by Sandra Balzo
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Eddie said, lifting the newspaper section he’d been reading. ‘Smacked more of naughty schoolgirl to me.’
Determined not to further criticize Sugar, AnnaLise got up to get a piece of dry toast. ‘So,’ she said, re-taking her chair, ‘how was When Harry Met Sally?’
‘Good,’ Tyler said. ‘There was probably more talking than watching, but I have to hand it to Hart: it’s a good choice as a generational ice-breaker. I’m kind of surprised you weren’t there.’
‘I’d had a long day.’ And too much wine.
‘It wasn’t a late night,’ Tyler said. ‘The movie was over by about a quarter past eleven, I think, and then Dickens left, more or less bringing the party to a close.’
‘Nobody to impress,’ Eddie said a little sourly from behind the newspaper.
My, my, somebody seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.
Not that AnnaLise would let that stop her from making nice, now that her own head was feeling a little better. She picked up her coffee cup. ‘What do you do for a living, Eddie?’
‘Why?’ His voice was sharp as he set aside his reading material.
‘Jesus, take a pill,’ Tyler said, tossing his napkin on the table. ‘She’s just making conversation.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ Eddie held up his hands. ‘I’m just a little touchy. As … well, as interesting and potentially life-changing as this whole situation is, it also feels like a competition.’
‘I get that,’ AnnaLise said. ‘And I’m sorry. But Tyler’s right, I was just making conversation.’
‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry,’ Eddie said, looking sheepish. ‘To answer your question, I’m a dentist.’
‘Oh,’ AnnaLise said, perking up. They’d never had a dentist in the family. Actually, they’d never had anybody in their family besides her, Daisy and Mama. ‘And what about you, Tyler?’
‘Broker.’
‘Real estate has—’
At that moment, Boozer Bacchus came in. Hair disheveled and eyes red, he looked worse than AnnaLise, making her wonder if he’d hit his flask as hard as she had the cabernet. ‘AnnaLise? Can I talk to you in the other room?’
‘Sure.’ AnnaLise scooted back her chair. ‘Excuse me for just a second?’
She followed Bacchus through the hallway and into the Lake Room. ‘Is there something wrong? I mean, besides the obvious?’ She crossed the room to the twenty-foot-wide plywood non-window.
‘I’m afraid I had to run out at dawn to see my dad.’ He seemed apologetic.
‘Heavens, it’s Thanksgiving,’ AnnaLise said. ‘I think you’re entitled. Why? Is Dickens upset you left?’
‘No, in fact, he’s still sleeping, which is why I wanted to show you.’
‘OK …’ AnnaLise wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
‘When I got back a few minutes ago, I decided to go back over the floor in here again. You know, make sure no broken glass was still on it.’ He nodded toward a broom propped next to the fireplace, along with a dustpan and plastic waste basket.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised, given that it was dusk and that monstrosity,’ she pointed at the chandelier above them, ‘can only illuminate so much of the room.’ She picked up the waste basket and shook it, getting a faint rattle for her efforts. ‘Not bad.’
‘Oh, the boys did a fine job last night. Just found a couple small fragments all the way over by the fireplace.’ He reached into his jacket pocket. ‘But this, too.’
Taking her hand and turning it over, he dropped a deadly piece of heavy metal into her open palm.
THIRTEEN
‘A bullet broke the window?’ Even as AnnaLise said it, she glanced reflexively toward the lake, only to be defeated by the plywood blocking the view.
‘I don’t see how else that slug got in here,’ Bacchus said, retrieving a glass from the fireplace mantle and crossing to the bar with it. ‘You?’
‘So it wasn’t the owl.’ AnnaLise was examining the misshapen metal.
Bacchus set the champagne flute down and turned. ‘I never did get a glimpse of it, myself, but from what people said, it was flying away?’
AnnaLise nodded. ‘Unsteadily. I assumed it had been stunned.’
‘Probably scared by the shot, or maybe just caught his dinner,’ Bacchus said, returning to her. ‘A rodent that’s fighting for its life can throw off a fellow’s flight trajectory.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ AnnaLise held up the slug. ‘You said you found this by the fireplace?’
‘Maybe five feet this way, just barely under the edge of the couch there. Like it might’ve hit off the fieldstone and bounced.’
‘It could have killed somebody.’
A nod. ‘It being rifle season, it might’ve been a deer hunter, I suppose.’ Bacchus took the bullet from her. ‘Or maybe some yahoo jus—’
‘Excuse me?’ Nicole Goldstein was at the hall doorway. ‘Have either of you seen Chef Debbie?’
‘Not this morning – yet,’ AnnaLise said, cocking her head at a sound from outside. ‘But I’ve been up for less than an hour.’ It just seemed longer. ‘You, Boozer?’
‘Can’t say that I have, though like AnnaLise here, I haven’t been looking.’
Nicole was nervously plucking at the strings of the apron she’d wrapped around her slim waist and then tied in front. ‘She told me she’d be here by six-thirty to get things started. I’ve done what I can, but …’
Bacchus slipped the slug back into his coat pocket and winked at AnnaLise, before turning to Nicole. ‘Don’t you worry; you and me’ll track her down.’
Taking Bacchus’ gesture to mean they’d keep the shooting between them for now, AnnaLise followed his verbal lead, even as she walked the other way, toward the French doors. ‘You might want to ask Mama and Daisy to pitch in.’
‘Oh, they’re already in the kitchen.’ Nicole said, coloring up. ‘I told them I could handle things, but—’
‘They didn’t listen,’ AnnaLise finished as she cracked open the door. ‘Do yourself a favor and let those two help for now. Debbie can fight them for her kitchen when she gets here.’
A relieved smile crossed the girl’s face before she scurried after Bacchus.
Stepping out onto the patio, AnnaLise had a sunlit view of the deck of Bradenham. A figure moved across it, leaned down to adjust something, then retreated to the other end of the structure.
The sound of a gunshot rang out across the water.
‘Roy Smoaks!’
The ‘yahoo’ in question turned to face AnnaLise.
‘Morning, missy,’ Smoaks said as she crossed the wooden bridge that connected the house to the cantilevered deck while still allowing the lake trail to pass under it.
The man was carefully placing empty bottles of various sizes – and proofs – atop a table at the far end of the deck. ‘You folks sure are early risers across the bay. Was that you I saw playing “kerplunk” at the fishing pier this fine Thanksgiving morn’?’
‘A group is hiking the lake trail,’ AnnaLise said, not having time for whatever version of skipping stones ‘kerplunk’ might be. A deer rifle was propped up against the deck railing and she reached out to touch the barrel. It felt warm. ‘And I’m hoping you’re not going to shoot them. Accidentally, of course.’
The man turned. ‘Me? Now whyever would I do that? I don’t have nothing against those people.’
‘The “bastard off-spring,” as you put it?’
‘Potentially, yes. That would be them, all right.’ Smoaks held the whiskey bottle up to the light, then tipped it to his lips. Wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, he continued: ‘What with my grandson out of the running, it’s no skin off my grassy ass who gets what when that sonovabitch finally goes to his maker.’
Apparently Smoaks hadn’t forgiven the ‘sonovabitch’ for instigating the campaign that gave the town a mixed-use condominium development where the White Tail Club had stood, as well as a new police chief – one t
hat wasn’t a Smoaks. Though on the plus side of the ledger, the old man should be grateful that it had also resulted in his ‘new’ grandson, Bobby Bradenham, being elected mayor.
‘A big window was shot out at the house,’ AnnaLise said, wondering how Ema Bradenham would feel about this charmer as a guest.
‘Is that so?’ Smoaks shielded his eyes to look east across the lake. ‘Well, sure enough, ’less Hart’s boarding up the place for the winter.’ He laughed, showing a gold-capped canine tooth.
AnnaLise found it hard to believe the man was just now noticing the plywood patch, especially if he’d had his binoculars leveled on Hart’s Head as she’d suspected the night before. Still, she had no intention of letting Smoaks know what she was thinking. ‘Listen, it’s going to be a very long weekend, as it is, with a lot of low-landers wandering around cluelessly. We’re certain it was an accident, but if you could just be care—’
‘You are, now?’ The man leaned in close to retrieve the deer rifle from the railing and took the opportunity to run his eyes up and down her body in the process. ‘I mean, “certain” it was an accident?’
The reporter willed herself not to gag on the sweet, stale smell that wafted off him. She’d been too young to have dealings with the older Smoaks, but his son Rance had ruled the town through intimidation – bullying, really. As Mama had said, the rotten apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree, though it apparently stopped short of Bobby, thank the Lord. Nurture versus nature, but it boggled AnnaLise’s mind that her friend was related to this … person.
‘Whether it was you or some hunter who broke the window, I sincerely hope it wasn’t on purpose.’ She backed up a half step before turning away. ‘But I’m going to mention it to Bobby, nonetheless.’
‘Tattlin’ to the mayor, huh?’ he said to her back. ‘Too bad that fag of a police chief is out of town, or you—’
AnnaLise pivoted and slapped him hard, her weight moving forward and through, like a tennis stroke.
Smoaks staggered back, still holding onto the rifle.
AnnaLise started forward, hoping to grab it, but Smoaks took his hand away from his cheek and raised the rifle. ‘You little bitch! Who—’
‘What the hell is going on?’
Bobby was standing by the open door to the house. AnnaLise backed away from Smoaks, one step at a time, until she was safely standing next to her friend.
‘He shot out Dickens window last night.’
‘She hit me!’ Smoaks said, rifle dangling now. The left side of his face was aglow, like he’d suffered wind-burn.
‘He called Chuck a “fag.”’
‘For God’s sake, Roy.’ Bobby rubbed at his forehead. ‘Rance lost, Chuck won, and it was years ago. Leave it be.’
‘Who are you to tell—’ The old man broke off, the obstinance that had been on his face replaced by a more calculating expression. ‘You’re right. Water over the dam.’
‘Good.’ Bobby turned to AnnaLise. ‘Now what’s this about a window?’
‘A huge one, facing the lake.’ She pointed to the Hart’s Head across the way. ‘At first we thought an owl had hit it just right – or wrong – but this morning we found a bullet.’
Bobby’s forehead wrinkled and he flinched like it hurt. ‘Where?’
‘In front of the fireplace.’ She peered at him. ‘Are you hungover?’ AnnaLise was a fine one to talk, given her wine consumption of the night before. But the fact was that Bobby had gone through a tough patch and AnnaLise dearly hoped he wasn’t self-medicating.
Her friend ignored the question and addressed Smoaks. ‘Did you have anything to do with this?’
‘Nope.’ The old man crossed his heart with his non-gun-toting hand. ‘Scout’s honor.’
Bobby didn’t seem to quite buy his new grandfather’s denial, but turned back to her. ‘It is deer season, AnnaLise.’
‘But this is private land,’ she protested.
‘Like that stops ’em.’ Smoaks hawked up a loogie and spat it out over the railing with enough loft to send it into the lake. ‘Probably somebody’s last ammo when the sun went down.’
Deer were most active after sundown, AnnaLise knew, supposedly because of their acute night vision. Though maybe the animals were just smart enough to know that darkness meant safety, hunting being illegal from a half hour after sunset to thirty minutes before sunrise.
But then, so was poaching on private land.
‘Weren’t you here?’ she asked Bobby. ‘Don’t you know what your guest was doing?’
‘Sure. We had an early dinner—’
Smoaks interrupted. ‘Being from the “land of the early-bird special” now, a man gets hungry.’
‘—and a few drinks,’ Bobby continued. ‘I must have fallen asleep on the couch.’
Sounded more like passing out than sleeping, but AnnaLise realized she was getting nowhere. ‘Listen, I need to get back, it being Thankgiving and all.’ She sniffed at the warm air escaping from the open door from the house. ‘Your turkey isn’t in the oven yet?’
‘We’re just doing burgers on the grill.’ Bobby nodded at the sleek stainless steel mini-kitchen across the way from them.
‘Not much of a Thanksgiving dinner,’ AnnaLise said, but stopped short of inviting the two to their own feast across the lake. Talk about a recipe for disaster.
‘You know how we mens are,’ Smoaks said with a grin and a shrug. ‘Ease trumps tradition every time.’
To be honest, as the product of a female household, AnnaLise didn’t know how ‘mens’ were. Especially one like Smoaks. ‘Will you both,’ she risked a quick glance at the elder, ‘promise me, no shooting across the lake?’
‘Scout’s honor,’ again from Smoaks, this time accompanied by a toothy – if, to AnnaLise’s eye, insincere – grin.
She shrugged and started down the stairs. ‘OK, I’m leaving. You two behave.’
‘Scout’s—’
‘Enough!’
Unlike Bradenham, Hart’s Head smelled like Thanksgiving turkey when AnnaLise stepped into the foyer.
Why come all the way from Florida for the holiday, AnnaLise wondered, if Smoaks and Bobby weren’t even going to observe it? Hamburgers for Thanksgiving dinner? It was near sacrilegious.
Closing the door behind her, she hesitated, her hand still on the knob. Might there be another reason Smoaks had chosen this particular long weekend to visit? He’d said himself that he’d heard about Dickens’ get-together for his ‘bastard offspring’ down in Florida. Could the former chief’s resentment be so deep that he’d made the trip to Sutherton just to disrupt the gathering?
‘Thank God, you’re—’ Boozer Baccus had entered the foyer at a gallop, probably in response to the sound of the front door opening and now he slid to a stop. ‘I’m sorry – I thought you were that chef.’ The bullet found in the Lake Room was seemingly lost in Bacchus’ more immediate gastronomical concerns.
‘Debbie’s still not here?’ The turkey roasting must be Nicole’s work, bless her. And her two mothers helpers.
But AnnaLise was thinking about the overnight bag she’d seen in Dickens’ bedroom the night before.
‘Not unless the woman is invisible. Don’t suppose you have a phone number for her?’
AnnaLise thought she knew where to find one – and, perhaps, the chef, herself. But hoping to avoid having to personally crash Dickens’ pajama party, she said, ‘No, but how about Patrick? Might he have hired her?’
‘The lawyer? No. He’s not much use except for writing letters and checks.’ Bacchus was rubbing his chin. ‘Well, that leaves just the one person.’
‘Dickens.’
‘I hated to wake him until now, but the boss is the one who found Chef Debbie, so he’ll have her number.’
One way, if not the other, AnnaLise thought. As Boozer started toward the master bedroom, she grabbed his arm. ‘I’d knock first.’
Boozer stopped. ‘I always do, but is there a special reason this time?’
‘It’
s just that I saw a woman’s overnight bag last night when Dickens asked me – or Nicole, really – to put a glass of wine in his room. I thought it might be Debbie’s.’
‘Well, then,’ Boozer said, continuing his trajectory, ‘she should be easy to find.’
He knocked on the door as AnnaLise shrank back. Then he turned the knob.
‘Wait,’ she whispered. ‘Should you burst in on them?’
Now Bacchus looked confused. ‘For sure, it wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘That Dickens did the chef?’
‘That the lieutenant did somebody.’ Bacchus entered the room.
Anybody. ‘Point taken,’ AnnaLise said to his back with a nervous giggle as a tap-tap of footsteps approached from the direction of the kitchen.
Dickens Hart’s biological daughter was trying very hard to grow a thick skin. Her father was – as Joy put it and AnnaLise had already concluded – a pig. Need to get used to that.
‘AnnaLise? It’s about time you got up.’
Recognizing the voice, AnnaLise turned, hoping to deflect her mother as Bacchus dealt with Dickens Hart. And … whomever. ‘Morning, Daisy. You’re wearing an apron.’
‘Because I’m cooking, of course. Or helping Phyllis to do so. Poor Nicole was running herself ragged trying to keep up. We offered to get the turkey started while Boozer tracked down Hart’s chef.’
She was trying to look past AnnaLise into the room. ‘Is she in there?’
AnnaLise didn’t envy a chef who tried to take back control of a kitchen once Mama had gotten her convenience-food claws into it. But then she didn’t envy a chef who was ‘in there’ with Dickens Hart, either.
‘It’s fine, if not,’ Daisy continued. ‘To tell you the truth, we’re all better off with Phyllis cooking rather than all the time bitching—’ She slapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry.’
Sweet Daisy wasn’t always quite so sweet anymore. Whether that shift was simply a function of getting older and feeling entitled to say what she thought, or some sort of side effect of the memory problems, AnnaLise hadn’t decided.
Bacchus re-emerged into the hallway.
‘No sign of the chef?’ Relieved when he wordlessly shook his head, AnnaLise turned back to Daisy. ‘So maybe you should go back to the kitchen and tell—’