The Bright Silver Star

CHAPTER 12

If Dorset possessed what could be truly called a seedy side it was found up Boston Post Road just before the town line for Cardiff, Dorset’s sleepy, landlocked neighbor to the north, which benefited not at all from summer tourism and which elderly locals still called North Dorset, even though it had been a separate town since 1937. Here, just past Gorman’s Orchards, could be found a tattered strip of businesses operating out of wood-framed buildings that had once been residences. If someone needed to have their sofa reupholstered or their unwanted facial hair removed, they came here. Pearl’s World of Wigs, Norm’s Guns, and Shoreline Karate Academy were here. The Rustic Inn, a beer joint popular with the Uncas Lake swamp Yankees, was here.

And so was the Yankee Doodle Motor Court, which was a living relic from the bygone days of drive-in movie theaters and poodle skirts. To the casual passerby, it was a wonder that the decaying little bungalow motel hadn’t been torn down twenty years ago. It had no swimming pool, was not near the beach or the interstate. There was no apparent reason for anyone on earth to stay there-not unless they were terribly lost or desperate.

But Des knew better.

The Yankee Doodle enjoyed a prized niche in Dorset society-it was the place where married people came to mess around. Des had learned early in her career that every town, no matter its size or degree of affluence, had just such a place for illicit trysts. Mostly, what the Yankee Doodle offered couples was privacy. The bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that people driving by on Boston Post Roadcouldn’t see who was parked there. The management was reputed to be very discreet.

She got there in the purplish light of predawn. Danny Rochin, the sallow, unshaven night manager, came right out of the office to greet her wearing a too-large Hawaiian shirt, slacks, and bedroom slippers. He was a stringy, sixtyish swamp Yankee with a jet black Grecian Formula hair job that looked totally unnatural under the courtyard floodlights, especially in contrast with his bushy white eyebrows. They always neglected the eyebrows. Big mistake.

“Is anyone still staying here from last night?” Des asked him as she climbed out of her cruiser.

“No, ma’am, we’re all empty,” he replied, eyes bright with excitement. He was missing a few teeth, and his narrow shoulders were hunched against the morning’s unusual chill. It had dipped down into the forties, which was a shock to the system in July.

“Let’s go have us a look, Danny.”

There was blood. The spread on the double bed was spattered with it. So was the wall behind the bed. So were the shades on the night table lamps. Donna’s wire-rimmed glasses, which lay neatly folded on one of the night tables, were spattered, too. The bed did not appear to have been used. The covers were still crisply folded, and the pillows had no depressions in them.

The Yankee Doodle was the sort of a place where things like lamps and televisions were bolted down, just in case some low-class guest might be tempted to walk off with them. But Donna’s killer had still managed to find something to club her with-a night table drawer. It lay on the rug next to the bed, smashed, splintered and bloodied. Her shoulder bag was on the dresser next to the TV, as was her gauzy summer peasant dress, carefully folded. Also a see-through black nightie, very slinky, very hopeful, very sad.

The bungalow was tiny. There was barely enough space to squeeze around the bed to the bathroom, where Donna was on the floor. From where she stood, Des could just make out her bare feet.

“Did you touch anything, Danny?” Des asked him as he remained outside, pulling nervously on a cigarette.

“Not a thing, I swear. Her purse is just as I found it. I’m not here to steal no twenty bucks from some poor woman’s billfold.”

“I know that, Danny,” she said, flashing a reassuring smile at him. “I’m just trying to assess the crime scene.” Now she went farther in for a better look.

Donna was naked on her knees before the bathtub with her big butt sticking up in the air for the whole wide world to see. Not that she was obese but she wasn’t a nineteen-year-old runway model either. And the bathroom floor is not the most dignified place to die. Go ask Elvis. There was a foot of blood-tinged water in the tub. By the look of things, her killer had knocked her unconscious with the drawer, dragged her in there and held her head underwater until she was gone. Her center of gravity had tumbled her a bit backward after she’d died, lifting her face up out of the water. There were broken blood vessels around the eyes, and her lips were blue. The bloody wounds to the back of her wet head were readily apparent to Des from the bathroom doorway. There was some blood on the floor, but not much. No bloody shoeprints. The floor had been wiped. Des could not see any bloody towels in there. No towels at all, in fact. He’d taken them with him. Whoever he was, he was careful.

Standing there gazing at Donna Durslag, Des experienced that same mix of despair, horror, and fascination that she always felt when she saw what people were capable of doing to each other. She would need crime scene photos. She would need to get this down on paper. Possibly life-sized, so she could bring forth the full impact of Donna’s figure as it knelt there in death. She would draw this. Had to draw this. It was how she kept it together.

And to hell with Professor Weiss and his damned trees.

“How often do you run the vacuum in here, Danny?” she asked, starting back around the bed toward him.

“Once a week… maybe,” he replied.

Meaning there would be tons of hairs in the rug from past guests. Most likely, the tekkies wouldn’t even bother with it. But they would for sure check the surface of the bed for hair or fiber transfers, and the blood spatters for a blood sample that was not the victim’s. Alsothe smashed night table drawer for prints, although he’d doubtless wiped that clean same as he’d wiped down the bathroom. Des was certain that they’d find nothing. It smelled like a clean kill all the way.

“Where’s her car, Danny?”

“Around in back.”

It was faded gray Peugeot station wagon. Locked. Both the passenger seat and backseat were strewn with empty take-out coffee cups and food wrappers. There was one other vehicle parked back there, a red Nissan pickup truck that belonged to Danny.

He led Des back to his office now, where there was a reception counter made out of fake wood, a Coke machine, television, a couple of green plastic chairs. The worn linoleum on the floor was the color of canned salmon. A door marked Private led back to the inner office.

“What time did she check in?”

“Just after ten o’clock,” Danny replied, taking his place behind the counter. The man seemed much more at ease now that he was back there, straighter and taller.

“Was she alone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did she sign the register?”

“You bet. We run a clean operation here. No hookers, no minors, no monkey business.”

Des glanced at the register-Donna had signed her own name, clear as can be. “Did she pay you in cash?”

“Credit card,” he said, his bony hands shaking slightly as he produced the credit card slip for her. She suspected he was in need of a drink. He settled for another cigarette.

“The lady had a husband,” Des said, surprised that Donna had made no apparent effort to cover her tracks. “Is this typical?”

“Yes and no,” Danny answered, thumbing his stubbly chin shrewdly. “Some of ’em are real careful about keeping their after-hours activities off the household books, others aren’t. Depends on who takes care of the bills every month, is how I always figured it.”

“Had you ever seen her before?”

“No, ma’am. She was a first-timer. On my shift, anyway, and I been here on overnight for thirteen years.”

“How did she seem to you? Had she been drinking? Was she high?”

“She was nervous. A lot of ’em are. Men and women both.”

“And what does that generally tell you?”

“That they’re doing something they never thought they’d be doing.”

Des turned and glanced through the front window at Donna’s bungalow across the courtyard. “Did you see him arrive?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. Got no idea who he was.”

“Maybe you saw his car pull in. Think hard, please. This is important.”

“I wish I could help you, ma’am, but we’re real busy that time of night. Eleven, twelve o’clock is my rush hour. Lots of folks coming and going. Going, mostly. Some drop the key off in here with me. The rest just leave it in the door-the ones who don’t want to be seen together by anybody, if you know what I mean. Shoot, I must get one suspicious husband in here a week, offering me cash money for the lowdown on his missus.”

“And do you give it to him?”

“Hell no,” Danny replied indignantly. “Our guests have a right to their privacy. That’s why they come here.”

Des had happened upon this peculiar phenomenon before-people with tremendous professional pride where you least expected to find them. And why not? Danny Rochin certainly had more class than, say, Dodge Crockett. “That lady got herself pretty beat up in there. You didn’t hear them going at it?”

“Well, maybe…” Danny cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the office door.

“You want to go take care of what you need to take care of?”

He slipped gratefully into the back room, shutting the door softly behind him. Des could hear a desk drawer slide open and shut. A moment later Danny returned, smelling of whiskey. “I did hear awoman… shriek, I guess you could say. And it did come from the direction of that bungalow, number six.”

“What time was this, Danny?”

“About one-thirty,” he replied. “Look, it may have been nothing. Some couples, they make certain noises when they’re…” He trailed off uncomfortably, his eyes avoiding hers.

“I’m right with you, honey. Just keep on going.”

“So I didn’t think much of it-not until I started cleaning out the bungalows this morning and I found her in there. I’m real sorry if I did wrong, ma’am.” He seemed genuinely upset. “But I can’t go knocking on doors every time somebody lets out a shriek, can I?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Danny. There’s no way you could have known what was going on in there.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I really do.”

“I never had nothing like this happen before on my watch. Worst thing was an attempted rape charge three, four years ago. And that just turned out to be a lover’s quarrel.”

Outside, Soave and Yolie pulled up alongside of Des’s cruiser and got out. Each of them clutching a Bess Eaton take-out coffee container. Each of them wearing an angry glower. Soave’s lips were tightly compressed. Boom Boom’s chin was stuck out. They’d been spatting. Or they were just getting on each other’s nerves. It happened. Partners had to spend a lot of time together. And that’s not easy-especially when the case they’re working suddenly goes way bad.

Soave seemed relieved to see Des standing there in the office doorway. “Another early start to the day, hunh?” he said, forcing a weary smile onto his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his bulky shoulders slumped with fatigue.

“This could get to be a habit, Rico.”

“God, let’s hope not.”

Yolie couldn’t get away from the man fast enough. “I’ll check the register, put together a list of guests for us to canvass,” she told him hurriedly as she started inside, wearing a bulky yellow cotton sweaterthat made her entire upper body look huge. “Maybe one of them saw somebody, recognized somebody…” She halted in the doorway, smiling brightly at Des. “ ’Morning, girlfriend.”

“Back at you, Yolie. You’ll find the victim’s car behind the bungalow.”

“I’m on it.”

Des led Soave toward the crime scene, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. As they made their way across the courtyard two more cruisers pulled up, followed by a team of tekkies in a cube van. The uniformed troopers secured the perimeter. The tekkies got busy unloading their gear.

“I swear, that damned Boom Boom is going to drive me crazy,” Soave complained. “Right away, she wants to brace our movie star this morning. She’s convinced that Esme Crockett’s behind all of this. Her and Jeff Wachtell both, since each is the other’s alibi.”

“That’s interesting,” Des said. “Mitch went there, too.”

Soave glanced at her coldly. “So, what, Berger ’s backstopping my investigation now?”

Des let that one slide on by. “What did you tell her, Rico?”

“I told her we don’t have enough yet. This is Esme Crockett we’re talking about, not some gang-banger. She can hire the best team of criminal defense lawyers in the world. We have to get all our ducks in a row before we go anywhere near her.”

Des had to smile at this. When they were a team it was always Soave who was Mr. Great Big Hurry, Des who was Ms. Go Slow.

“So guess what she says back to me.”

“Rico, I can’t imagine.”

“She says I’m not secure enough in my manhood to accept her input. That I feel, quote, sexually threatened by her performance on the job, unquote. And that she finds it hard to respect me. Can you believe that?”

“She possesses what my good friend Bella Tillis calls moxie. Got to like that in a girl.”

“You’ve got to like it-I don’t. She’s busting my balls, Des.”

“She’s hungry, Rico. Better that than a slacker, don’t you think?”

He shook his head at her. “Somehow, I knew you’d take her side.”

“Chump, I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Des shot back angrily. “And I have an excellent idea-solve your own damned personnel problems, okay?”

“Real sorry, Des,” he apologized, reddening. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just, I got like two hours of sleep last night and this case is now totally out of hand. I appreciate your input. Really, I do.”

They arrived at the bungalow. Soave went inside to take a look at Donna’s body on the bathroom floor, his face tightening. “Did you know her?”

“I did. This was a nice lady, Rico. A professional chef. She ran The Works with her husband, Will.”

“If she was such a nice lady what was she doing here?”

“Playing in the dirt.”

“Who with?”

“I wish I knew. As questions go, that’s the big kahuna.”

The crime scene technicians wanted to squeeze in there and start taking pictures.

Soave made way for them, moving back outside. “No, Des,” he countered. “The big kahuna is how does this fit into the Tito Molina death?”

“You think the two are connected?”

“Don’t you? Two violent deaths three days apart in a town this size-they can’t be unrelated, can they?”

“I agree, Rico. Although there was no effort to make this one look like a suicide.”

“That could have been dictated by circumstances,” he suggested, taking a noisy slurp of his coffee.

“Again, I agree. But why did Donna pay for the room with her damned credit card? What kind of way is that to sneak around?”

“Des, I can’t get my mind around what’s going on here, can you?”

“Not even.”

“Tito Molina and Donna Durslag are both dead and there has to be a reason why,” he mused aloud, smoothing his former mustache. “You know what I keep coming back to? I had me a very wise lootonce who had this saying: ‘It’s never complicated. It’s about money or it’s about sex. Or it’s about money and it’s about sex. But it’s never complicated.’ ” He paused, grinning at her. “She was a wise person, that loot.”

“Still am, wow man. Don’t kid yourself.”

They stood there in silence for a moment. A car drove by on Boston Post Road, the driver slowing for a look before he sped past.

“Any chance Donna was romantically involved with Tito?”

“I doubt that, Rico. If she was mixed up with Tito then what was she doing here last night? Or, more precisely, who was she doing here last night?”

“You have a point there, Des.”

“Then again, so do you.”

“Which is?…”

“That Donna wasn’t so nice. She slept around on Will. Mitch did tell me they were having marital problems. Let’s say she was involved with Tito. Say Tito wanted to break it off, and she didn’t, and she killed him in a jealous rage. Maybe someone else, someone close to Tito, figured it out and paid her back last night.”

“Like who?” he wondered.

“Then again,” she went on, “it’s not as if her killer brought a weapon along. He had to use a drawer to beat on her.”

“Meaning we could be looking at a spontaneous crime of passion,” Soave said, nodding.

Yolie came charging across the courtyard from the office now. She took a look inside the bungalow at Donna, then reemerged, grim-faced.

“Rico, we’d better notify Will,” Des said.

“Would you mind delivering the news?”

“Not a problem. I can try to feel him out while I’m there, if you’d like. He might know who her boyfriend is.”

“Go for it,” he urged her.

Yolie joined them now, hugging herself tightly with her big arms. She was either cold or freaked by the sight of Donna. Both, maybe. “Check it out, are we thinking it was a man who did her?”

Soave shot a blank look at Des, then turned back to Yolie, and said, “Why, where are you going with this?”

“That bed wasn’t slept in,” Yolie replied. “Her nightie was never worn. They can’t say for sure until they swab her, but it sure doesn’t look like she had sex before she died.”

“So he killed her before the two of them got busy.” An impatient edge crept into Soave’s voice. “So what?”

“So if there’s no evidence she had sex with him then there’s no evidence it was a him,” Yolie answered, her own voice getting sharp.

“She’s right, Rico,” Des agreed. “A reasonably strong woman could have done this.”

“Maybe Donna was waiting for her boyfriend to show,” Yolie continued, encouraged by Des’s backing. “Maybe her boyfriend’s jealous woman showed up first and decided to take care of business.”

“All possible,” Soave conceded. “But how would she know that Donna was shacked up here?”

“Easy,” Des said. “She listened in on another phone extension when they made the date. Or intercepted their e-mail. Or maybe she just followed her here.”

“Or how about if the woman and the boyfriend were in on it together?” Yolie offered eagerly. “What if it’s a couple we’re after-a jealous, desperate woman and her boy toy? Esme and Jeff. First they killed Tito, now Donna.”

Soave immediately let loose with an exasperated groan.

Yolie lowered her eyes, pawing at the gravel with her boot. “Well, what do you think, Des?”

“Yolie, it’s not totally out of left field,” Des answered guardedly, not wanting to get caught in between them. “Esme doesn’t come across as a major-league schemer, but she is an actress and great beauty. For the sake of argument, let’s say she could manipulate Jeff into killing Tito for her. It still comes back around to this: What’s so damned special about Donna Durslag?”

“Okay, I’m not hearing you,” Yolie said, frowning at her.

“Then you need to take a deep breath, count to ten, and listen up,” Des explained. “When it came to Tito and other women it wasstrictly take a number, the line forms on the right. That boy slept with everyone. Esme knew this. In fact, she was plenty busy herself. So say he and Donna were sleeping together-why would Esme suddenly care?”

“Maybe Tito wanted to divorce her and marry Donna.”

“Get outta here!” Soave erupted. “He’s going to dump one of the world’s top hotties for that butterball in there? No way!”

“Life is not a P. Diddy video, Rico,” snapped Des, who was immediately sorry. Right away, she was caught in their crossfire.

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, flexing his shoulders defensively.

“It means,” Yolie shot back, “that love is about more than a tight butt, dawg.”

“Hey, I know that, Yolie.”

“Sure didn’t sound like it, dawg.”

“Can we please move on?” Soave said angrily. “Because I’m about solving these murders, not arguing sexual politics with you all morning, okay?”

“Cool by me,” Yolie huffed. “I’m not about arguing. That’s not what I’m standing here doing.”

“Have you got anything local for us?” he asked Des abruptly, clearly desperate to scramble his way back to safer ground.

Des fed them what she’d learned from Mitch about Dodge Crockett walking on the beach with Becca Peck when Tito went over the falls, thereby putting Martine in the same apparent category as Chrissie Huberman: without an alibi. “You might also look into the whereabouts that night of another Chrissie Huberman client, Abby Kaminsky, who happens to be Jeff Wachtell’s estranged wife.”

Yolie perked right up at the mention of Jeff’s name. “What about her?”

“She had a fling with Tito.”

“Shut up!” Yolie clapped her hands together excitedly. “I am loving this.”

“That’s good work, Des,” Soave echoed. “Anything else we should know?”

“Not that I can think of,” she said tonelessly, twirling her big Smokey the Bear hat in her fingers.

“Okay…” Soave narrowed his red-rimmed eyes at her, sensing that she was holding on to something else. They knew each other too damned well. Plus she was not the world’s greatest liar.

“Any idea where this Abby is?” Yolie asked.

“Boston, I think. Chrissie will have her exact itinerary. I can check with her if you’d like.”

“I want you to do more than that, Des,” Soave said. “I want you to go interview her.”

“Whoa, Rico, I’m resident trooper, remember? I don’t do road trips.”

“I know that, but me and Yolie are going to be buried here all day, and I don’t have time to run all of this by somebody new. And, look, I’m really up against it, okay? They’re going to muscle me out of the way if I don’t score in the next twenty-four.” So he was feeling the hot breath of the bosses on the back of his neck, Brass City family ties or not. “I need you on this one, Des. You know the players. You’ve got the game skills. Will you come off of the bench for me?” he pleaded, his voice catching slightly. “I’d be unbelievably grateful. I really, really would. Honestly, I don’t know what I’ll do if you say no…”

“Damn, Rico, pull on over to the curb and park it, will you?” Des said, flashing a grin at him. “All you had to say was please.”

Will Durslag’s mother had left him a farmhouse up on Kelton City Road, a bumpy dirt road that forked off Route 156 just past Winston Farms. Des piloted her cruiser along it slowly, realizing that Mitch had been totally right last night.

I am a Dorseteer now.

When put to the test, she had put the interests of the locals ahead of Meriden. She’d seen no vital need for Soave to know that Dodge had sexually abused Esme and so she hadn’t shared it. And this was something entirely new for her. She’d heard plenty of shocking news on the job before. But hearing it about people who she knew-this was fresh. So was withholding it from a colleague. Not that any ofthis should have surprised her. She was well aware now that being resident trooper required a whole lot more moral dexterity than she’d realized going in. Nothing about her new job was black or white. Each day brought a brand-new shade of gray.

The Durslag place was at the very end of Kelton City Road, down a rutted, muddy driveway. It was a rundown circa 1920 two-story farmhouse on three acres of stony ground. The porch sagged. The roof sagged. Everything sagged. There was a jack under one corner of the foundation, and a blue tarp was stretched over a section of the roof that needed replacing. Numerous windowpanes were cracked, the glazing crumbling or missing entirely.

Will and Donna had started paving the driveway at some point, but after they’d done the stretch between the house and the woodshed they’d stopped. A portable basketball hoop was set up there, and their catering van was parked alongside of it. Will hadn’t left yet-for his morning beach walk or work or anywhere else.

Des pulled up behind the van and got out, smelling tangy wood smoke in the chill morning air.

At the sound of her cruiser Will came out the door onto the rotting porch. “Do you know something, Des?” he called out anxiously, running his hands through his lanky hair. Dressed in a sweatshirt and cutoffs, he looked like a college kid home for the summer. “Where is she? I’ve been up all night worried sick.”

“Let’s go inside and talk, Will,” she said, starting her way up the steps.

“Why, what do you know?”

The front parlor was small, dingy, and damp. There was a Victorian loveseat upholstered in purple silk brocade shot so full of holes that the stuffing was spilling out. There was an armchair with a blanket thrown over it. There were stacks of old magazines and newspapers. There was dust and there were cobwebs. Whatever they were, the Durslags were not tidy housekeepers. Will had a fire going in the old potbellied Franklin stove, which gave off some welcome warmth against the chill in the room.

“I’ve been calling everywhere,” he said fretfully. “I even callednine-one-one to see if there’d been an accident on the highway. Where is she, damn it?”

Des smelled coffee in the kitchen. “How do you take your coffee, Will?”

“Black, why?”

The kitchen was a whole different scene-bright and sunny and cared for. It was a spacious farmhouse kitchen equipped with a commercial Viking range, Subzero refrigerator, and a massive butcher block island. Well-used copper pots hung from a rack overhead. A paint-splattered dining table was set before sliding glass doors that overlooked the woods. Clearly, this was the room where they spent their time. Des found a cup in the cupboard, filled it from the cof-feemaker and came back to the parlor with it, hating what she was about to do to this man.

Will had lifted the lid of the stove and was feeding the fire with stubby logs, his movements edgy and urgent. “I’m sorry it’s so cold in here this morning. This house has absolutely no insulation, and this wood’s kind of damp. It’s been so humid out.”

“You’d better sit down, Will.”

“How come?” he asked, looking at her warily.

“It’s bad news about Donna. I’m sorry to tell you that she’s been found murdered.”

Will sank slowly down onto the loveseat. “Oh no, this can’t be.. . It can’t.”

“Here, drink this,” she said, holding the coffee out to him.

He didn’t reach for it. Just sat there, dazed.

“Will?…”

Again, he didn’t respond. Just sat there goggle-eyed, his breathing quick and shallow. He was a big strapping guy but size meant nothing when it came to shock. At West Point, Des had seen rock-hard specimens of fearless fighting manhood faint dead away over a flu shot.

She darted into the kitchen and rummaged under the sink for some ammonia. Came back, uncapped it and waved it under his nose.

Will barely reacted to the first two whiffs. After the third whiff he recoiled from her, his eyes starting to clear. Then the recognitionof the news set back in. “Oh, God,” he gulped. “She was my soul mate, my everything. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to drink your coffee, and we’re going to talk. Come on, take this. The caffeine will help.”

Obediently, he reached for it and took a sip, his chest rising and falling. “How did it happen?”

She sat in the armchair facing him and crossed her long legs. “The details aren’t pretty.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his eyes searching her face. “Tell me everything. I need to know.”

“She was found at the Yankee Doodle.”

Will’s eyes widened in surprise. “The motel?”

“She checked in there last night at about ten o’clock. She was meeting somebody, Will. Whoever he was, he knocked her unconscious and he…”

“And he what?” Will demanded.

“Drowned her in the bathtub.”

“No, this can’t be,” Will groaned, rocking back and forth on the sofa. “You’ve made a mistake. Take another look. It’s got to be somebody else, not Donna.”

“It’s Donna. I saw her with my own two eyes.”

He drank some more coffee, clutching the mug tightly in both hands. “Will they have to cut her open? Please tell me they’re not going to do that.”

“I don’t believe that’s called for,” Des replied. “Have you got someone who can stay with you, Will? You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“I have no one,” he replied woodenly. “Just Donna-and now she’s gone.”

“May I use your phone?”

He didn’t respond. Barely seemed to hear her.

Des went in the kitchen and called Mitch, who promised he’d be right over. Then she returned to Will and sat back down. “Mitch is going to hang out here for a little while, okay?”

“Who did this to her, Des?” Will demanded suddenly. His shockhad given way to raw anger. It often happened this way. “Who murdered my Donna?”

“We don’t know yet. You can help us out. If you’re up to it, I mean.”

“Of course, but how?”

“By answering some questions. I have to warn you, this might be rough.”

“You can ask me anything. I don’t give a damn. I’ve spent the whole night going crazy. She didn’t come home. She never, ever did that before.”

Des took out her notepad and pen. “Do you have any idea where else she was last night?”

“She had her meeting of the Dorset Merchants Association. They get together for dinner twice a month.”

Will’s mention of the Merchants Association set off a faint flicker of recognition in the back of Des’s mind. “Where do they usually meet?”

“At the Clam House. There’s a back room for club meetings.” The Clam House was a seafood restaurant adjacent to the Dorset Marina, popular with boaters and tourists. “It usually runs from seven until about nine.”

“Did she typically go without you?”

“Yeah, the association was her deal. We’ve always divided up the workload according to our strengths. Donna was good at working the room. She liked it, even. Me, I’m a cooker. I belong in the kitchen with my pots and pans.”

“Were you expecting her home after that?”

“Not directly, no. She had to meet somebody about a catering gig on her way back.”

“Any idea who that was?”

Will furrowed his brow in thought. “She may have told me their name, but I’m drawing a total blank. Things are always just so hectic. It was a cocktail party. A bon voyage thing. That’s all I remember.”

“Where did she keep track of her appointments? Could she have input it somewhere?”

Will smiled very faintly. “No, no, she hates… she hated computers. But it ought to be written down in her date book. It’s black leather.”

“This would be in her shoulder bag?”

Will nodded his head, swallowing.

“Okay, good,” Des said, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be written down. That there was no catering gig. It was simply the little white lie she’d told Will to buy herself enough time to stop off and screw her boyfriend. “What time did you get home last night, Will?”

“I rolled in about nine-thirty. I was expecting her by ten, ten-thirty. We always stayed in touch by cell phone. If she knew she was going to be later than that she would have called. I tried calling her about eleven. When she didn’t answer I started to worry. I phoned our late man, Rich Graybill, to see if she’d stopped by The Works. Rich is usually there until about midnight, cleaning up and getting things set up for the morning. But he said he hadn’t seen her.”

“Tell me more about him. What’s his story?”

“Who, Rich? He’s a young guy, good guy. Lives with his girlfriend, Kimberly. She’s one of our pastry chefs.”

“Her last name?”

“Fiore.”

“What did you do after that, Will?”

“Paced around a whole lot,” he confessed. “Kept calling her cell phone. Kept getting more and more worried. Like I said, I called the state police to see if there had been any accidents. I can’t even remember what time I did that…”

“Not important.” And even if it were they would have logged his call.

“At one point I actually decided to go look for her at The Works. I thought maybe she’d decided to get an early start on tomorrow’s baking. Which makes no sense, because if that’s where she was she would have called me. But I was just so desperate. I couldn’t just sit here, you know?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I left her a note on the kitchen counter in case she got home whileI was out.” He loped into the kitchen and returned with it, gazing down at it as if it were the last piece of concrete evidence that Donna and their marriage and their life had ever existed. Gently, he placed it on the coffee table for Des to see. He’d scrawled it in pencil on a piece of lined yellow paper: “Don-Don-I’m out looking for you. Where are you? Be home soon. Love, Willie Boy”

“When I got back here, she still wasn’t home,” he added quietly. “And I’ve been sitting up ever since.”

“Will, there are some things I need to ask that might seem pretty cold and hurtful. But I need to ask them, and you need to answer them. If you can, that is.”

“I understand.” He sighed, flopping back down on the loveseat. “Fire away.”

“Was Donna involved with someone else?”

Will glared at her, his jaw clenching. For a second, he looked like a vengeful Viking warrior. Then he relaxed, his gaze dropping to the worn rag rug at Des’s feet. “We had our troubles,” he admitted. “All couples do. Especially when they’re together twenty-four hours a day. But I swear to you, I wasn’t sneaking around on Donna with another woman. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“I understand.” Des was patient with him. The man was blown away. “And what about Donna? Was she seeing someone?”

He looked up at her miserably. “You want to know if she had a boyfriend-the short answer is yes.”

“Who is he, Will?”

“No idea. She never told me. In fact, we never so much as discussed him. But I knew. There were these hang-ups on the phone all the time when I’d answer it. There were the errands she’d run during the afternoon-she’d be gone for an extra hour without any explanation, and be real anxious to take a shower as soon as she got home. I’d notice scratches and bruises on her body that she wasn’t real specific about explaining. She… she acted different, smelled different, was different. I don’t know what else to say, except that when you’ve been married to someone for a while you can just tell.”

“How long had this been going on?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Three, four months.”

“Her not coming home last night,” Des said. “Did it occur to you that-?”

“That she was with him? Sure it did. Except that she never, ever did that to me before. She never just disappeared for a whole night. I mean, she didn’t want me to know about it, okay? Me or anyone else. Dorset’s a small town. Everyone knows you. If you’re sneaking around in this place, you have to be incredibly careful.” Will reached for his half-empty coffee cup. “One other thought did cross my mind,” he admitted, sipping from it. “I thought maybe… that she’d run off with him. Left me for good. Our bank has one of those automated eight-hundred numbers you can call day or night to find out your current balance. I called it to see if she’d withdrawn anything from our joint checking account.”

“Had she?”

“No.”

“You say you kept a joint checking account. Who paid the monthly bills?”

“Me, usually.”

“So you would typically see her credit card statements?”

“I guess,” he replied, frowning. “Why?”

“Will, Donna paid for the bungalow at the Yankee Doodle with her Visa card. Is this something that would have caught your eye when you sat down to pay the bills?”

“Most likely. I mean, yeah. Definitely.”

“What would you have thought when you saw it?”

“Well, I know what sort of a reputation the place has, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Maybe she was planning to intercept next month’s statement and pay it herself. Does that seem reasonable?”

“Des, why does any of this matter?”

“Because her behavior last night wasn’t typical, that’s why. Like you said, she’d been so careful to hide this affair from you, and yetshe showed up at the Yankee Doodle at ten o’clock. She had to know she’d get home late enough to set off alarm bells with you. Now, why did she do that? And why didn’t she pay cash?”

“Maybe she was out of cash,” he replied helplessly. “Maybe she was feeling horny and reckless. Who knows, she may have been drunk as a skunk.”

“Did she have a problem with alcohol?”

“No! I’m just trying to…” Will broke off into heavy silence. “I honestly don’t know what she was doing there at that hour, okay?”

“Okay, Will,” Des said gently.

She heard the rumble of an engine outside now and went to the window. Mitch’s old plum-colored pickup truck was bouncing its way up the dirt drive. She went out onto the sagging porch to greet him, her gallant, uncombed love, her pudgy white knight in his frayed oxford button-down and shlumpy khaki shorts.

“How is he?” he asked, giving her a quick bear hug.

“Not so good.”

“God, I am hating this,” he murmured glumly. Then he took a deep breath and went charging in the front door with a smile forced onto his face, Des on his heel. “Whoa, it’s like a meat locker in here, Will,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Your place is just as bad as mine. Zero insulation, am I right?”

Will scarcely seemed to notice Mitch. Just sat slumped there on the loveseat, lost in his grief.

Mitch clomped over to the stove to warm his hands, glancing at his friend uncertainly. “I’m really sorry about Donna.”

The mention of her name seemed to rouse Will. “Thanks, man,” he said hoarsely. “How… was the beach this morning?”

“I didn’t walk,” Mitch replied.

“Yeah, me neither.” Will ran a hand over his face, his eyes filling with tears. “I don’t think I’m going to make it, Mitch. I really don’t.”

Mitch came over and put his hand on Will’s shoulder. “That’s exactly how I felt when I lost Maisie. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, Will, but you’re going to make it. It’ll get a little better every day, I promise you.”

“I can’t even see tomorrow,” Will confessed. “All I can see is that I’m all alone. Donna was my everything… my best friend. My soul mate. My partner.”

Mitch drew back from him, startled.

Des couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps he had once said those very words himself about Maisie. “I’ll be heading out now, Will,” she spoke up.

Will nodded absently, saying nothing to her.

She motioned for Mitch to join her out on the porch.

He did, closing the door softly behind him. “Whew, this is not going to be a lot of fun.”

“Not even close,” she said, putting her big hat back squarely on her head. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading up to Boston now.”

“You going to talk to Abby?”

“Yeah.”

“Give her my regards. And, hey, if you go through Cambridge on your way back, stop at East Coast Grill and pick up a large quantity of their eastern North Carolina shredded pork, okay? We can have it for dinner when you get home. Trust me, it’s outstanding.”

She cocked her head at him curiously. “Man, how can you think about barbecue at a time like this?”

“I’m not like you. Food is all I think about when I’m upset, remember?”

“That’s not something I forget, believe me.”

“East Coast Grill,” he repeated. “It’s on Cambridge Street, just off of Prospect. Anyone will be able to give you directions. And, please, whatever you do, don’t take that damned Ninety-five the whole way up. Get off at exit seventy-four, take Three-ninety-five through Norwich and then change to the-”

“Mitch, I know how to get to Boston from here.”

“Promise me you won’t take Ninety-five,” he said urgently.

“Why is my route so damned important?”

“Because there’s a fatality on that highway at least three times a week and I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”

She utterly melted. Never had a man made her go gooey the way this one did. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Okay, I promise.”

“I don’t get it, Des,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “Why would someone want to kill Donna? What the hell’s going on here?”

“Boyfriend,” she sighed, “I wish I knew.”

As Des steered her cruiser back down Route 156 she gave Yolie a heads-up on her cell phone about Donna’s so-called catering gig and her black leather date book. Des also fed her the name of the Durslags’ late-shift man, Rich Graybill. Yolie agreed that he was definitely someone worth talking to. She said she’d also hook up with his girlfriend, Kimberly Fiore, to see if Kimberly backed up what time Rich got home.

Before Des got onto the highway for Boston she pulled in at the Acar’s minimart and got out to fill up her gas tank.

Nuri came out at once to do it for her, dressed in his customary white shirt and slacks. “Good morning to you, Trooper,” he said politely. His eyes were not nearly so polite. Once again, they were working their way over and around every single inch of her body. “Shall I fill it up?”

“Yes, please,” she responded, shuddering slightly. She felt positively creeped by this man. She spotted Nema inside through their sparkling new front window and waved to her. Nema waved back, smiling broadly. “Have you had any further problems, Mr. Acar?”

“Not a one, as I anticipated,” he replied, starting in on her windshield with a soapy squeegee. “Everyone has been most supportive. Most particularly my fellow members of the Dorset Merchants Association, who have agreed to offer a cash reward of one thousand dollars to anyone who can provide useful information regarding the identity of these vandals.”

Des leaned against the side of the cruiser with her arms crossed. “You folks had your monthly meeting last night, am I right?”

“That is correct,” he said, clearing the soap from the window withcareful, precise movements. “At the Clam House. The surf-and-turf combo is particularly delicious, in my opinion.”

“Did you happen to see Donna Durslag there?”

“I sat right next to her,” he said easily. No hesitation or tinge of color to his cheeks, no nervous glance over his shoulder at his wife. “Very nice lady, Mrs. Durslag. So full of personality. Jolly is an appropriate word for her, is it not?”

“So she seemed in good spirits to you?”

“She did. Very upbeat and pleasant.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“Nothing very specific. Local business concerns. Tourism and so forth.”

“Do you remember what she had on?”

Now Nuri Acar glanced at her curiously, aware that her interest in Donna was more than casual. “A white dress, I believe. It was not anything fancy.”

“Like a peasant dress?”

“If you wish.”

“Did she happen to say anything about where she was going afterward?”

“I don’t believe so, no.” Nuri dumped the squeegee back in its soapy tub and returned to the gas pump nozzle, gripping it tightly as he finished filling her tank. “Why do you wish to know so much about Mrs. Durslag?”

“What did you do after the meeting broke up, Mr. Acar?”

“I came back here to help Nema. We stay open until ten.”

“What time did you get here?”

“Perhaps nine-fifteen,” he said, as the nozzle clunked to a halt. Her tank was full. “That will be twenty-two dollars even, please.”

“You came straight here?” she asked, handing him her credit card.

Nuri took it from her, scowling. “What is the point of this, young lady?”

“Mr. Acar, if you have anything at all to tell me, it’ll go down a whole lot better if you do it before rather than after.”

“After what, may I ask?”

“After I say out loud that Donna Durslag was murdered last night.”

Nuri’s eyes widened. “My goodness gracious. By who?”

“By her boyfriend,” Des replied, raising her chin at him. “Whoever he is.”

“I was not involved with that woman,” he shot back. “And I resent your insinuation.”

“I insinuated nothing. You asked me a question, I answered it.”

“How dare you doubt my veracity?” he demanded, highly indignant. Or staging one hell of an imitation, especially for someone who was so overtly smarmy. “I am a respectable businessman. A married man. How dare you?”

“I simply have a job to do, Mr. Acar.”

“Then you have a filthy, horrible job. A proper young lady would not hold such a job. She would not.” Glowering, he turned on his heel and sped inside to run her credit card. Service without a smile.

Des got back in her cruiser and waited calmly for him to return.

When he did, he refused to make eye contact with her. She was too far beneath him.

“I carry a pooper-scooper, Mr. Acar,” she explained as she signed the credit card slip. “I’m the girl who cleans up after the other human beings. You’re right-sometimes it’s not a very nice job. We’re not a very nice animal. In fact we’re the cruelest, most thoughtless animal on the planet. I try not to let it get to me, but, wow, some mornings it just turns me all upside down.” She tore off her copy and handed his back to him, treating him to her biggest smile. “You have yourself a good one, okay?”

Abby Kaminsky lived plenty large when she was on tour.

The best-selling children’s author had herself a condo-sized suite on the ninth floor of the highly choice Four Seasons Hotel on Boylston Street, complete with a drop-dead view of the lush green Public Garden, the Common, and Beacon Hill. It was a bright, crisp New England afternoon, the sky a deep blue, the clouds puffy and white. Off in the distance, the Charles River shimmered in the sunlight.

“It’s like I told you on the phone,” Abby chattered gaily as she showed Des in. “I am insanely busy today. I can only give you a few minutes. I have two bookstore appearances, a radio call-in show, and then I’m talking fish with the Zoom kids.” Jeff Wachtell’s estranged wife was a bustling, impeccably groomed little thing with a frosted head of architecturally designed, stay-put hair that made her seem a bit taller than she really was, which was barely five feet tall. “A stylist will be here in twenty minutes to make me gorgeous. It’s just a really tight, tight day.”

“Understood,” Des said. “I appreciate you squeezing me in.”

There was a fruit basket and a bouquet of flowers in the living room. There was a portable wardrobe rack full of Armani linen suits and silk blouses. There was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Abby clutching her new Carleton Carp book under a balloon caption that read: Go Fish!

And there was a goateed no-neck seated on the sofa, drinking a diet soda and staring at a rerun of Baywatch on the television.

“This is my escort,” Abby said. “Frankie, say hello to Resident Trooper Mitry. She’s come here all the way from Dorset, Connecticut.”

Frankie gave Des a brief nod, barely bothering to look her way. He was too busy maintaining his cultivated air of bad-assdom.

One whiff and Des could smell yard all over him. “Glad to know you, Frankie,” she said pleasantly. “Your last name is?…”

He glowered in silence for a long moment before he said, “Ramistella.”

“You work out of New York?”

“Bay Ridge.”

“What’s your address?”

He gave it to her, peering up at Des now with eyes that were heavy lidded and immensely hostile. “Why so many questions?”

“Behave, Frankie,” Abby ordered him. “She’s just doing her job. You need to leave us alone now, okay? Go take a walk or something. And have the car ready for me downstairs at two sharp.”

He got up very deliberately, turned off the TV, and started for the door.

“Oh, hey, cookie?” Abby called after him. “Take my cutout, will you?”

Grimacing with disdain, Frankie carried the cardboard Abby out of the room under his arm, shutting the door softly behind him.

“Can I get you anything from the minibar, Trooper?” Abby asked her. “Water, juice?”

“I’m all set, thanks.”

Abby sat on the sofa and kicked off her little pumps, one stocking leg folded under her, a box of Cocoa Pebbles kids’ cereal cradled in her lap. She reached inside for a handful and munched on it. “Want some? What am I saying? Of course you don’t. Pebbles are my own thing,” she explained merrily. “Can’t help myself. Now what can I do for you?”

Des took off her hat and sat in an armchair across the coffee table from her. “You can tell me where you’ve been the past couple of nights.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Abby said easily, chomping on her cereal. “Only let me ask you something first-why do you want to know this?”

“Because we’re trying to ascertain the whereabouts of anyone and everyone who was involved with Tito Molina.”

“Oh, sure, I get it,” she said, nodding her head of hair. “You found out that I had a little, a-a thing with Tito. Did Chrissie tell you? No, wait, it was your boyfriend, wasn’t it? It was Mitch.”

Des didn’t bother to answer her.

“It’s okay, Crissie’s told me all about Mitch and you. And now that I’ve met you both I must say you are the last two people in the world I’d guess would ever end up in the feathers together. I mean, talk about an odd couple. You’re black, he’s Jewish. He’s a critic, you’re a cop. You’re skinny, he’s… not.” Abby wagged a manicured finger at Des, her big blue eyes gleaming. “You know, you two would make a terrific pair of fish.”

Des let out a laugh. “I’ll make sure to pass that one along to him.”

“No, no, I’m serious. I’ve been wanting to get more racial for sometime. The inner city kids need role models. And you’re so tall and gorgeous and self-assured. Seriously, I am adoring this. May I use you?”

“I can’t imagine anything more flattering-just as long as you don’t name me something like Hallie Butts.”

“Cookie, I am stealing that!” Abby squealed with delight. “You are so lucky, you know that? Mitch is one you’ll never, ever have to worry about. Trust me, I personally road tested him.”

“Road tested him?”

“I came on to him like gangbusters yesterday,” she confided, girl to girl. “Did everything but dive under the table and go for his zipper with my teeth. See, when I’m tour I can get a little, you know, horny. But I could not generate so much as a mild whiff of interest out of him. That one is a keeper, believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Des said, wondering what America’s parents would think if they found out that their kids’ favorite author was a little bit nutty and a whole lot slutty. “So about your activities these past couple of nights…”

“Okay, sure.” Abby folded her little hands in her lap and took a deep breath, collecting herself. “I got home to New York from my tour the day Tito died. I was on the six p.m. flight from Los Angeles.” She gave Des the name of the airline and what time it had left L.A.

“Was Frankie with you?”

“He sure was. I can’t travel alone anymore. Too many kids want to talk to me and touch me. Puh-leeze…” Abby shivered, fanning herself with fluttering fingers. “A limo met us at the airport to bring me home. Frankie helped me shlep all of my stuff upstairs-I had to take a ton of clothes.”

“Where do you live?”

She gave Des her address on Riverside Drive. It was a doorman building on the corner of West Ninety-first Street.

“What time did you get settled in?”

“Maybe eight.”

“Did Frankie stick around?”

“No, he took the limo on home.”

“And how did you spend your evening?”

Abby got up suddenly and padded over to the window in her stocking feet, silent as a kitten on the plush carpet. “I realize this is going to sound terrible, but I can’t lie to you because I happen to be the soul of honesty-except for when I’m not. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“I really couldn’t say. So far, you’ve told me jack.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Abby admitted, letting out a nervous laugh. “The truth is, I was in Dorset. I-I’ve been in Dorset a lot lately.”

Des leaned forward in her chair, watching Abby closely. “Doing what?”

Abby went over to the minibar and pulled out a small bottle of Perrier and opened it. “Sitting parked outside of Jeffrey’s condo in my car,” she replied, taking a dainty sip.

“What are you, stalking him?”

“God, no. I’m not parked out there with an Uzi or anything. Just a box of Cocoa Pebbles and a pair of b-binoculars.” She paused, reddening. “Okay, maybe I’d better explain myself.”

“Maybe you’d better.”

“I just… I wanted to see for myself who he’s sleeping with. I need to know. And I am so humiliated to admit this out loud to you that I could just about crawl under that sofa. I mean, how pathetic am I? But it’s the truth. I’ve been sitting in my damned car every night, watching that little weasel entertain one gorgeous woman after another and crying my poor baby blues out.”

“Have you been in direct contact with him?” Des asked, shoving her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose.

Abby returned to the sofa and sat back down. “Define direct contact.”

“Well, does he know you’ve been watching him?”

“God, he’d better not. I would just die if he found out.”

“You haven’t spoken to him?”

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“Because you still love him, that’s why.”

“I do not still love him,” Abby said angrily.

“Tie that bull outside, as my good friend Bella Tillis likes to say. A girl does not sit in her car all night with a pair of binoculars unless she feels the love.”

“Okay, so maybe I feel it a little,” Abby admitted reluctantly. “That’s really beside the point.”

“And the point is?…”

“That I’m telling you the truth. Check with my garage on Broadway and Ninety-second. They’ll tell you what time I took my car out and when I brought it back. It’s a black Mercedes station wagon. I’ve practically been living in it since I got back. Night after night I sit there-until dawn, when I drive back. What a rotten drive that is, too.”

“Have you been making it alone?”

“Of course. Who else would sit there with me all night like some nut?”

“Frankie would.”

“I am not involved with Frankie. We were, very briefly. But not anymore. I’ve been alone. Just little me.”

Which meant that Abby Kaminsky had no one to vouch for her, Des reflected. No one who could say she hadn’t pushed Tito Molina off that cliff. True, she was a tiny thing. But the element of surprise can add a good deal of muscle. And that granite ledge was plenty slick. Only, what about Donna Durslag? Why would Abby want to see her dead?

“You do believe me, don’t you?” Abby asked, watching her uncertainly.

“I don’t disbelieve you,” Des responded. “How about you tell me what you saw while you were parked out there?”

“Sure, okay, I can do that. I saw, let’s see, I saw Esme Crockett show up there the first night.”

“This is the night Tito died?”

“Correct. She got there at around midnight. I could see her andJeffrey sucking face through the kitchen window-until he turned the lights out and they did God knows what unspeakable things to each other in the dark. She left at about four in the morning.”

Which backed up what Esme and Jeff had said. “And the next night?”

“Her mother showed up at around eleven.”

“Did Martine stay the night?”

“She was there less than ten minutes,” Abby said gleefully. “Tossed a major hissy fit on the front porch. She even threw a flower pot at Jeffrey.”

“She’d found out he was two-timing her with Esme,” Des ventured.

“You got that right, cookie. And what a mouth that bitch has on her. She’s standing out there screaming at the top of her lungs about how she’s going to make a bow tie out of his balls. Unbelievable! Then she took off in a huff.”

“And what did you see last night?”

“Last night I was here in Boston,” Abby said hastily. “But… why are you asking?”

“Because someone else got murdered last night, that’s why.”

“Really, who?”

“Donna Durslag.”

“Oh, sure. She owned The Works with her husband.”

“You knew her?”

“By name. Jeffrey rents his space from them.”

“So you’re saying you weren’t watching his condo last night, am I right?”

“That’s right,” Abby said, lowering her eyes.

“Don’t disrespect me, girl. If you took your town car out of the hotel parking garage last night, I’ll know. If you rented a different car, I’ll know. If you so much as walked out that lobby door, I’ll know. I have the means. I have the skills. I have the-”

“Okay, okay, no need to get all huffy on me.”

“I do not get huffy.”

“I was at Jeffrey’s last night,” Abby conceded. “I was staked out just like the other two nights-from eleven till about four. I took the town car.”

“Why lie to me about it?”

“Because I’m embarrassed,” she wailed plaintively. “Wouldn’t you be embarrassed? I mean, God, this is so humiliating.”

“Who visited Jeffrey last night?”

“No one, I swear.”

“Did he go out?”

Abby shook her head. “He was there by himself all night.”

“Did you think about knocking on his door?”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not, was Frankie with you?”

“Look, I’d rather not involve Frankie in this, okay?”

“That’s not an answer.”

There was a tapping at the suite door now.

Abby let her breath out, clearly relieved by the interruption. “Would you mind getting that, cookie?”

Des got up and went to the door and opened it.

A frail young man with a concave chest and a two-day stubble of beard stood out in the hallway clutching a pair of battered metal carrying cases. “I’m here for Abby,” he announced.

“Come in, Gregory!” Abby called to him as she bustled over toward the desk. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this off now, Trooper. Gregory has to do my mouth.”

“That’s fine,” Des said. “I got what I came for. Where will you be tonight?”

Abby frowned at her. “Right here in Boston, why?”

“Just checking. You’re a happening little girl. Liable to turn up anywhere.”

“Well, I’ll be here. That’s the truth. And I always tell the truth.”

“Except for when you don’t,” Des said, smiling at her. “Right, I heard that.”

One of the doormen down in the lobby gave Des directions to theEast Coast Grill. Her cruiser was double-parked out front. She got in and called Yolie on her cell phone to tell her what she didn’t want to hear-that Abby Kaminsky backed up Esme and Jeff’s story.

“Did you believe her?” Yolie asked, sounding thoroughly dejected.

“Yolie, I honestly don’t know. She’s rich, wiggy, in love. Anything’s possible. What have you got?”

“So far, not a damned thing. None of the guests at the Yankee Doodle saw our boy come or go. And, Lordy, were they not happy to be questioned. Kimberly Fiore backs up her boyfriend, Rich Graybill. He got home from his late shift at The Works by midnight. Word, we are nowhere,” she grumbled at Des.

“Hey, we’ll lick this, Yolie. You keep that chin up for me, okay?”

“Girl, I am all about that,” Yolie vowed before she hung up.

Des started up her cruiser and glanced in her rearview mirror, spotting big Frankie. He was seated at the wheel of the black town car parked behind her in the hotel’s loading area, glowering at her with as much menace as he could muster. Definitely a yard face. The man had done time. She was positive.

As she pulled away, Des ran a check on him on her digital radio. She got her answer before she’d made it across the Charles into Cambridge on the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge. Frank Ramistella had wriggled his way out of two assault charges when he was in his late teens, then served three years of New York state time for armed robbery. As far as the law knew, he had been clean for the past six years.

All well and good, Des reflected as he steered her way toward Central Square. The man was still hired muscle. And he was way into Abby. He’d do what that little blond asked him to, even if it meant pushing Tito Molina off a cliff. But that still begged the question about Donna. What possible reason could Abby have for wanting Donna dead?

This question Des could not answer.

And it troubled her big-time. Actually, this whole case did. Because the more she learned the more confused she got. In truth, she wasn’t getting any closer to figuring this one out at all.

In truth, her damned fool head was reeling.