The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 16

  It was a Saturday. Billy made a couple of calls, then guessed correctly that they were in Cohasset at the seaside home. They wouldn’t expect us. We drove through the traffic down the peninsula and found the address. The house looked more like a small hotel. Gleaming white columns punctuated a porch that encircled the entire structure. The brown cedar shakes were traditional New England, and set the place off with pomp and dignity against the blue backdrop of Boston Harbor. I was sure there was a dock and proper boathouse hiding behind it all.

  Bingo. Shasta’s Mercedes was parked in the driveway.

  A young Latina answered the front door. She was dressed in a black fabric, lacy collar, white belt at the waist and even the little cap the proper maid wears on the crest of her head. She identified herself as Bettina. Her English was impeccable.

  When Billy flashed his badge and asked for the lady of the house, the Latina pushed the door almost shut in our faces. I could hear her communicating our request to Melanie Shipley. Then the door creaked just a bit and widened to accept us. Melanie looked like a Neiman Marcus model. Mature, but stunning. Her blond hair was coiffed to the max, hanging gracefully over her shoulders and running halfway down her back. She wore a crisp pink blouse, loose at the waist, but offering a generous view of her considerable cleavage. The slacks were raw silk, an off-white, and tailored to show off a figure that was probably sculpted by a personal trainer. Nails, pedicure, jewelry that looked like pure De Beer’s. Even this early in the day, she wore beige stilettoes. If there was anything about her that wasn’t perfect, I didn’t know what it was. Billy formally introduced us, and smiling radiantly, she offered a gracious hand to each.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “let’s go into the living room. It will certainly be more comfortable than standing in this drafty hall.”

  She waved her hand and the dark haired girl disappeared into the back of the house.

  “Ms. Shipley, we certainly don’t wish to bother you. Is Mr. Shipley at home?”

  “No, he is out at the moment,” she said curtly.

  Billy went on, “Now your daughter . . . ”

  Just then Shasta came into the room. She was definitely her mother’s girl, the hair, the smile, even the tone in her voice. She was casually dressed and blossoming. I remembered Todd’s description of her the first time they met at Hull’s Kitchen. “Knocked me out right from the get go.” I took one more look at her and understood all too well. Shasta sat down next to her mother. Indeed, they could have almost been twins.

  Bettina returned with in a sterling silver tray sporting a coffee urn, a small pitcher of cream and a serving bowl with neat little sugar cubes. There were several varieties of cookies spread on a crystal plate. I recognize Chessmen from Pepperidge Farm. I love those damned things, but I cautioned myself to mind my manners. I was reaching as delicately as possible when Shasta started the conversation. At least I guess that’s what we were calling it. Melanie thanked the attentive servant and told her to take the rest of the day off.

  “Look, let’s leave my mother out of this. I’m the one you want to talk to. She doesn’t know anything. I’ll sit here for a few minutes and try to be helpful, but I’m meeting Todd and some people at the beach. So make it quick.”

  “I understand you and Todd had dinner at DOM’S down in Little Italy last week.”

  Melanie looked at her and shook her head. “What did I tell you, Shasta? We do not associate with those people.”

  Shasta glanced away from her mother and sighed. “Sorry Mom, but I am twenty-three years old and it was dinner, Mom. Just dinner.”

  “We also recovered a cell phone from Mr. Carmine Estera. You had called him just before an attempted assault on Mr. Dombroski and his friend Eleisha Mountcastle.”

  Shasta looked confused.

  “What? I don’t know any Esteras and I surely didn’t call him on my cell. Your people made a serious mistake.”

  I guess she’d learned that haughty thing from her mother, but she damned sure pulled it off without any trouble.

  I watched her carefully. I can usually spot a lie before it breaks the liar’s lips. It didn’t fit. Neither her posture, nor her voice, suggested she was telling anything other than the truth.

  “Shut up, Shasta,” he mother barked, “don’t say another word until we get our attorney.”

  “Mom, we don’t need him. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The iron lady spoke again, “Gentlemen, I must ask you to leave. If you come back, make sure you have a warrant. My daughter and I do not wish to continue with this intrusion.”

  Billy sat up straight. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket pulling out a folded document and a laminated card with the Miranda Rights printed in bold letters.

  “In fact, I do. . . have a warrant. Shasta Shipley, you are under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy to murder the Bridgeton family. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything can and will say will be used against you . . .”

  That was as far as he got. Ms. Shipley took a small box from the end table. She opened it and her hand held a hammerless chrome Ruger .22. She pointed it first at Billy, then included me in her sweep.

  “Mom, what the hell is going on? I told you I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know, Sweetheart, but someone else did.”

  I heard footsteps behind me. It was Oscar. He was pressing the barrel of a Glock .40 to the back of Billy’s head.

  “I’m sorry, Honey. It had to be done. It’s for you . . . for all of us. We’re the Shipleys, not some white trailer trash that doesn’t have two dimes to rub together. Go upstairs. Your mother and I will take care of this.”

  “Daddy, you didn’t . . .”

  “Just shut up and do what I tell you. Pull their car around to the back. We’ll talk later.”

  Shasta got off the sofa. She stuck her palm out and Billy handed her the keys. Her head dropped to her chest and the tears formed dark stains on her top. She dragged, but she obeyed.

  “Detective,” Oscar said quietly, “use two fingers and remove your sidearm from its holster. Place it delicately on the table in front of you.”

  Billy did as instructed. Melanie picked it up gingerly and stuffed it between the cushions on the couch. She put the small pistol in her pocket and stood.

  “I am sorry, Gentlemen, but Oscar is quite right. We are not trailer trash, nor will we ever be.”

  I wasn’t too sure about that, but I was in no position to argue the point.