“You got nothing to worry about. Just sit right here next to me. These folks want to talk to us, that’s all.”
Toni returned now with Calvin, who was clutching a fresh can of Bud.
He popped it open and took a thirsty gulp. “What’s all of this fuss?”
“Have you been watching the news?” Yolie asked him.
“Naw, I was playing around on my laptop.”
“Watching that filthy online porn of yours again,” Chantal said reproachfully. “It’s sick, you ask me.”
“Who’s asking you?” he shot back, bristling. “You’re just jealous because there ain’t no man alive wants to look at you that way no more.”
“Please shut up,” Jamella begged them wearily. “Both of you.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up in my own son’s home,” Chantal huffed. “Tell him to shut up—insulting me to my face that way.”
Lightning flashed outside the glass walls, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. The household lights flickered but stayed on.
Toni said, “He was watching online porn, Loo. I could see it on his screen through the window.”
Calvin shrugged his shoulders. “So what? That’s no crime, is it?”
“No, it is not,” Yolie said to him. “But murder is.”
His eyes widened. “Who’s talking about murder?”
“Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin are dead, Mr. Jameson,” the Deacon informed him. “Someone just shot them in the parking lot of White Sand Beach.”
“Dang…” Calvin exhaled slowly, glancing over at Rondell and Clarence. They sat there in tense silence, staring down at their hands. “Hey, where’s Tyrone at?”
“He’s out getting me some ice cream,” Jamella answered in a small voice. “He’s been gone for over an hour.”
“Don’t take but five minutes to get to that ice cream parlor you like.”
“I know that, Popsy.”
Calvin frowned. “I’m not liking the sound of this at all.…”
“Don’t you be thinking what you’re thinking,” Chantal said to him. “My boy wouldn’t kill nobody.”
Des’s cell phone rang on her belt. She answered it and listened to the voice on the other end, then rang off and said, “That was Oly. Tyrone’s home. He just passed through the gate.”
“Well, praise the Lord for that,” Chantal said.
Des heard the slam of a car door outside, then the front door to the house open and close.
“I’m back, girl!” Tyrone called out from the entry hall. “Got your pistachio for you! Yo, what’s up with those police cars parked out in our?…” He trailed off as he arrived in the living room and saw all of them. Stood frozen there in a tank top and spandex shorts, his giant tattooed muscles bulging, rain drops glistening on his shaved head. In one hand he held a bag from Clancy Muldoon’s ice cream parlor, in the other his car keys.
“Good evening, Tyrone,” Des said to him quietly.
“Evening, Trooper Mitry,” he responded guardedly. “Who’s the suit?”
“The suit happens to be my father, Deputy Superintendent Mitry. He and I were having dinner together when I got the call.”
“What call? You got some news for us about Kinitra?”
“They’re not here about Kinitra,” Rondell informed his brother somberly.
“Well, then what’s going on? Somebody tell me, will you?”
Jamella swallowed, her eyes puddling with tears. “Baby, where have you been all of this time?”
“I told y’all I’d be gone for a while. Was starting to feel like a caged tiger. Needed to take a drive and clear my head. You heard me say so. You and Cee both. Right, Cee?”
“True that,” Clarence acknowledged. “I heard you.”
“Where did you drive to, Tyrone?” Des asked.
“What difference does that make?”
“Please answer the question,” Yolie said to him.
“Up into the hills by that Devil’s Hopyard waterfall. Man, it is peaceful up there. I could listen to that waterfall all night long.”
“Did anyone see you there?” Yolie asked.
“See me? How would I know? I was just kicking it. Minding my own business—until it started to pour down rain. So I came back to town, got my girl’s pistachio and here I am.”
“I called you a million times on your cell,” Rondell said. “Why didn’t you pick up?”
“Didn’t feel like it.” Tyrone’s voice had a definite edge now. “And I’m all done answering questions. Somebody tell me what’s going on right this goddamned minute.”
“Stewart Plotka and his lawyer got themselves shot in the parking lot of White Sand Beach while you were out,” Yolie informed him.
Tyrone seemed genuinely shocked. He breathed in and out for a long moment before he said, “Are they … dead?”
Yolie nodded her head.
“Wait, wait…” Tyrone looked around at everyone. “Y’all think I shot them?”
“Did you?” Yolie asked him.
“No, ma’am. Wasn’t me. You got to believe me.”
“I don’t got to do anything—except get to the truth. Tell me, do you own a handgun?”
He looked at Des and said, “You know I do. I told you I keep a Glock 19 for our protection.”
“Where do you keep it?” Yolie asked him.
“In our bedroom. It’s in my nightstand.”
“Let’s go get it, okay?”
“Not a problem.”
“Hold on a second,” Rondell cautioned him. “Perhaps we had ought to contact your lawyer before we proceed any further.”
“I don’t need no lawyer, little man. I didn’t do anything.”
Yolie went with Tyrone to fetch his gun. Not one word was said while they were out of the room. Everyone just waited in taut silence as the rain whipped against the glass walls.
When they returned Yolie was empty-handed.
And Tyrone had a stricken expression on his face. “My Glock’s gone.”
“When did you last see it?” Des asked him.
“This morning, I guess. When I was fetching my shades out of the drawer.”
“Do you generally keep the weapon loaded?”
“Hell, yeah. Don’t do you no good if it’s empty.”
“Did you have any visitors today?” Toni asked him.
He shook his shaved head at her. “Just y’all.”
“So whoever lifted it, assuming someone did lift it…”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Either lives here or snuck onto the premises,” Toni concluded.
“I fixed that hole in our fence,” Clarence spoke up defensively. “Wired a board over it.”
Des mulled this over, her mind working it, working it. “Are there any other guns in the house?” she asked, her gaze boring in on Clarence.
“What are you looking at me for?” he demanded.
“This is a homicide investigation, son,” the Deacon said in a calm, measured voice. “Best get it all out now.”
“Okay, yeah, I’ve got a Glock of my own,” Clarence admitted grudgingly. “Only, it’s not exactly registered or what have you.”
“Where did you get it?” Yolie asked him.
“A friend loaned it to me.”
Toni let out a snort. “A friend?”
“Go and get it, Clarence.” Yolie nodded at Toni to tag along as he went loping out of the room.
When they returned Toni was wearing a pair of white latex evidence gloves and holding a Glock 19 with a pencil she’d poked into its barrel.
“Has it been fired recently?” Yolie asked her.
Toni shook her head. “Smells fresh as a daisy, Loo. And the clip’s full.” She yanked an evidence bag from the pocket of her rain slicker, tucked the Glock carefully inside and then stuffed it back in her pocket.
Slowly, each and everyone’s eyes returned to Tyrone Grantham.
“I’m telling you, I’m totally innocent,” he insisted angrily. “I didn�
�t shoot nobody. I didn’t rape nobody. I didn’t do nothing. Go on, tell ’em, baby. You believe me, don’t you?”
Jamella sat there in silence, tears spilling from her eyes.
Tyrone let out a gasp. “My God, you don’t believe me.…”
“I believe you, big man,” Rondell spoke up.
Tyrone shook his head at him. “No, you don’t. I can see it in your eyes, little brother. In all of your eyes. You all think I been forcing myself on that sweet little girl. And that I took my gun and capped those two people. You actually think I’d do those things.”
“What I think,” Yolie said, “is that we need to continue this conversation in official surroundings.”
“What, you’re charging me?” he demanded.
“No, but you are a person of interest and we need to have a talk. You have the right to have your attorney present.”
“He’s in New York.”
“I’ll call him right now,” Rondell said hurriedly. “He’ll have Yale’s best criminal defense attorney here from New Haven in thirty minutes.”
“Tell him the attorney will find us at the Troop F barracks in Westbrook,” Yolie informed Rondell.
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
There was a loud tapping now on the French doors over next to the fireplace. Des turned and spotted Mitch standing out there on the halogen-lit patio in the pouring rain. He was not alone. Winston Lash was with him.
She went to the door and let them in. Both men wore hooded rain jackets but their legs were soaking wet. “Mitch, what are you doing here?”
“We thought we’d get in out of the rain,” he replied, grinning at her in that boyish, maddening way of his. “Hey, we’re not interrupting anything, are we?”
CHAPTER 14
“DOES THIS SORT OF thing happen often?” Chet asked as Mitch came sprinting back inside with their rain-drenched, semi-raw slab o’ salmon.
Five more minutes. Just five more minutes on the grill and it would have been toothsome and smoky good. But, no, the torrents of rain had outraced him. This was what he got for his loyalty. This was how Jim Cantore repaid him.
Mitch peeled off his rain slicker as a bolt of lightning crackled overhead, followed by a booming clap of thunder. His lights flickered. Uh-oh … “Yeah, we get these storms all the time, Pop. The bad news is that out here on the island we almost always—”
“No, I meant Desiree dashing off at a moment’s notice.”
“Afraid so. That’s what happens when the love of your life is sworn personnel. Any minute the phone may ring and out the door she goes.” Mitch set the platter of cold, wet fish down on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room, where his folks were huddled on the love seat with Clemmie and Quirt, all four of them looking a teensy bit spooked. It was a violent storm. The wind was howling. The surf was crashing against the rocks. His valiant little cottage was shuddering. “Listen, I hate to say this but I have to take off, too.”
“Take off for where?” Chet demanded.
“I have to go see a friend.”
“Right now?”
“I’m afraid so, Pop.”
“But what about dinner?”
“We can eat when I get back. I won’t be gone long.”
Outside, there was another snap, crackle, pop of lightning—followed by a deafening cannonade of thunder. And this time the power went out, plunging the house into total darkness.
“I’m afraid this happens all the time, too.” Mitch fetched the kitchen matches from over by the fireplace and started lighting his oil lamps. “We almost always lose power out here when we have a thunderstorm. It’s nothing to be concerned about. You just won’t be able to use the water, as in flush the toilet. My well pump runs on electricity. So does the oven, for that matter.” Mitch paused, furrowing his brow. “I guess this dinner party has to rate as an epic disaster.”
“Nonsense, we’re having a terrific time, sweetheart,” Ruth said bravely. “This is fun. It’s like camping out.”
“You’re a good sport, Mom.”
“She’s always been a good sport,” Chet said. “That’s why I’ve kept her around. That, and she has one sa-weet tuchos.”
“Chester, behave yourself!”
“Like I said, I won’t be gone long. Mom, if the power comes back on you can finish the salmon in the oven. I would set the temperature at around—”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been baking salmon since the 1970s.”
“Right, right. I forgot who I was talking to. If you guys get cold you can build a fire in the fireplace. There’s plenty of seasoned wood. Kindling’s over in that crate. Flue’s open. You know how to build a fire, don’t you, Pop?”
“Of course I do. I was a Boy Scout. Remember when I was in the Scouts, Ruthie?”
“I hadn’t met you yet, dear.”
“Sure, you had.”
“No, I hadn’t.”
“But we went to the Jamboree together.”
“Chester, that wasn’t me.”
“Well, then who was it?”
“How would I know?”
“And help yourselves to more wine,” Mitch said, topping off their glasses.
“Thanks, I believe I will.” Chet took a sip. “Maybe I’ll get shnockered and make a pass at your old lady.”
“Chester!…”
“Hey, what happens on Big Sister stays on Big Sister,” Mitch said as he got back into his slicker. Then he dashed out into the pouring rain to his truck.
A crackle of lightning lit up the night sky as he piloted the Studey slowly across the rickety causeway. The angry surf was foaming up and over the wooden planking. Twice since he’d moved out to Big Sister whole sections of the causeway had been washed away by violent storms, stranding Mitch and the other residents out there for days. But he’d seen no reason to bother his parents with that worrisome little detail.
His windshield wipers could barely keep up with the rain as he slogged his way through the Nature Preserve. When he made it to Old Shore Road he was happy to see plenty of lights on. The mainland still had electricity. He headed straight for Turkey Neck, where the news crews and gawkers had all but vanished from the Grantham place. The storm had sent them running for cover. The storm and the small matter of that double homicide over on White Sand Beach.
He found Winston Lash and the Joshua girls seated at their kitchen table dining on fried chicken and potato salad. The kitchen windows were closed against the windblown rain, which was really too bad. That horrid smell still hadn’t gone away.
“Pull up a chair, Brubaker!” Winston called out cheerily as Mitch stood there dripping on their floor. “Chantal from next door brought us a ton of grub. Now there is a handful of woman. Two handfuls.”
“I’m good, thanks. I have dinner waiting for me at home.”
“What brings you out in such awful weather, Mitch?” Luanne asked, nibbling daintily on a chicken wing. “Did poor Callie phone you?”
“Why, what’s wrong with Callie?”
“She’s up in her room weeping,” Lila answered breathlessly. “Mr. June Bond has informed her that he’ll be sailing with the tide tomorrow and never coming back.”
“Just between us, she’s better off without him,” Mitch confided.
Luanne shot a knowing look at him. “It’s Bonita, of course. It was only a matter of time before that steamy little tramp set her sights on him.”
“Are you sure you won’t join us, Mitch?” Lila asked.
“Positive. I just wanted to ask Winston a quick question.”
“Why sure, Brubaker. Fire away.”
“Have you seen your buddy lately?”
The old fellow looked at Mitch blankly. “My buddy?”
“Last night, when we were burrowing through that hole in the fence, you told me you had a buddy who shares your appreciation for tender young flesh.” Mitch glanced over at the sisters. “Please pardon my earthiness.”
“Think nothing of it, Mitch. We’ve heard it all,” Lila s
aid, reaching for a drumstick. “That black woman sure can make fried chicken, can’t she, dear?”
“She sure can,” Luanne agreed. “They’re very clever with their hands, you know. And such a musical people.”
“Winston, you told me your buddy understands you.”
The old man toyed with his handlebar moustache, grinning at Mitch devilishly. “You bet. My buddy and I understand each other.”
Luanne looked at him pityingly. “Which ‘buddy’ would this be, Winnie?”
“He may very well be talking about an imaginary friend,” Lila whispered to Mitch.
“That’s exactly what I thought last night. But then I got to thinking about it some more and … Winston, have you seen him this evening?”
“Sure thing, Brubaker.”
“When was this?”
“Just before it started to rain.”
“Where?”
“Out in our backyard.”
Luanne peered at him suspiciously. “What were you doing in our yard?”
“Attending to some personal business.”
“Winnie, were you peeing on those trees again?”
“What if I was?” he replied defiantly. “A man needs to mark his territory. It’s an animal instinct. Tell her, Brubaker. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Winston, what was your friend doing?” Mitch asked him.
“Passing through.”
“Is that what he usually does? Pass through?”
“Sometimes he stops by late at night to watch Callie fling paint on the sun porch in her birthday suit. He told me he can see her plain as day from out there.”
“But tonight you say he was passing through.”
“That’s right.”
“Where was he heading?”
Winston shrugged. “Search me.”
“Well, where does he usually come from?”
“That-a-way.” Winston waved in the direction of the Grantham estate.
“Do you mean the house right next door or Justy Bond’s place?”
“That-a-way,” the old man repeated with maddening vagueness.
“Would you mind showing me?”
“Be happy to, Brubaker. Any time.”
“How about right now?”
“Why, Mitch, we’re in the middle of dinner,” Luanne said.
“And it’s teeming bricks out there,” Lila added.
The Blood Red Indian Summer Page 19