The Hot Pink Farmhouse

CHAPTER 11

Bella Tillis’s mud-splattered Jeep Wrangler, with its personalized CATS22 license plate, was parked outside his carriage house when Mitch got home, his head spinning and his limbs aching from exhaustion. Des’s trooper mobile was there, too, snugged up next to an unmarked police cruiser.

Des was in his kitchen hard at work on her fragrant concoction of black-eyed peas, ham hocks and rice. A cornbread was cooling on the windowsill, and a mountain of freshly washed collard greens was draining in the sink. Des had on a black turtleneck and jeans. She looked exceedingly uptight and, when she laid eyes on Mitch, way pissed. Not only was he a half hour late but he was filthy and stank of oxyacetylene.

“I’m incredibly sorry,” he apologized. “I just couldn’t leave the old guy. He was all alone and his work is all he has.” Mitch ran a grimy hand through his hair, still seeing copper rectangles before his eyes. “I’ll hop right in the shower.”

“Please do,” she said tautly. “And hurry.”

Before he could get there, little round Bella appeared in the kitchen doorway, blocking his path. “Hello, tattela!”

“Hi, Aunt Bella,” he responded warmly, kissing her on the cheek.

“I didn’t realize that you and Mr. Berger were related,” a booming baritone voice spoke up from behind her.

“We’re not, Buck,” Bella explained. “We just feel like we ought to be.”

Mitch was not prepared for just how huge Buck Mitry was. The deputy superintendent of the Connecticut State Police-the man whom Des and everyone in law enforcement called the Deacon-was at least six feet four, powerfully built and ramrod-straight. His hand, when Mitch shook it, was as big as a family-sized pizza. Mitch’s own hand disappeared in it. The Deacon wore a somber dark gray suit and he had not gotten comfortable-he still had his jacket and tie on.

“I’m really sorry I’m late, sir,” Mitch said, swallowing. Sir? Where did that come from? Mitch knew perfectly well where-Des’s father instantly made him feel like a pimply, horny sixteen-year-old with a condom in his wallet and not a thing on his mind but how to get his precious daughter naked. “You must think I’m the rudest person in the world.”

The Deacon towered there in the doorway, his gaze steely and intimidating. Clint Eastwood had nothing on this man. “It’s perfectly understandable, Mr. Berger,” he responded. “I’ve spent my entire career never being in charge of my own schedule. Take your shower. Take your time. We’ll be here.”

“Thanks for being so understanding,” Mitch said, smiling at him. “I’ll be right out.”

He hopped in a steaming hot shower, his mind still reeling from everything that Hangtown had told him. What had the old man meant by “the past”? Had he been referring to Crazy Daisy? Was her death connected with Moose’s? How? Should he be telling Des about this? Should he save it for his story? Or should he not even put it in his story at all? Because if Hangtown was, in fact, an accessory to a thirty-year-old murder, he could go to jail. And Mitch’s story would be sending him there. Did he really want to do that? What was his responsibility here? What was right?

Dazed and confused, Mitch changed into clean khakis and a blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt. His guests were busy watching the local Connecticut news on television. Mitch rejoined them just in time to see Soave holding forth for the cameras on his good strong case against Jim Bolan: “We have credible physical evidence that places him at the scene,” the muscle-bound little lieutenant crowed. “This is an individual who has vast experience with long-range firearms, a revenge motive and no convincing way to account for his whereabouts at the time of the shooting.”

Bella shook a blunt finger at the TV and blustered, “That little man has bupkes. If he really had anything on this Bolan, he would have charged him. I want you to know that the public sees right through this type of thing, Buck.”

“Yes, ma’am,” growled the Deacon, who seemed displeased by Soave’s performance.

Mitch went foraging in the refrigerator for a beer. Couldn’t find any.

“Did you leave it out in the truck?” Des asked him.

Mitch frowned at her. “I thought you were going to get the beer.”

“No, no. I asked you to.”

The Deacon was looming in the kitchen doorway now, watching them intently.

“Whatever,” Mitch said easily, even though he was positive she’d said she would take care of it. “I’ll go get some right now.”

“Not on my account,” the Deacon said. “I’m not a big drinker.”

“Nor am I,” Bella chimed in.

“Got to have a glass of beer with your Hoppin’ John, Daddy,” Des insisted. “I’ll go get it. You guys hang. Take a ride with me, Bella.”

“I’d rather hang with them,” Bella said.

“And I’d rather look like Halle Berry,” Des shot back. “Come on, girl.”

And with that the two women were out the door, leaving Mitch certain that Des had purposely forgotten the beer so that he and the Deacon could spend some time alone together.

The Deacon immediately began to pace Mitch’s small living room. He seemed caged and restless. Briefly, Mitch wondered if Des’s towering, commanding father was as uncomfortable about this as he was. “I’ve been sitting at a desk all day, Mr. Berger,” he said suddenly. “Mind if we stretch our legs?”

“Not at all,” Mitch said. “Provided you start calling me Mitch.”

“Very well… Mitch.”

He left a note for Des on the kitchen counter, grabbed his flashlight and jacket and they headed out, the Deacon pausing to fetch his topcoat out of his car.

“I understand you used to be a baseball player,” Mitch spoke up as he led them down the path to the beach. The man’s stern silence was making him incredibly nervous.

“That’s correct,” the Deacon affirmed, striding along with his shoulders back, chin up. “I was in the Pirates’ organization before I joined the state police.”

“There’s a former player mixed up in this murder case,” Mitch said. “The victim’s sister, Takai, used to be married to a catcher named Dirk Doughty.”

“Sure, I remember Doughty from his American Legion days,” the Deacon said. “Best young player to come out of this area since Jeff Bagwell. The Tigers thought he was going to be the next Johnny Bench. Never happened, though-just like it never happened for me,” he added without regret.

“How do you deal with that?” Mitch asked. “The disappointment, I mean.”

“You turn the page, Mitch. Same way you do when you bury a loved one, as Desiree told me you’ve had to do.”

“You move on,” Mitch acknowledged. He hadn’t particularly wanted to talk about Maisie, but at least they were talking. “You must.”

“Absolutely. What’s Doughty doing with himself?”

“Teaching baseball to kids. He’s a private coach.”

“That’s not moving on,” the Deacon said with flinty disapproval.

They had reached the island’s rocky little beach now. The tide was moving in. Rain was expected overnight, but right now the stars were out, a gibbous moon low over Fisher’s Island. They started along the water’s edge, heading east. The Deacon seemed terribly out of place in his topcoat and shiny dress shoes. Mitch found himself remembering the gang of topcoated young slackers striding the beach in Fellini’s I Vitelloni, which inspired Barry Levinson’s vastly inferior Diner.

“Lovely spot you picked here, Mitch.”

“It picked me. And I feel very lucky.”

“What are those lights out there?” he asked, gazing at a boat that was making its way back toward the mainland. “Lobstermen?”

“That’s the Plum Island workboat. They take the workmen out every morning at seven-thirty. Bring them back home right around now.” Mitch found he was starting to puff for air. The Deacon had the same long, tireless stride as his daughter. “I was going to get you a birthday gift, but Des said not to.”

“My daughter knows me pretty well. And I thought I knew her. But lately, she’s been thoroughly confounding me. Mind if I ask you your advice, Mitch?”

“Not at all.”

“This art thing that she’s pursuing… Do you think it’s something she’ll stay with?”

“I really don’t know the answer to that. You can never tell with artists.”

“So you believe she is an artist.”

“Oh, definitely. She’s very, very gifted, Mr. Mitry. She can go as far as she wants, if she has the desire and the dedication.”

“Will that make her happy?”

“Well, artists aren’t happy people, as a rule.”

The Deacon walked along the rocks in thoughtful silence for a moment, considering this. “And why is that?”

Mitch glanced over at him, frowning. It was just beginning to dawn upon him how little the Deacon understood about his daughter’s new life. Art was something totally outside the realm of his personal experience. “Artists are people who live up inside their own heads,” Mitch answered slowly. “They’re trying to make some sense out of this spiky little pinball that’s careening around up there, driving them to that blank canvas. In other words, there’s something inside of Des that’s trying to come out, and she doesn’t necessarily know what it is or even what it means, because she’s not in control of it. She simply has to surrender herself to it, wherever it takes her. And that can be pretty scary. It would be safer and saner to never go there, but then she wouldn’t be fulfilling her destiny.”

“So you believe in destiny?”

“Why do you ask me that?”

“Trying to figure out what you believe in.”

“I believe it’s a sin to waste a gift. And she has one. Right now, she’s trying to figure out how best to use it. Which she will-she’s a very smart person, Mr. Mitry.”

“From where I stand, resident trooper is the road to nowhere.”

“I’m sure she has misgivings,” Mitch conceded. “Like with this murder investigation-she wants to be in charge, and she isn’t, and that’s tearing her apart.”

They had made their way to the lighthouse now. They stopped, gazing out at the moonlit water.

“Desiree is my only child,” the Deacon said. “And she’s always made me proud of what she’s accomplished. She graduated from West Point with honors. Served her nation proudly. Rose through the ranks of the state police faster than any woman of color in history. Brandon was a fine young gentleman, a Yale Law School graduate. Yet, somehow, none of it quite worked out the way she planned. It occurs to me that what may be happening now is that Desiree is simply floundering a bit.” He paused, clearing his throat. “What I mean to say, Mitch, is that you might be her walk on the wild side.”

“No, no. That can’t be. I own no motorcycle. I wear no goatee. I’m no one’s walk on the wild side.”

“Nonetheless, she’s doing things she’s never done before. Taking these art classes. Dating a white man-which is fine with me, by the way. I’m not troubled by that at all. We’re all learning as we go along. Finding out new things about ourselves. My own wife, for instance, recently discovered that she was still in love with her high school sweetheart. And now I live alone, which I-”

“You aren’t lonely? I’d be lonely.”

“I’m quite all right,” the Deacon answered crisply. “I’m fine. What I’m trying to say to you, Mitch, is that the life you two are building down here may simply be a phase Desiree is going through. She may want back on Major Crimes in another few months. You may not be in her plans. I wondered how you would feel about that.”

“I’d be very unhappy,” Mitch replied. “But you have to accept what the people you love want to do. Otherwise it’s not love.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Absolutely. I’m totally gaga over her.”

“And how does she feel?”

“You’ll have to ask her that.”

“I already did.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me to mind my own damned business.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her.”

The Deacon let out a short laugh. “You don’t worry about the differences?”

“When I’m with her, I don’t worry about anything.”

“And your folks. How do they feel about it?”

“They’re just thrilled that I’ve met someone who makes me happy.”

Mitch could hear Des calling them now from down the beach, see the beam of her flashlight. He waved his beam in return, and she caught up with them, clad in the same heavy sweater that Mitch had lent to Takai.

“Bella’s cooking the greens,” she announced. “Ready to head back?”

“I am,” the Deacon said. “How about you, Mitch?”

“Absolutely.”

They started back, Des sneaking quick, nervous glances at the two of them. “So, did you two have your man-to-man talk?”

“Well, we did talk,” the Deacon replied solemnly. “And we’re both men. So I guess the answer to your question is yes.”

Delighted, she squeezed in between them, hooking one arm inside her father’s and the other inside Mitch’s. “Why does this ratty old sweater of yours reek of perfume?”

Mitch told her.

“What did that girl do, pour a whole bottle over herself and roll around in it naked?”

“Something like that.”

“You are so lucky I’m not the suspicious type,” Des said to him sweetly.

“Wait, you are the suspicious type.”

“That’s right, I am,” she shot back, laughing wickedly. It was a laugh that Mitch had never heard come out of her before. Sheer relief-she’d been dreading this meeting with her father even more than she’d let on.

“What’s that up there at the edge of the water, Mitch?” the Deacon spoke up, as his flashlight beam glanced over a large lumpy shape ahead of them.

“Another seal beached itself.” Mitch aimed his light on it. “Usually it only happens in February, but-”

But it was not a seal. Not unless it was a seal wearing a soggy flannel shirt and waterlogged jeans.

The Deacon flipped the body over, ignoring the salt water foaming over his shiny shoes. It was a woman’s body, and when Des got a good look at her she let out a startled gasp.

“Know her?” the Deacon asked.

“I do,” Des said. “Her name was Melanie Zide.”