. It’s all mine. And do you know what I say?”

Dean said he didn’t.

“Nuts. That’s what I say. Nuts. I don’t want it. You saw what it did to my brother. By the way, this is John Rawlins, my brother’s attorney, who has agreed to be here to make this somewhat official. And all these beautiful creatures you see lounging about are members of the Dutton Falls Players. Are you on duty, sir?”

“Yup,” said Dean.

“Then you can’t drink, can you? Pity. Well, go on up to the library and get yourself a Coke. I’ll be right along, but first I have to make a phone call. An important guest is still missing.”

In the library everything looked the same as before — except Lacy DeBeck wasn’t lying facedown on the rug, and the bloodstain had been removed, leaving a faintly fighter area. On the wet bar in the corner were bottles of whisky, white wine, sodas, an ice bucket. A Mr. Coffee machine burped next to the ice.

The two armchairs and their little tables still faced each other. Dean wondered what Lacy and his killer, sitting in those two chairs and sipping Wild Turkey, had talked about? Had it been Marty sitting in this other chair? Was his talk about the evils of inherited wealth a smokescreen? Was he really bitter that he had squandered his inheritance and Lacy had kept his?

He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Tiffany stepped into the room, wearing blue slacks and an off-white blouse, her hair mounded on top, her wide mouth dark with black lipstick. “That brother,” she said. “Do you think he’s all there?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know. But he called me yesterday and went on about how loyal Gran and I were, how we stuck by his brother even though he was ‘difficult,’ and then he insisted we come here this afternoon. Said we wouldn’t regret it. You don’t think he’s weird? And what are all these actors doing here? I don’t get it.”

“I think he wants to announce something,” said Dean, forcing his eyes from her dark mouth, “and he has to have an audience.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Marty DeBeck flowed into the room, one arm extended in the gesture of a Roman senator, and got a cold glance from Dean. On his heels were Trish, the lawyer, and six or seven players. “We’re not quite all here,” said Marty, pouring himself a drink. “Oh lordy, this is going to be fun.”

“Fun?” said Tiffany.

Marty looked at her and raised an appreciative eyebrow. “God, what a great Ophelia you’d make. Or Desdemona. Wouldn’t you like to join our acting company?”

“Probably not,” said Tiffany.

“A shame.” Marty stepped over to the french doors. “Great view of Shincracker Hill. You ever been up there, lieutenant?”

They heard the kitchen door in back open and close, and the host raised a finger. “Our last guest has arrived. Can you imagine a house on top of Shincracker? Views of the Green Mountains, the White Mountains, Canada.”

Rob Clampitt walked into the room. He saw Dean and stiffened.

“Glad you could make it, Rob,” said Marty. “Pour yourself a drink.”

Tiffany started to move past them onto the balcony. “Where to, young lady?” said Marty.

Blushing a little, Tiffany said, “To the balcony for a smoke.”

“The balcony? Nonsense. This is my house now, and you may smoke wherever and whenever you want.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With a sinking heart Dean watched her dig a lighter out of her pants pocket and light her cigarette. Told himself he was being crazy; the fact that she smoked and was left-handed didn’t mean a thing.

Marty DeBeck clapped his hands. “All right, let’s get this show on the road. You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you all together. The reason is, I’m a hopeless show-off.”

“That’s why we love you,” cried one of the actors.

Marty bowed. “Thanks, Loïc. Many of you have heard me express misgivings about wealth. About having all this.” While Marty waved his arm grandly, Tiffany stubbed out her cigarette after only two puffs and went over and stood beside Dean. “Well,” said Marty, pausing dramatically, “I’m keeping it.”

Cheers from the players.

“Sort of keeping it anyway.” A hush fell on the room. “I’m turning the house and fifty acres over to the Dutton Falls Players for a new playhouse.”

For twenty seconds no one spoke, and then, in tears, one of the actresses ran to Marty and hugged him. Others followed. When the commotion had finally subsided, Marty went on. “I’m also giving ten thousand dollars apiece to two people who, like myself, maybe didn’t love my brother but who nevertheless worked faithfully for him all these years.” He smiled at Trish and Tiffany, whose mouths had fallen open. “And finally, you, Rob.”

Clampitt stared at him.

“I’m not going to give you anything. Not outright anyway. But I will sell you something, at a very reasonable price, that you’ve wanted for a long time. Something my brother refused to sell.” A wry smile. “Probably because he knew how much you wanted it.” Knowing murmurs and sad chuckles from the group. Marty threw wide his arms and said, “Shincracker Hill.”

Rob Clampitt’s eyes were moist as he walked over and hugged Marty. When the applause died, Marty shouted, “Does anyone feel like a glass of champagne?”

The answer was a resounding yes.

Champagne corks bounced off the ceiling, glasses were clinked. After a while the actors excused themselves to look over the house and grounds. Dean was watching Rob raise his glass, with his left hand, for another sip. Rob saw him watching and with a slight frown moved away.

It was quiet in the library; Marty somber. “Poor Lacy,” he said. “He did have talent, but he could never harness it.” He walked over to a bookcase and patted a tennis trophy in the form of a player on a pedestal. “This was about the only thing he did well. There weren’t many his age who could beat him. In fact, around here, Rob, you were the only one.”

“Heck,” said Rob modestly.

“My brother always said you had the smoothest backhand he’d ever seen. Why don’t you show us your backhand, Rob.”

Reddening and grinning at the same time, Clampitt waved him away. “Seriously. Use that new racket.” Marty pointed to the black racket, a Wilson Sledge Hammer, leaning against the wall by the full-length mirror.

Suddenly, next to Dean, there was an exclamation. “That’s it!”

Looking both puzzled and curious Marty asked in a quiet voice, “What’s it, Trish?”

“Lacy’s new racket. He bought it the day he died and never had a chance to use it. I’ll bet a year’s earnings that if it was Mr. Clampitt who came over that evening, Lacy had him pick up the racket, try it out.”

Marty looked totally confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Rob edge toward the door.

“Prints,” said Trish excitedly. “That’s what we’ve been missing. His prints will be on the han—”

Her words were lost in the shuffle. Rob wasn’t edging any longer toward the door, he was sprinting, but he wasn’t fast enough for the Misfits’ shortstop. Like a gazelle, she went to her left, dived, hitting him at the knees with her shoulder. The two sprawled on the rug in a tangled heap over which Dean stood with his gun out.

“Okay, Rob,” he said. “Up.” He tossed the cuffs to Tiffany, who caught them in one hand and slipped them around Clampitt’s wrists.

Marty’s face was white. “You killed him,” he said to Rob.

A mad gleam, a crazed smile. “Yes, and it worked! I pleaded with him to sell me Shin—”

“You don’t have to talk till you get a lawyer,” said Dean.

“A lawyer?” Clampitt laughed scornfully. “I’d be better off hiring Donald Duck.” He turned toward the french doors and in a quiet voice said, “Shincracker. I loved that hill. Three-hundred-sixty-degree views, enough land for an eighteen hole golf course. A thirty room inn. Trails for hiking and cross-country skiing. People would’ve come from all over New England.” He gave a choked groan. “My life’s dream shot to hell. Oh well, maybe I’ll get a light sentence.” He turned to Marty. “Let’s face it, no one liked your brother. Look what my act got you and the Dutton Falls Players. By killing him, I performed a community service.”

Marty stared at him, unable to speak.

A forlorn laugh from Clampitt. “Lighten up, man. You look like Hamlet’s ghost.”

“Rob was pretty shrewd,” said Bunk, pulling a dart out of the quilt. “Forcing himself to have a cigarette with Lacy so we’d think the killer was a smoker. Wiping off his prints. He must have gone to some trouble to wipe off his shoes, too, after walking through the woods to Lacy’s house, because we didn’t find any trace of dirt or old leaves. But he goofed on that racket.” Bunk took aim with another dart.

“Did he ever,” said Dean. “Charlie laughed when I asked him check it. Said Rob forgetting to wipe his prints off the handle probably wouldn’t make any difference, that the chances of his leaving a usable print on it were one in a thousand, and he was right.”

“What do you know, I got Saddam’s mustache this time.” Bunk picked up another dart. “That Trish Hazelton is something else, isn’t she?”

“Maybe we should hire her.”

“The granddaughter’s something else, too.”

“Yeah.” Dean tried to keep from laughing as Bunk cocked his arm for another throw. He could see the chief was dying to ask about his date last night.

“What’s so funny?” said Bunk.

“Nothing.” Another long silence. Finally Dean said, “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went last night?”

“Last night?” Bunk appeared confused, but Dean didn’t think he was. “Oh, last night. That’s right, you had a date with the granddaughter. How’d it go?”

A slow grin spread across Dean’s face. “I found out what black lipstick tastes like.”

Bunk looked genuinely puzzled this time. He put down the dart and peered at his young lieutenant. “Are you okay? Listen, this has been a tough week. Long hours, lots of stress. Maybe you should take a couple days off.”