The Bright Silver Star

CHAPTER 11

“Why would Becca let Dodge treat her that way?” Mitch asked Bitsy Peck as the two of them sat there in rocking chairs on her shaded porch, gazing out at the dead calm Sound. “What was she even doing there?”

“Mitch, that man has always had a peculiar power over her,” Bitsy replied, sipping her iced tea. “It’s something I had to face up to a long time ago. When it comes to Becca, Dodge is leaning on an open door. She’s weak and she’s pliable and she so wants to please him. He was her first, you see.”

“Her first lover?”

“Love had nothing to do with it,” Bitsy said bitterly.

Becca hadn’t said a word the whole way home in Mitch’s truck. Just sat there in between Mitch and Will, staring out the windshield as if she were in a trance. And she smelled bad-rank and coppery, like a handful of moist, dirty pennies. Will was very quiet himself. He seemed terribly upset by the scene they’d walked in on.

As for Mitch, he could not get over that this shell-shocked, twenty-three-year-old recovering heroin addict was Dodge’s idea of a lover. True, Becca was a consenting adult, as Dodge had taken pains to point out. But strictly in a legal sense. In a human sense, she was a lost little girl. What was she to Dodge-someone who he cared about? Or merely a limp rag he could tie up and plug to his heart’s content? Mitch had no idea. How could he?

He obviously didn’t know Dodge Crockett at all.

When he pulled up next to Will’s van at the entrance to Peck’s Point, Mitch told Becca he’d be right back, then hopped out with him, and said, “Will, did you have an idea that this was going on?” Keeping his voice low.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Will unlocked his van and got in.

“You seemed so worried about Dodge not showing up. Did you know about him and Becca?”

Will didn’t respond. Just started up his engine and sat there behind the wheel, a remote and silent keeper of secrets.

Mitch found himself wondering what those secrets were. What else did Will know about the man? How much was he holding on to?

“Don’t judge him, Mitch,” Will said, putting his van in gear. “The man’s not perfect, but here’s some news for you-none of us are.”

Then he’d driven off and Mitch had taken Becca across the causeway to Big Sister, where a silver VW Beetle was parked outside of the Pecks’ sprawling summer cottage.

Esme was seated there cross-legged on the veranda in a string bikini, calmly shucking peas with Bitsy, her signature mane of tousled blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Mitch couldn’t get over how much the beautiful actress resembled a ten-year-old child as she sat there intently popping open the pea pods, her pink tongue flicking distractedly at her raw, swollen lip. She had a girl’s tiny, delicate ears and snub nose, a girl’s blond peach fuzz on her tummy. But she was not a girl. She was a lithe, voluptuous woman who had cheekbones the camera loved, an Academy Award to call her own, and a very famous, very dead husband.

As he stood there looking at her, Mitch noticed that Esme Crockett also had thin, faint white scars on the inside of each of her wrists.

“Hey, girlfriend!” the actress called to Becca, smiling at her warmly. Until, that is, she spotted the thousand-yard stare coming from her old school chum. Then Esme said no more-just put down the bowl of shucked peas, hopped nimbly to her bare feet, and led Becca inside the house by the hand.

“She wasn’t… isn’t on drugs, is she, Mitch?” Bitsy had asked him first thing, her eyes wide with fright.

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I only worry about that girl every minute of every day. I don’t suppose you feel like telling me what happened to her, do you?”

Mitch hadn’t felt like telling her one bit. “What brings Esme by?”

“The poor dear’s having such a hard time, what with the police and the media and the grief. She needed a bit of a breather,” Bitsy said, fanning herself with her floppy straw hat. “We’ve been sitting here shucking peas and making girl talk, just like we used to.”

Esme came padding back out onto the porch, alone. “Becca’s taking a hot shower,” she said, reaching for a man’s white dress shirt to throw on. “I’d better get going. Mommy will freak out if I’m gone for long.”

“I’m sorry about Tito, Esme,” Mitch said.

“I know you are,” she said coolly. “Everyone is.”

“What I mean is, I liked him.”

Esme glanced at him searchingly, as if she were noticing him for the first time. “Thank you.” Then she went over to Bitsy and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, Bits.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Bitsy said affectionately. “Come back any time. You’re always welcome.”

Then the actress had headed off and Bitsy had asked Mitch, once again, what had happened to Becca. And so Mitch told her, Bitsy’s round cheeks mottling with anger as he detailed where and how they had found her.

“Dodge has always had a thing for teenaged girls,” Bitsy revealed to him now as they rocked back and forth, the floorboards creaking under them. “Some men can’t be trusted with other men’s wives. Dodge Crockett can’t be trusted with their daughters. That’s why they couldn’t run him for lieutenant governor-he’s left too many tender young virgins in his wake.”

“Like Becca?”

“Like Becca. And now he wants her again, apparently. And if that man nudges her off of her road to recovery, I swear I will load up one of father’s old hunting rifles and shoot him down like the wild dog that he is. I don’t care if I go to jail for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t talk crazy, Bitsy.”

“Mitch, I’m telling you the God’s honest truth.”

A long black cigarette boat filled with sunburned summer peoplewent tearing by the island, leaving an incredible roar of noise in its roiling wake.

“God, I wish they’d outlaw those horrible things,” she observed irritably. “What kind of morons ride around in them anyway?”

“Morons who like to make a lot of noise.”

“Why on earth would they want to do that?”

“So that people like you will notice them. Otherwise, you wouldn’t.” Mitch glanced at her curiously. “Exactly how old was Becca when she and Dodge first got together?”

“She was of legal age, eighteen. It wasn’t statutory rape, just unsavory. And drugs were involved. She was high on pot half the time, and eager to try anything new. He took advantage of her poor judgment to grab himself a piece of fresh young girl. I’d like to point out that Becca wasn’t in any serious trouble before that, Mitch. She was just a headstrong girl who liked to kick up her heels. It wasn’t until after she got mixed up with Dodge that she got into heroin.”

“I wondered why you called him a cannibal before. Now I know why.”

“Mitch, you don’t know the half of it,” Bitsy said darkly.

Mitch rocked back and forth in guarded silence, wondering what else there was. Part of him hoped she’d spill it, part of him hoped she wouldn’t. Because there were some things about people that you were better off not knowing, he had come to realize.

Bitsy took a long, slow drink of her iced tea before she said, “It was that golden summer when the girls turned fifteen. They were inseparable, those two. Esme was such a sweet girl, Mitch. A sunny, happy girl who loved to swim and windsurf. And so pretty that there were always lots of boys around. Nice boys, good boys. All of them so healthy and bright, full of enthusiasm. Mind you, she and Becca both had huge crushes on Will Durslag, who was lifeguard at the town beach in those days. All of the girls did. He was a great big handsome boy-an older boy. They were like pesky kid sisters to him.” Bitsy let out a long, pained sigh. “God, that seems like such a long, long time ago…”

“What happened that summer, Bitsy?”

She rocked back and forth, her brow furrowing. “I’m not even sure I should tell you this. But I feel like you’re family, and I’ve always trusted you to do the right thing. You have to promise me you’ll never, ever tell a soul about this. Except for Des. I know you confide in her. But no one else, okay?”

“Okay…”

“Esme was Dodge’s first, Mitch,” Bitsy said quietly.

Mitch swallowed. “Freeze-frame, are you saying?…”

“I’m saying he started sexually abusing his own fifteen-year-old daughter that summer. The change in Esme’s personality was noticeable and truly alarming. She became gloomy and distant. She looked unwell. She… even tried to take her own life.”

Those scars on her wrists. Mitch discovered he was scratching at his own wrists now, as if something were crawling around under his skin. He stopped himself, squirming in his seat.

“I honestly don’t think Esme would have survived if she hadn’t found her way into acting,” Bitsy went on. “Acting was her escape. It got her away from this place. Away from him.”

“Did she ever press charges against him?”

“No, never. All she wanted to do was go far, far away. And she did. She hasn’t been back here since she finished high school. Not until this summer.”

“What about Martine?”

“What about her?”

“How could she stay married to him? How could she stand by him?”

“By refusing to believe it. She insisted that Esme was making it all up. That she was merely trying to hurt her father.”

“So she was a full-time resident of the state of denial?”

“Denial is not uncommon under such circumstances, Mitch. The alternative is simply far too horrible to contemplate. Esme’s silence was also quite typical. She was afraid to tell anyone. The only reason I know about it is that the night before she left for New York she finally told Becca everything. And Becca told me.”

Just another day in paradise, Mitch reflected as he rocked backand forth on Bitsy’s porch. One more slice of family life in this Yankee eden called Dorset. “Why did Esme come back now? Why did she bring Tito here?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mitch.”

“Maybe the wounds have finally healed.”

“Wounds like those never heal.”

“I’m thinking that one other person may know about this…”

“Such as who, Mitch?”

“Will Durslag.”

“You’re not wrong,” Bitsy concurred, shoving her lower lip in and out thoughtfully. “Will’s role in life has long been to clean up the sobbing, broken messes that Dodge leaves behind. He delivers the parting gifts, mends the broken hearts. There was an au pair girl on Turkey Neck Road some years back, a lovely Scottish girl. And when she got pregnant it was Will who claimed responsibility and paid her way back home. Even though everyone knew she was Dodge’s little beach blanket plaything. Will has always stuck by him. He so looks up to Dodge.”

“My God, how can he?”

“Because he was so young when he lost his own father. Dodge is all he has as a role model.”

“Some role model.”

“Besides, it’s not as if he hasn’t profited from their little arrangement. Dodge put him through the Culinary Institute of America, after all. And Dodge has bankrolled The Works.”

“Between us, Donna told me they’re barely getting by.”

“Between us, I’m not surprised to hear that,” Bitsy said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Dodge is seriously cash strapped these days.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know it because there isn’t a plumber or an electrician in Dorset who will work for them anymore. The word is out-the Crocketts don’t pay their bills. Martine has bounced so many checks at the beauty parlor that Rita won’t let her set foot in the door unless she has cash on her.”

“But how could this happen?”

“The NASDAQ, that’s how. Dodge risked everything he had on tech stocks. When the dot-com bubble burst, so did his entire portfolio. The man’s not a wise investor.”

“But he seems so, I don’t know, on top of things.”

“Well, he’s not, believe me. He’s run through two considerable family fortunes in the past twenty years, his and Martine’s. That house of theirs is mortgaged to the rafters. All he has left is The Works. If it doesn’t succeed, he and Martine may actually be out on the street.”

“Amazing,” said Mitch, who was beginning to wonder if there was any one single facet to Dodge’s life that wasn’t a complete sham.

Now he heard footsteps on the floorboards of the veranda and turned to see Becca standing there barefoot in a sleeveless white cotton nightgown, damp and fragrant from her shower. Her wet hair was combed out straight and shiny. She looked very young and innocent. “I think I may lie down in my room for a while, Mother,” she said softly.

“Of course, darling,” Bitsy said, mustering a reassuring smile.

“Thanks for the save, Mitch,” Becca said with a shy smile of her own.

“No problem. That’s what neighbors are for.”

“He told me he still cared about me. That he thought about me a lot and missed me.”

“So you’ve been seeing him?” Bitsy asked her pointedly.

Becca lowered her eyes. “Maybe a little,” she admitted, scuffing at the floorboards with her big toe. She had a dancer’s feet, knobby and calloused. “We went for a walk on the town beach together the other night.”

“Was this the night before last?” Mitch asked her curiously.

“Well, yeah. It was raining. We walked and talked for hours in the rain. It was nice. He was very sweet.”

“What time did you meet him there, Becca?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because it might be important.”

“Midnight. I met him at midnight. You were in bed asleep, Mother.”

“This morning, too, I imagine.” Bitsy was not pleased that Becca had been slipping out on her this way.

“I’m an adult, Mother.”

“You absolutely are.”

Clearly, they had boundary issues, which were of no concern to Mitch. What did interest him was that Becca Peck was apparently walking on the beach with Dodge at the time of Tito’s death. This being the case, where was Martine? Who could vouch for her?

“I-I thought it would be different this time,” Becca said haltingly. “I thought he would be different. I was wrong, Mitch. And by the time I realized it, it was too late to stop.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Becca.”

“No, I need to. I just can’t imagine what you must have thought when you walked in on us. What you… must be thinking of me right this very minute.”

“I’m thinking that you got played. It can happen to anyone. Believe me, you’re not alone. Not by a long shot.”

“I’d like to repay you somehow.”

“You don’t have to do that either.”

“Can I make you lunch one day? I’m a decent cook, if you don’t mind vegetarian.”

“It’s true, she is,” Bitsy chimed in encouragingly. “She’s taught me all sorts of inventive ways to use my zucchinis.”

“Sounds great.”

Becca padded back inside now, leaving them alone there on the veranda. They rocked back and forth in silence for a long moment.

“What are the chances she’ll stay clean?”

“Not good,” Bitsy answered flatly. “You have to like the person who you see in the mirror every day, and Becca doesn’t. She needs to feel good about herself again. Find something she can care about. For years, it was dance. But she’s stopped dancing and she hasn’t come up with anything to take its place. That’s what she needs in her life right now-not a degrading affair with a man who preys upon her own sense of worthlessness. She tells herself Dodge treats her that way because she deserves to be treated that way. It isn’t so, Mitch. She’ssweet and she’s lovely and she’s never been a harm to anyone in this world but herself.” Bitsy trailed off, fanning herself with her hat. “Something you’ll learn when you have children of your own-and I sincerely hope you will, because you’ll make a wonderful father-is that you can’t protect them from their own mistakes. All you can do is love them.”

“Why do you think I’d make a good father?”

“I believe the word I used was ‘wonderful.’ ”

“Well, why do you?”

“Because you care about other people. A lot of couples who have children don’t. Too darned many.”

“Tell me about Martine.”

“What do you want to know about her?”

“Well, she must at least be aware that Dodge chases after young girls.”

“Of course she is.”

“How can she tolerate it?”

“Mitch, the most important thing to remember about Martine Crockett is that she’s a crushed flower.”

Mitch glanced at her curiously. “A crushed what?”

“That’s an old Miss Porter’s expression. I guess no one uses it anymore. It means that she’s, well, she was a great beauty who married unwisely. And has paid dearly for it ever since with a life of regret, resentment, and muted desperation. It means…” Bitsy hesitated briefly, her chest rising and falling, round cheeks reddening. “It means that she’s Dorset’s town tramp. Has been for a good twenty years. And I can never forgive her for that, Mitch. Not because I give a good goddamned whose husband she’s sleeping with-and, believe me, I can think of a dozen without even breaking a sweat-but because she was that poor girl’s mother and she let it happen. Instead of protecting Esme from that awful beast, she was out chasing after her own selfish pleasures. And when she was presented with the horrible truth, when Esme told her what Dodge was doing to her, she simply chose not to believe it. And look what happened to her beautiful little girl, Mitch. Look what happened to my girl. Myb-beautiful, sweet-” Bitsy broke off with a sudden choked sob and went barreling into the house with her hands over her face, her straw hat falling from her head and fluttering to the veranda floor.

She didn’t want Mitch to see her cry. Crying was something that was done behind closed doors. Bitsy was very old-fashioned.

Mitch picked up her hat and hung it from a hook outside the door, then trudged home by way of the lighthouse on the island’s narrow, rocky strip of beach, his hands in his pockets and a hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Quirt was taking a nap in the shade under the butterfly bush by the front door. Clemmie was nowhere to be seen.

There were several more phone messages from news outlets wanting to talk to him about Tito’s death. These he ignored. There were also three messages from Dodge. “Mitch we need to talk… Mitch, I really don’t want to leave things this way… Mitch, please call me. Mitch…”

These Mitch carefully erased. He did not call Dodge Crockett back.

C. C. Willoughby and Co. was situated smack-dab in the center of the quaint little main drag of quaint little Sussex, a highly desirable shoreline commuter town sandwiched in between Greenwich and Cos Cob. At latest count, a hefty 38 percent of the homes in Sussex were valued at more than $1 million apiece. Pristine white colonial mansions, immaculate green lawns and shiny new silver Lexus SUVs abounded. No handyman specials, no weeds, no clunkers. It occurred to Mitch, as he tootled his way slowly through town in his old Studey, that he had entered a world apart, a world where virtually no one was not rich, blond, slender, and stylish. At least Dorset had a few middle-class working stiffs who were misshapen, dark, and shlumpy.

Well, at least it had him.

Most of the shops were located in vintage brick row buildings. The parking out front was on the diagonal, just like in that Connecticut village in Bringing Up Baby, the one where Cary Grant andKatharine Hepburn stopped to buy meat for Baby. There was a movie theater that played foreign films for mature audiences, a barbershop, dry cleaner, a coffee shop called The Beanery. There were chic boutiques selling things like really expensive baby clothing and kitchenware.

And there was C. C. Willoughby and Co., which had started out in the space where the village hardware store had once been and had proven to be such a success that it had spread not only upstairs but to the buildings on either side of it. C. C. Willoughby was the rarest phenomenon in the book business-an independent bookstore that made money. Book lovers didn’t just come to C. C. Willoughby to shop, they came to spend the whole day. And they came from all over the state of Connecticut. This made it a must-stop for best-selling authors on tour. Most of the big names, from Tom Brokaw to Toni Morrison to Abby Kaminsky, author of the Codfather Trilogy, held signings there on their way from New York to Boston.

Mitch couldn’t even get near the place on this particular July afternoon. People were lined up by the hundreds to get in the door and meet Abby. Many of these people in line were children wearing pointy Carleton Carp fish-head costumes. As he drove by them in search of a parking space, it dawned on Mitch that they looked disturbingly like a legion of very short Ku Klux Klansmen in town for a rally.

He wondered if anyone else had every noticed this before.

He ended up parking in a municipal lot three blocks away and strolling back. He entered through the bustling cafe, which was connected to the gift shop, where high-end stationery, soaps, and scented candles were sold. The herbal scents filled the entire bookstore. Mitch had always thought a bookstore should smell like, well, books. Not like lavender. Still, he admired C.C. Willoughby. He admired anyone who could turn a profit selling books. Most of the vast downstairs was reserved for current hardcover fiction and nonfiction. Abby was signing copies of her new novel upstairs, where the children’s books were. The line of kids and their parents waiting to meet her snaked all the way down the stairs and out the front door.

Mitch squeezed past them and tried to get to her by way of an adjoining room. But the doorway was intentionally blocked. All he could manage was a peek of her seated there at a table, greeting her fans one by one and signing copies of The Codfather of Sole. Abby was a chubby little blond in a cream-colored linen suit. Flanking her were Chrissie Huberman and Abby’s escort, a six-foot-four inch slab of granite who favored the goatee and shaved head look. Mitch supposed it was intended to make him look menacing, and as far as he was concerned it worked.

There was no way Mitch could approach her now. None.

So he waited outside on a bench across the street, nursing an iced cappuccino from the cafe while he tried to keep his mind off of the horrifying image of Dodge and his own teenaged daughter in bed together. He could not do it. The image would not fade away.

A half hour later, Abby finally emerged out front with Chrissie. The two women chatted for a minute as Abby signed books for a few more grateful young readers. Meanwhile, her escort made his way over to a black town car parked two doors down, unlocked it, and waited there for her, holding a rear door open. Mitch was on his feet now, inching his way steadily closer. Abby and Chrissie exchanged a hug, then Chrissie went back inside and Abby started toward the car. As soon as she’d climbed in the escort slammed her door shut and got in behind the wheel.

This was when Mitch yanked open her door, jumped in beside her and said, “Abby, we need to talk.”

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing!” she objected angrily.

“I’m sorry, but this was the only-”

“Back off, Mr. Stalker Nut!”

“I’m not a stalker, I’m-”

“Yo, who is this guy, Abby?” her escort demanded, twisting around in the front seat and seizing Mitch by the collar of his rumpled button-down.

“Wait, I know him…” Abby shook a manicured finger at Mitch now. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. You’re-”

“Mitch Berger,” he gasped.

“Right,” she exclaimed. “And you’re all mixed up in this Tito Molina mess with Chrissie… Let him go, Frankie.” Frankie complied. “I know who this man is, although I don’t have the slightest idea what he wants. What do you want, Mitch?”

“It’s about Jeff,” Mitch said, straightening his collar. “I’m a friend of his.”

Abby’s face fell. “Oh, I see.”

Abby Kaminsky was a little bitty thing, barely five feet tall. And there were two things Mitch knew about her right away. One was that she was someone who had been told that she was adorable for as long as she could remember. The other was that she was someone who had always fought her weight. For some reason, Abby reminded Mitch of Muriel Bloom, the teacher who he’d been madly in love with when he was in the fifth grade. Something about her heart-shaped face, milky complexion, and startled blue eyes. Abby wore her frosted blond hair in a smartly styled bob. Her makeup, lipstick, and nail polish all came together in a way that indicated a professional had supervised her entire look-right down to the linen suit she wore, which accentuated her generous curves rather than fighting with them.

On the seat next to her were a box of Cocoa Pebbles kids’ cereal and a water bottle. She reached for the water bottle, her eyes studying Mitch carefully. “Look, I have to be in Boston. I don’t have time for this-whatever this is.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Mitch promised. “Have you eaten lunch? I happen to know they make a superior BLT at The Beanery.”

“God, cookie, you know the way right to my heart.”

The Beanery was narrow and dark. The floors were of well-worn wood, as were the high-backed booths, which had several generations of initials carved into them. Since it was after two o’clock, no one else was in there eating lunch. They took the booth next to the front window. Frankie stayed outside, leaning against the town car with his big arms crossed, glowering at Mitch.

“Don’t mind him, Mitch,” Abby said, hanging her linen jacket on a coat hook by the door. She wore a sleeveless white silk camisoleunderneath. Her bare arms were round but well toned, as if she’d been going to the gym regularly. “He’s just very protective. And we had a brief, a-a thing, so he gets all hormonal.”

“You’re not with him any longer?” Mitch asked, recalling how enraged Jeff had been over their affair.

“I don’t stay with anyone for very long. Listen, I have to go wash my patties. I’ve just spent the past hour shaking hands with my you-know-whos. Do you have any idea where those fingers of theirs have been? In their mouths, in their noses, in their… God, it’s too horrible to even think about.” She paused, looking Mitch up and down. “I’m going to take you on faith. Order me a BLT and a chocolate shake.”

He ordered the same for both of them from the elderly waitress as Frankie continued to glare at him through the window.

“That was so terrible about Tito,” Abby said when she returned to their booth, sliding in across from him. “It must feel weird knowing you were the last person on earth to speak to him before he jumped.”

“Actually, that may not be what happened. He may have been murdered.”

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” she demanded breathlessly, her big blue eyes widening. “Please tell me it wasn’t you, Mitch. You’ve just jumped into my town car. You’re notorious. You’re desperate. You’ve got the wounded teddy bear thing going on. Already I have a mad crush on you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Mitch said.

“Oh, thank God.”

The waitress returned now with their shakes, fussing over Abby, who she obviously recognized.

Mitch tasted his. It was frosty and good. “But until they do know how Tito died, I won’t get over this. I need to know if I could have saved him.”

“Mitch, I wouldn’t blame myself, I were you. Tito Molina didn’t know up from down. That was one hurtin’ puppy.”

Mitch gazed at her curiously. “You sound as if you knew him.”

“I did.” She took a gulp of her shake, the tip of her pink tongue flicking at the residue on her upper lip. “We had a brief, a-a thing.”

“Really, when was this?”

“Before I left on my tour. Would you believe I’ve been on the road for over six weeks? I’ve hit twenty-three cities in forty-nine days, not that I’m counting or anything. My face is breaking out for the first time since the Reagan years. I have no life and no one to talk to except for Frankie, who is not exactly Mr. David Halberstam, in case you didn’t notice. These past few nights have been the first nights I’ve slept in my own actual bed since, like, Memorial Day. When I woke up my first morning home, I didn’t recognize my own room. I couldn’t even remember what city I was in. That’s when you know you’ve been on tour too long. And already I’m back on the road again, two nights in Boston and…” She trailed off, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t answered Mitch’s question. “Chrissie brought me by Tito’s hotel for breakfast one morning. He was in New York to meet with some British playwright, and the studio was hoping he’d agree to be the voice of Carleton for the film version of The Codfather. He ended up passing, but he wanted to hear my thoughts about the character before he committed.”

Mitch nodded. The first Carleton movie was a state-of-the-art animated production that had been two years in the making. It was going to be its studio’s big Christmas release. Freddie Prinze Jr. was providing the voice of Carleton.

“I thought he was very sweet,” Abby went on. “And after Crissie took off, I found myself upstairs in his hotel room, naked. Scout’s honor, I boinked Tito Molina-little Abigail Kaminsky from Margate, New Jersey, thunder thighs and all. Honestly, I was so nervous I felt just like I do when I’m at the gynecologist’s office. My little hands and feet were all clammy, and I couldn’t stop shaking. But he was very gentle and considerate.”

The waitress arrived with their sandwiches now. “Miss Kaminsky, my granddaughter ab-so-tootly loves your books,” she said as she set down their plates. “Could I get your autograph?”

“You ab-so-tootly can!” Abby responded sweetly, scribbling her name on a napkin and handing it to her. “Tell her I said hi!”

“Oh, I will.” The waitress scurried off, thrilled.

They dove hungrily into their sandwiches, two chubby people who prized their eats.

“You sure do know your sandwiches, Mitch,” Abby proclaimed after several bites, licking mayonnaise from her manicured fingers. “This is the best BLT I’ve ever had. What’s the secret?”

“The tomatoes are right off of the vine, I think. Makes all the difference.” Mitch sipped his shake distractedly, his mind racing. Could Abby somehow be a player in this? “How long were you and Tito an item?”

“We weren’t,” she said flatly. “It wasn’t that kind of a deal at all. It was strictly a one-shot matinee. The proverbial quickie. Besides, like I told you, I don’t stay involved with anyone for long.”

“Not even Jeff?”

Abby reddened instantly. “Jeffrey Wachtell broke my poor heart into a million pieces. I gained twenty pounds after we split up. I couldn’t write a single word. I couldn’t leave the house. All I could do was eat and cry. I cried and I cried. I still cry myself to sleep every night. Look at me, Mitch-I’m rich, I’m famous, I’m buffed to within an inch of my life. Believe me, this is as fantastically cute as I’m ever going to look. And I can’t remember the last time I went out on an actual date.” She shot a brief, disdainful glance out the window at Frankie, who appeared to have fallen asleep on his feet, rather like a barnyard animal. “What’s wrong with me anyway? Am I that disgusting?”

Mitch went back to work on his sandwich. “You’re just worn down from your tour, that’s all. You’ll meet someone real soon.”

Abby smiled at him coyly. “You really think so?”

“I do. And I’ll tell you something else-Jeff’s out of his mind.”

She reached across the table and put her hand over his. “Come with me to Boston, Mitch. Have dinner with me tonight. Stay over with me.”

“I can’t, Abby,” he said, staring down at her soft little hand.

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve known you for less than an hour.”

“Sometimes it happens that way,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly.

“Plus it would not be a good idea for me to leave the state right now.”

“I can vouch for you. I’m famous. I’m credible.”

“Plus I’m involved with someone.”

“Damn, I knew it. The good ones are always taken.” Abby released his hand and took a long gulp of her shake, peering at Mitch over her fountain glass. “So how do you know Jeffrey?”

“We walk together on the beach every morning.”

“How is he?” she asked, her nostrils flaring. “Not that I care.”

“Still in love with you, or so he says.”

Abby let out a shrill, mocking laugh. “Yeah, right,” she said scornfully. “Listen to me, Mitch, the single most important thing to remember in regards to Jeffrey and women is that every single word out of his mouth is a lie. And the little putz gets away with it, too. You know why? Because he happens to be among the world’s greatest swordsmen. You wouldn’t know it look at him, but it’s true. Jeffrey has absolutely spoiled me for other men. That’s my curse. I swear, when I was there in that hotel bed with Tito Molina all I kept thinking was ‘God, if only he were Jeffrey Wachtell.’ That’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“Not if you still love the little guy.”

“I hate the little guy! The little guy is despicable. The little guy is…” She fell silent, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “I understand he has a mother-daughter tag team thing going on now-he’s boinking Esme Crockett and her old lady at the same time. Chrissie told me all about it. You look surprised, Mitch. Don’t be. That man is the craftiest little pussy hound imaginable. Even beautiful women instinctively get all motherly and protective toward him. They can’t help themselves. Half of the time they seduce him- despite knowing he’s absolutely no good for them. Believe me, I’m the expert. I paid the price in the worst possible way.” Abby sat back in the booth, hugging herself with her bare arms. “I’m the one whowalked in on him boinking my own baby sister, Phyllis, in our own bed in our own apartment. Mitch, you have no idea how violated I felt. How dirty.”

“I’m sorry, Abby.”

“So am I,” she said, shivering. She had goose bumps up and down her bare arms now. “That’s why I won’t give him a nickel of my earnings. He’s not the injured party, I am.”

Mitch got up and fetched her linen jacket for her.

She snuggled back into it gratefully, studying him with her startled blue eyes. “I don’t know what Jeffrey’s told you about our settlement battle…”

“That he’s asking for twenty-five percent of the proceeds from the first book. He claims he was involved early on in the creative process, and therefore should participate in it.”

“Not in a million years.” Abby sniffed. “Never.”

“I don’t blame you at all. Still, you have to admit that, well, Jeff is Carleton, isn’t he?”

“Carleton is fiction,” Abby shot back, bristling. “Carleton is my creation. Jeffrey had nothing to do with him. Not one thing!”

“Are you ab-so-tootly sure of that?”

“And he does not own the copyright to that stupid expression! No one does. I was free to use it. And I’ll keep on using it for as long as I damned please. Carleton is not Jeffrey Wachtell. How could he be? Carleton isn’t a liar. Carleton doesn’t whine about every single thing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Ask yourself this: Can you imagine Carleton hosing his wife’s sister?”

“No, of course not. Carleton’s not old enough. He’s still a little boy. Or fish. Or…”

“Carleton is good is what he is,” she asserted. “Carleton is honest and brave and true. And I will bankrupt Jeffrey Wachtell with lawyer fees before I ever give him one shiny nickel of my proceeds.” Abby took a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently mouthing a ten-count. Jeff was way under her skin, no two ways about that. “How is his bookstore doing, anyway? Chrissie told me it’s a real dump.”

“Not true. It’s a lovely little store. Although he is struggling to get by.”

“Good.”

“In fact, that’s the reason why I’m here-he was wondering if you would stop in and do a signing. You’ll be passing right by Dorset on the interstate, and he could really use the boost.”

“Not a chance,” she replied sharply. “After Boston I’m in Bar Harbor, then Martha’s Vineyard, then home. I am not stopping at some neighborhood bookshop in some out-of-the-way village no one’s ever heard of. It’s not worth my while, Mitch. How many books could he move-fifty? I just sold ten times that this afternoon.”

“Still, you could do it if you really wanted to.”

“It’s true, I could,” she admitted. “But you’ve put your finger right on it, Mitch. I really, really, don’t want to.”

“It sure would help him out, Abby.”

Abby cradled her chin in her palm, gazing at him in wonderment. “Cookie, have you been totally ignoring every single word I’ve been saying to you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then answer me this-why on earth would I help Jeffrey out?”

“Because you still love him. And he still loves you. You two should be looking out for each other, not trying to draw blood.”

“You’re sweet, Mitch, but you’re living in a make-believe world. In real life, people who hate each other really do hate each other.”

“You want real life? A tabloid has offered Jeff a quarter of a million dollars for dirt on you.”

“Dirt?” Abby immediately paled. “What dirt? What has that weasel been telling you about me?”

“That you hate kids so much you made him get a vasectomy.”

“That was his idea, not mine,” she said heatedly. “He’s the one who’s terrified of parenthood. I want to be a mother more than anything in the world. Don’t you think I’d make a good mother?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, I do, because I know what’s in my heart. Besides, the procedure he had is totally reversible. God, I don’t believe he’s trying topeddle such crap! Wait, what am I saying? Of course I do. This is Jeffrey we’re talking about.”

“My sense is that he really doesn’t want to dish, Abby. In fact, I don’t believe he will. But he’s in a tight spot financially.”

Abby recoiled, shaking her finger at him. “Wait one lousy minute. Now I know why you’re here-you’re trying to strong-arm me! Sure, that’s it. You came here to tell me that if I don’t show up at his crummy store he’ll go to the tabloids. You’re his stinking messenger boy, aren’t you? Tell me I’m wrong, Mitch. Go ahead!”

“Okay, you’re wrong. The thought never even occurred to me.”

“Maybe it didn’t,” she conceded. “But I can guarantee you that it occurred to him.”

“Abby, that’s really not how I read the situation.”

“Then you’d better go get your eyes checked, cookie. I know Jeffrey. I know how his mind works. And he’s telling me, through you, that if I don’t do this for him he’ll sell me out.”

“But he swore he wouldn’t,” Mitch pointed out. “He told me you were the only woman he’s ever loved, and that he’d take you back in a second.”

“And you believed him?” Abby demanded incredulously.

Mitch drained his milkshake and slumped there in the booth, suddenly feeling profoundly deflated and used up. “Abby, I honestly don’t know who to believe anymore.”

“If I were you,” Mitch advised, feeling the gentle lift and dip of the swell beneath him, “I’d do some checking up on Abby Kaminsky’s whereabouts the past couple of days. Or, more specifically, nights.”

“Jeff’s ex-wife?” asked Des, who was floating on her back next to him, wet skin gleaming in the moonlight. “Why is that?”

“Because she slept with Tito Molina.”

“No way. Her, too?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You think she might be involved in this?”

“She’s certainly in the mix. Quite the humid little pepper pot, too.”

The two of them were enjoying a late-night skinny dip off BigSister’s private beach. The water was bracing and the night air had turned gloriously crisp and clear. Overhead, the moon was full, the stars bright.

Mitch had spent much of the evening seated there on his favorite beach log, gloomily sampling the bottle of peppermint schnapps he’d bought out of morbid curiosity. It tasted awful, in his opinion. Strangely familiar as well, although he could not imagine why. Des had pulled up outside his carriage house at around ten o’clock and joined him on the beach a few minutes later, clutching two cold Bass ales and two towels.

He had never been happier to see her in his life.

As they floated there naked in the moonlight, the lights of the town a glow in the distance, Mitch reminded himself just how lucky he was to be here on this night with this woman. It was the one positive thing he had taken from losing Maisie the way he had-not a day went by when he took the good things for granted.

“How did you happen to meet up with said humid little pepper pot?”

“Jealous?”

“I’ll ask the questions, mister.”

“Jeff asked me to look her up. He wants her to sign books at his store.”

“Since when do you do Jeff’s bidding for him?”

“Since everything stopped making sense. I need for this to make sense.”

“It may not, Mitch. A lot of times things just get more and more confusing.”

“That’s not what I need to hear tonight, Des. Tonight I need to hear that life is nothing but one big long Frank Capra movie. And I actually detest Frank Capra-with the possible exception of Dirigible with Jack Holt and Fay Wray.”

“My miss,” she said, flashing a smile at him. “And thanks for the heads-up. I’ll pass it along to Rico.”

“Abby’s been sleeping with her escort, too-a big goon named Frankie. I don’t know his last name, but he might be worth lookinginto. Meanwhile, get this, Jeff’s actually been two-timing Martine with her very own-”

“With Esme. Yes, I know.”

“Esme told you?”

“She had to. Jeff’s her alibi. And, believe me, the news came as a real unpleasant surprise to Martine. I had to pull her off of the girl.”

“What did Jeff say about it?”

“He backs Esme up all the way. At the time of Tito’s death, she was getting busy with him at his condo. Yolie and I confirmed it with him this afternoon.”

“Hmm, that means each of them is the other’s alibi…”

“Where do you think you’re going with that?”

“Nowhere,” Mitch said, as they floated along. “Except, well, what if Esme and Jeff killed Tito together?”

“Why would they?”

“Revenge. He hated Tito for getting it on with Abby. Esme hated him because he beat on her and cheated on her. Do we know for a fact that Tito’s killer acted alone?”

“Mitch, we don’t know anything for a fact,” she said wearily, glancing over at him. “You cast an awesome glow in the moonlight, you know that?”

“You’ve obviously never gone skinny-dipping with a white boy when the moon was full.”

“No, I’m serious, Mitch. Check out your stomach-you look like you’ve swallowed something radioactive.”

“Only because my stomach happens to be sticking up out of the water,” Mitch growled at her. “But thanks for pointing it out to me, slats.”

“What I’m here for, doughboy,” she said sweetly. “Got anything else for me?”

He fed her the highlights of his morning. How he and Will had walked in on Dodge and Becca having rough sex together. How Becca had told him she and Dodge were taking a midnight stroll on the beach together when Tito died, meaning that he had someone to vouch for his whereabouts-and Martine very likely didn’t.

“Why would Martine want to kill her own son-in-law?” she wondered.

“Maybe she was romantically involved with Tito, too. Maybe he broke her poor, cheatin’ heart. It makes about as much sense as Martine and Esme both having extramarital affairs with Jeff Wachtell. I mean, once you get your mind around that unwholesome factoid nothing seems out of the realm of possibility, does it?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“Did Esme know about Jeff and her mom?”

“Totally, judging by the little smirk on her face when she gave out with the news. It was her own special way of inflicting pain on mommy dearest. For what specific reason I don’t know.”

“I do, Des,” Mitch said quietly. And now he told her about how Dodge started molesting Esme when she was fifteen. How Martine had refused to believe her. How Esme had attempted suicide. How Dodge had long been a plague on Dorset’s young girls and Will had been his enabler, in exchange for future considerations.

Des listened in stony silence before she said, “Well, that does explain the way Esme reacted this morning when Martine smacked her.”

“How did she?…”

“Like she’d been getting smacked around her whole life.”

“What, you think Dodge beat her up?”

“Believe me, a bright, beautiful fifteen-year-old girl doesn’t spread her legs for daddy without a fight. I’m with you, Mitch-she hates her mom for not protecting her. But I don’t buy that Martine didn’t know what was going on. She knew. That’s why she was so anxious to go to the police this morning. Because the longer this drags out, the deeper we’ll dig. And she’s terrified we’ll unearth it. How did you hear about it, anyway?”

“From Bitsy. Becca told her. I don’t think anyone else knows, except for Will.”

“And possibly Tito. Esme may have told him.”

Mitch glanced over at her, wondering where her mind was going. “Bitsy said I could tell you this. Does Soave have to know about it?”

“Maybe I can withhold it from him,” Des answered slowly. “If it’s not vital to the investigation, that is.”

He smiled at her. “You’re one of us now, you know that?”

“One of who?”

“A Dorseteer.”

“Let’s not get carried away, doughboy. I said maybe.”

“Sure, sure. Are you getting cold?” he asked, paddling gently to stay afloat.

“A little, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine. This is why I maintain the extra layer of subcutaneous fat.”

“So that’s it.”

“Ab-so-tootly.”

“Mitch, I want you to promise me you’ll never say that word again.”

“Promise,” he said, grinning at her. “Bitsy did tell me one other thing about the Crocketts-they’re so strapped for cash that Martine can’t write a check anywhere in town. Apparently, just to round out the whole bogus illusion, Dodge sucks as a businessman.” He gazed back ashore at Bitsy’s rambling house. There were several lights on upstairs, a porch light downstairs. “She’s real worried about Becca being mixed up with him again. Becca’s fragile and vulnerable, and there’s no way that having some guy stuff your panties in your mouth can be good for your… Oh, hell, never mind.”

“No, it’s okay, baby. What are trying to tell me?”

“I just don’t want to be friends with Dodge anymore, that’s all.”

“I don’t blame you. But what about the Mesmers?”

“I won’t be walking with them again.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch.”

“So am I. That was something I really looked forward to doing every morning. But I can’t now. Not without my skin crawling. Would you believe Will actually defended the guy to me this morning? ‘Don’t judge him,’ is what he said. He and Donna are having some problems of their own, by the way. Donna told me.”

“Since when does Donna Durslag talk to you about her marriage?”

“Since she had one too many margaritas at the beach club.”

“Sounds like maybe she made her a little play for you, too.”

“Jealous?”

“I already told you. I’ll ask the questions, mister.”

“Des, I don’t belong around these people,” Mitch confessed. “I gave it my best shot. I tried to be a normal, socialized member of the species. But if this is what passes for normal-”

“Believe me, Mitch, this is normal. It’s what I deal with every single day of my life.”

“Then I’m proud to be a maladjusted geek who sits in the dark by myself all day, staring at flickering images on a wall.” He reached for her hand in the water and found it and squeezed it. “When do people stop surprising you?”

“They don’t. But the surprise doesn’t always have to be an unpleasant one. In fact, when you least expect it, you might bump right into somebody who just makes you feel good all over.”

“Are you trying to cheer me up?”

“Actually, that was me flirting with you shamelessly. Not very good at it, am I?”

“That all depends-do you put out?”

“Only for a certain glowing gentleman.”

Mitch maneuvered his way over closer to her and planted a salty kiss on her wet, cold mouth. “Am I that gentleman?”

“Could be,” she said, her almond-shaped green eyes glittering at him in the moonlight.

“Then as far as I’m concerned, you flirt great. Care to start back in?”

“Hell, I’ll even race you back to the house.”

“You’re on. Provided you promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Let’s steer clear of the kitchen floor tonight, okay?”

“Not a problem, boyfriend.”

They dashed back in the crisp night air, teeth chattering, and jumped right into a hot shower together, howling and snorting like a couple of rambunctious little kids. After they’d toweled each otherdry they made their way up into Mitch’s sleeping loft, where they forgot about everything and everyone and there was only the two of them and it was wonderful.

They were blissfully asleep at 4:00 a.m. under a blanket and a Clemmie when Des got paged. She started rummaging hurriedly for her clothes as the Westbrook Barracks dispatcher gave her the details over her cell phone.

“Wha’ is it?” Mitch groaned at her after she’d hung up.

She was already lacing up her shoes. Des could get dressed unbelievably fast. It was her four years at West Point. “Night manager of the Yankee Doodle Motor Court just found… There’s a woman dead in the tub with part of her head smashed in.”

Something in her tone of voice set off alarm bells. Mitch swallowed, fully awake now. “Who is it, Des?”

“Baby, it’s Donna Durslag.”