The Blood Red Indian Summer

CHAPTER 14

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Chet asked as Mitch came sprinting back inside with their rain-drenched, semi-raw slab o’ salmon.

Five more minutes. Just five more minutes on the grill and it would have been toothsome and smoky good. But, no, the torrents of rain had outraced him. This was what he got for his loyalty. This was how Jim Cantore repaid him.

Mitch peeled off his rain slicker as a bolt of lightning crackled overhead, followed by a booming clap of thunder. His lights flickered. Uh-oh… “Yeah, we get these storms all the time, Pop. The bad news is that out here on the island we almost always-”

“No, I meant Desiree dashing off at a moment’s notice.”

“Afraid so. That’s what happens when the love of your life is sworn personnel. Any minute the phone may ring and out the door she goes.” Mitch set the platter of cold, wet fish down on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room, where his folks were huddled on the love seat with Clemmie and Quirt, all four of them looking a teensy bit spooked. It was a violent storm. The wind was howling. The surf was crashing against the rocks. His valiant little cottage was shuddering. “Listen, I hate to say this but I have to take off, too.”

“Take off for where?” Chet demanded.

“I have to go see a friend.”

“Right now?”

“I’m afraid so, Pop.”

“But what about dinner?”

“We can eat when I get back. I won’t be gone long.”

Outside, there was another snap, crackle, pop of lightning-followed by a deafening cannonade of thunder. And this time the power went out, plunging the house into total darkness.

“I’m afraid this happens all the time, too.” Mitch fetched the kitchen matches from over by the fireplace and started lighting his oil lamps. “We almost always lose power out here when we have a thunderstorm. It’s nothing to be concerned about. You just won’t be able to use the water, as in flush the toilet. My well pump runs on electricity. So does the oven, for that matter.” Mitch paused, furrowing his brow. “I guess this dinner party has to rate as an epic disaster.”

“Nonsense, we’re having a terrific time, sweetheart,” Ruth said bravely. “This is fun. It’s like camping out.”

“You’re a good sport, Mom.”

“She’s always been a good sport,” Chet said. “That’s why I’ve kept her around. That, and she has one sa-weet tuchos.”

“Chester, behave yourself!”

“Like I said, I won’t be gone long. Mom, if the power comes back on you can finish the salmon in the oven. I would set the temperature at around-”

“Sweetheart, I’ve been baking salmon since the 1970s.”

“Right, right. I forgot who I was talking to. If you guys get cold you can build a fire in the fireplace. There’s plenty of seasoned wood. Kindling’s over in that crate. Flue’s open. You know how to build a fire, don’t you, Pop?”

“Of course I do. I was a Boy Scout. Remember when I was in the Scouts, Ruthie?”

“I hadn’t met you yet, dear.”

“Sure, you had.”

“No, I hadn’t.”

“But we went to the Jamboree together.”

“Chester, that wasn’t me.”

“Well, then who was it?”

“How would I know?”

“And help yourselves to more wine,” Mitch said, topping off their glasses.

“Thanks, I believe I will.” Chet took a sip. “Maybe I’ll get shnockered and make a pass at your old lady.”

“Chester!…”

“Hey, what happens on Big Sister stays on Big Sister,” Mitch said as he got back into his slicker. Then he dashed out into the pouring rain to his truck.

A crackle of lightning lit up the night sky as he piloted the Studey slowly across the rickety causeway. The angry surf was foaming up and over the wooden planking. Twice since he’d moved out to Big Sister whole sections of the causeway had been washed away by violent storms, stranding Mitch and the other residents out there for days. But he’d seen no reason to bother his parents with that worrisome little detail.

His windshield wipers could barely keep up with the rain as he slogged his way through the Nature Preserve. When he made it to Old Shore Road he was happy to see plenty of lights on. The mainland still had electricity. He headed straight for Turkey Neck, where the news crews and gawkers had all but vanished from the Grantham place. The storm had sent them running for cover. The storm and the small matter of that double homicide over on White Sand Beach.

He found Winston Lash and the Joshua girls seated at their kitchen table dining on fried chicken and potato salad. The kitchen windows were closed against the windblown rain, which was really too bad. That horrid smell still hadn’t gone away.

“Pull up a chair, Brubaker!” Winston called out cheerily as Mitch stood there dripping on their floor. “Chantal from next door brought us a ton of grub. Now there is a handful of woman. Two handfuls.”

“I’m good, thanks. I have dinner waiting for me at home.”

“What brings you out in such awful weather, Mitch?” Luanne asked, nibbling daintily on a chicken wing. “Did poor Callie phone you?”

“Why, what’s wrong with Callie?”

“She’s up in her room weeping,” Lila answered breathlessly. “Mr. June Bond has informed her that he’ll be sailing with the tide tomorrow and never coming back.”

“Just between us, she’s better off without him,” Mitch confided.

Luanne shot a knowing look at him. “It’s Bonita, of course. It was only a matter of time before that steamy little tramp set her sights on him.”

“Are you sure you won’t join us, Mitch?” Lila asked.

“Positive. I just wanted to ask Winston a quick question.”

“Why sure, Brubaker. Fire away.”

“Have you seen your buddy lately?”

The old fellow looked at Mitch blankly. “My buddy?”

“Last night, when we were burrowing through that hole in the fence, you told me you had a buddy who shares your appreciation for tender young flesh.” Mitch glanced over at the sisters. “Please pardon my earthiness.”

“Think nothing of it, Mitch. We’ve heard it all,” Lila said, reaching for a drumstick. “That black woman sure can make fried chicken, can’t she, dear?”

“She sure can,” Luanne agreed. “They’re very clever with their hands, you know. And such a musical people.”

“Winston, you told me your buddy understands you.”

The old man toyed with his handlebar moustache, grinning at Mitch devilishly. “You bet. My buddy and I understand each other.”

Luanne looked at him pityingly. “Which ‘buddy’ would this be, Winnie?”

“He may very well be talking about an imaginary friend,” Lila whispered to Mitch.

“That’s exactly what I thought last night. But then I got to thinking about it some more and… Winston, have you seen him this evening?”

“Sure thing, Brubaker.”

“When was this?”

“Just before it started to rain.”

“Where?”

“Out in our backyard.”

Luanne peered at him suspiciously. “What were you doing in our yard?”

“Attending to some personal business.”

“Winnie, were you peeing on those trees again?”

“What if I was?” he replied defiantly. “A man needs to mark his territory. It’s an animal instinct. Tell her, Brubaker. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Winston, what was your friend doing?” Mitch asked him.

“Passing through.”

“Is that what he usually does? Pass through?”

“Sometimes he stops by late at night to watch Callie fling paint on the sun porch in her birthday suit. He told me he can see her plain as day from out there.”

“But tonight you say he was passing through.”

“That’s right.”

“Where was he heading?”

Winston shrugged. “Search me.”

“Well, where does he usually come from?”

“That-a-way.” Winston waved in the direction of the Grantham estate.

“Do you mean the house right next door or Justy Bond’s place?”

“That-a-way,” the old man repeated with maddening vagueness.

“Would you mind showing me?”

“Be happy to, Brubaker. Any time.”

“How about right now?”

“Why, Mitch, we’re in the middle of dinner,” Luanne said.

“ And it’s teeming bricks out there,” Lila added.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but this is really important.”

“Very well. But wait a second…” Luanne grabbed her napkin, leaned over and wiped the fried chicken grease from Winston’s moustache and mouth.

Winston beamed at her. “When you bend over that way I can almost see your boobies.”

“You’re as bad as a schoolboy, you old fool.”

Winston got up out of his chair and drew himself up to his full height, his shoulders thrown back. “Shall I lead on, Brubaker?”

“Please do.”

Lila fetched the old fellow’s yellow rain slicker from the mudroom and helped him on with it, zipping it up to his throat.

“I’ll be back soon, girls,” he announced in a booming voice. Then he went charging out the kitchen door into the pouring rain, striding gallantly across the soggy lawn toward the trees where the fence stood.

Mitch had to run to catch up with him.