“I’m sorry, ladies, but this is really important.”
“Very well. But wait a second…” Luanne grabbed her napkin, leaned over and wiped the fried chicken grease from Winston’s moustache and mouth.
Winston beamed at her. “When you bend over that way I can almost see your boobies.”
“You’re as bad as a schoolboy, you old fool.”
Winston got up out of his chair and drew himself up to his full height, his shoulders thrown back. “Shall I lead on, Brubaker?”
“Please do.”
Lila fetched the old fellow’s yellow rain slicker from the mudroom and helped him on with it, zipping it up to his throat.
“I’ll be back soon, girls,” he announced in a booming voice. Then he went charging out the kitchen door into the pouring rain, striding gallantly across the soggy lawn toward the trees where the fence stood.
Mitch had to run to catch up with him.
CHAPTER 15
“GOOD TO SEE YOU again, Yolie,” Mitch exclaimed as he and Winston Lash stood there dripping all over Tyrone’s polished hardwood floor.
“Back at you, Mitch,” Yolie responded grimly.
Toni the Tiger marched right up to him and said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Berger. I’m Toni Tedone.”
Mitch smiled and said, “Of course you are.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?”
“My, you certainly have a pair of big ones,” Winston observed, his eyes zeroing right on her ta-tas.
“What did you just—?”
“Don’t mind Winston,” Mitch said as Des studied him, wondering what in the hell he and the old man were doing here. He glanced around at the very tense group of people who were gathered there, his gaze settling on little Rondell. “Hey, man, how are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you,” Rondell answered quietly.
“I love that shirt you have on.”
Rondell looked down at his Hawaiian shirt doubtfully. “Do you really mean that?”
“I do. It’s totally you.”
“Good evening, Chantal,” Winston said. “The girls and I were just enjoying some of your delicious fried chicken.”
“Glad you liked it,” Chantal murmured, seated there next to Monique.
Des said, “We’re, um, into something kind of heavy right now, Mitch. What’s up?”
“Maybe something, maybe nothing. And if it’s nothing I apologize in advance for barging in like this. You know how I hate to interrupt an official inquiry.”
Yolie nodded her head. “Oh, I do. You’ve only done it, what, six times?”
“Actually, I think this might make eight,” Des said.
“Say what you came to say,” the Deacon interjected with quiet authority.
“Thanks, I will,” Mitch said, scratching his curly head of hair furiously. It was a thing he did sometimes when he was trying to collect his thoughts. Reminded Des of an inquisitive organ grinder’s monkey. “Last night, when I was leading Winston home through the woods after that unfortunate incident at the party—”
“I’m all done apologizing for that,” Clarence blustered at him.
Mitch held up his hands as a gesture of surrender. “We’re good. This isn’t about that. As we approached the hole in the fence Winston started telling me about a buddy of his who happens to share his predilection for lovely young ladies. At the time, I thought Winston was talking about, well, an imaginary friend. Given what we know about his current state of mind.” Mitch glanced over at him. “No offense, Winston.”
“None taken, Brubaker,” Winston assured him.
Clarence frowned. “Brubaker? I thought his name was Berger.”
“Shut up, Cee,” Tyrone growled.
“But here’s the thing,” Mitch continued. “Winston just informed me that he ran into his buddy this very evening—shortly before it started to rain.”
Des narrowed her eyes at Mitch. “Where was this?”
“In his backyard. His buddy was cutting through the Joshua property.”
“From where?”
“That’s exactly what I wondered. Winston said he didn’t know. But when I asked him where his buddy lives, he led me right to this place.” Mitch paused, scratching his head again. “I could be way off base here but Winston does like to wander in the night and he did know about that hole in the fence. So here’s what I’m thinking: What if his buddy isn’t imaginary? What if Winston has actually seen the man who made the hole? That would mean he may be able to identify Kinitra’s attacker. Possibly even your White Sand Beach killer. The shooting did take place just before the rain started, correct?”
Yolie nodded. “Correct.”
“Did any witnesses see the shooter drive away?”
“No, they did not,” she answered.
“Possibly because he was on foot,” Mitch suggested. “It’s just a quick scoot from White Sand Beach into the Nature Preserve. And two miles from there to here if you take the footpath at the end of Sour Cherry Lane. Even less than that if you cut through the Joshua sisters’ property and go through that hole in the fence. I’ll bet you could make it in fifteen minutes if you had to.”
“This is all very interesting, Mitch,” Des said tactfully. “But Mr. Lash doesn’t exactly qualify as a credible witness.”
“Still, it’s worth finding out if he can identify someone here, isn’t it?”
Clarence let out a guffaw. “Show that old man a picture of Mr. Barack Obama and he’ll tell you he’s his buddy. Besides, I fixed that hole.”
“Are you talking about that sheet of plywood you wired in place?” Mitch asked him. “Because it took me less than ten seconds to undo the wire with my fingers in the pouring rain. It hardly even slowed us down, did it, Winston?”
Winston didn’t answer him. He was too busy staring across the living room at someone. “Why, there he is!” he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on one man and one man only. “There’s my buddy!”
He was gazing at Calvin Jameson.
“Don’t be looking at me,” Calvin grumbled at him. “Only time I ever seen you was last night when you bit a young lady.”
“You don’t remember me?” Winston seemed hurt by Calvin’s chilly rebuff. “We’ve talked in my yard many times about the blessed beauty of tender young fruit. I like to think we understand each other.”
“Popsy, what is he talking about?” Jamella asked Calvin.
“Don’t ask me. Old man’s sick in the head.”
“Did you happen to go out for a while this evening, Calvin?” Mitch inquired. “Possibly slip through that hole in the fence so Trooper Olsen wouldn’t see you leave by the front gate?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Calvin responded gruffly. “And you’re not the law. I don’t have to answer none of your questions.”
“That’s very true, Mr. Jameson,” Yolie acknowledged. “But you do have to answer mine.”
Calvin looked at her in disbelief. “That old man has Alzheimer’s.”
“Frontotemporal dementia, actually,” Mitch said.
“Are you taking his word over mine?” Calvin demanded.
“I can’t speak for the others,” Mitch said. “But I’m going with the old guy with dementia.”
“You shut up!” Calvin blustered at him. “Who are you to come in here making all of these wild accusations?”
“He’s with me,” Des said. “And I’d advise you to answer his question.”
“Which question?”
“Did you go out earlier this evening?”
Calvin took a long, slow drink from his can of Bud. “The answer is no. I’ve been entertaining myself in the pool house all evening. Downloaded a movie onto my laptop from one of them amateur sites. Bunch of college girls at a frat party having themselves a wild time. Run a check on my computer if you don’t believe me. I’ve been logged on all evening.”
Yolie shook her head at him. “You’ll have to bring something better than that, Mr. Jameson.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you could have downloaded a ninety-minute movie and left it playing on your computer while you took off and came back.”
“Ask the trooper at the gate,” Calvin said easily. “I never left the property. He’ll tell you.”
“See above,” Mitch said. “Re: Hole in the fence.”
“I never left through any hole in any fence,” Calvin insisted. “That’s bull.”
Yolie puffed out her cheeks. “Okay, let’s back this up. Before you walked in that door, Mitch, we were discussing that Mr. Tyrone Grantham had no one to account for his whereabouts at the time of the White Sand Beach shootings. His Glock nine-mil is missing from his nightstand—or so he’s alleging—and the murder weapon happens to be a nine-mil. One of the victims, Stewart Plotka, had a physical altercation with Mr. Grantham that led to Mr. Grantham’s suspension from the NFL. The other victim, Andrea Halperin, who was Mr. Plotka’s lawyer, was on TV this very afternoon demanding a DNA sample from Mr. Grantham as part of the civil case they were pursuing against him. The victims claimed that Mr. Grantham raped Mr. Plotka’s fiancée, Katie O’Brien, three years ago. Meanwhile, Mr. Grantham’s sister-in-law, Kinitra Jameson, is at Middlesex Hospital after her near-fatal drowning early this morning. She is eight weeks pregnant and a physical examination revealed extensive scarring from repeated, forcible sexual contact.” Yolie raised her chin at Mitch. “Real world? Mr. Tyrone Grantham appears to be our chief person of interest. So if you’re offering an alternative scenario I sure would like to hear what it is.”
“I’d like to ask Chantal a question first, if you don’t mind,” Des said, looking over at her. “Are you just going to let them take your son away in handcuffs or are you going to speak up?”
“Speak up?” Chantal blinked at Des in alarm. “Speak up about what?”
“What’s she talking about, Moms?” Tyrone demanded.
Chantal lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.…”
“Yes, you do,” Des said to her sharply. “You asked Mitch to let me know that today was laundry day. What were you trying to tell me?”
Chantal took a deep breath and let it out, her mountainous chest rising and falling. She glanced over at Monique next to her on the sofa, then at Tyrone and Rondell. Then she lowered her eyes again. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
“It sure sounded like something to me,” Mitch said.
“You was mistaken. Wasn’t nothing.”
“Yeah, it was, Chantal.” Monique tugged at the woman’s sleeve. “They talking about them clothes I found in the hamper this morning, remember?”
“Hush, girl.”
“Don’t you remember them clothes, Chantal?”
“Girl, this is serious business. You hush, hear?”
“Whose clothes did you find, Monique?” Des asked gently. “Were they Kinitra’s clothes?”
Chantal’s eyes widened. “Keep your mouth shut, Monique!”
“Let her speak, Mrs. Grantham,” Yolie said. “Or we’ll all be taking a ride to the barracks.”
“Were they Kinitra’s clothes?” Des asked Monique once again.
“N-No, ma’am.” Monique’s voice was trembling. “They was a-a man’s clothes. They was all damp. And there was grass stains all over the knees a-and looked like blood on the shirt.”
“Moms, what is this?” Tyrone demanded to know.
“I still got ’em in the laundry room,” Monique added, trying to be helpful.
“Go with her,” Yolie told Toni.
Toni escorted Monique off to the laundry room. Chantal bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her lips were moving—in silent prayer.
Outside, the hard, windblown rain continued to whip against the glass walls.
Winston moved over toward the huge aquarium, transfixed by Tyrone’s sharks. “Amazing,” he said in childlike awe. “What kind are they?”
Tyrone shot an angry, distracted look at him. “What’d you say?”
“What kind of sharks are they?”
“Black tip reef sharks.”
“They’re positively hypnotic. I must get some of my own.”
“Yeah, you do that, old-timer.”
Toni and Monique returned now, Toni clutching a plastic trash bag in one latex-gloved hand. She set it down on the coffee table.
“Let’s have a look, Sergeant,” Yolie said.
Toni reached into the bag and carefully removed a lime green polo shirt that was speckled with dried blood, then a pair of tan slacks covered with grass stains and more dried blood.
“Are these the items of clothing you brought to Chantal?” Yolie asked Monique.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And why did you do that?”
Monique frowned at her, puzzled. “Sorry?…”
“Because that’s what I taught her to do,” Chantal explained. “Any time she finds something out of the ordinary she brings it to me. She’s fine with the regular wash but with something like grass stains she don’t know whether to pretreat or soak ’em or whatever. Right, hon?”
Monique nodded eagerly. “That’s right, Chantal.”
“Whose clothes are these, Monique?” Des asked.
“I found them in Mr. Calvin’s laundry hamper,” she replied.
Every set of eyes in the room swiveled toward Calvin. In Tyrone’s eyes Des saw pure animal fury. In Rondell’s acute pain.
Jamella gaped at her father in shock. “Popsy, what’s she talking about?”
Outwardly, Calvin couldn’t have been calmer. He took another drink of his beer and set the can down on the coffee table, his hand steady as a rock. “That girl’s simple in the head. All mixed up. Those clothes aren’t mine.”
“A simple DNA test can determine that easily enough,” Yolie said. “It was a warm night. That shirt’s bound to have perspiration on it. Refresh my memory, Sergeant Tedone. Kinitra scraped up her knees pretty good, didn’t she?”
“She sure did, Loo.”
“Mr. Jameson, if that’s her blood on your shirt and pants then you’ll have some explaining to do.”
Calvin sat up a bit straighter, his jaw muscles clenching. “I don’t have to explain a thing. I been in trouble with you people my whole life. You’re always blaming me for every little thing. Never giving me a chance.”
“I’m giving you a chance,” Yolie responded evenly. “Are these your clothes or aren’t they?”
“So what if they are?” he demanded. “And so what if they’re dirty? That’s why I put ’em in the danged hamper.”
“How did those grass and bloodstains get on them?”
Calvin stared at Yolie coldly. “You want to know how they got there?”
“What I’m asking.”
“We had us a party here last night. I had me some fun out on the lawn with a certain young lady, okay?”
“A certain young lady named?…”
“We didn’t exchange no business cards. Her and me got to talking by the pool. Hit it off real fine. The wine was flowing. And one thing led to another, okay?” He tugged at his ear thoughtfully. “Shaniqua, maybe. I do believe her name was Shaniqua. She was a pretty young thing. Blond streaks in her hair.”
Chantal curled her lip at him. “What would a pretty young thing be doing with old trash like you?”
“Having herself a fine time. We made sweet love out on the lawn under the stars. That’s how those grass stains come to be there.”
“And the blood?” Yolie asked him.
“Couldn’t say, miss. I was surprised to see it there myself when I got undressed. She must have scraped her elbows or knees on something. We got going pretty wild there.”
“You are a no good lying punk,” Chantal said in a voice that had turned ice cold. “You are lying right now just like you been lying all along.”
Calvin stared at her long and hard. “You shut your mouth, woman.”
“I won’t shut my mouth! I’ve been keeping quiet for too long. I’m all
done keeping quiet. You are evil, Calvin Jameson. You have been raping that sweet young daughter of yours for months under my son’s roof and you belong in eternal hell!”
Jamella gasped. “Popsy, what is she?…”
“Don’t pay her no mind,” Calvin said dismissively. “The woman’s an old crack whore. You going to listen to her or to me?”
“I can’t speak for the others,” Mitch said. “But I’m going with the crack whore.”
“She’s crazy,” Calvin insisted. “If you believe her, you’re just as crazy as she is.”
“Look me in the eye,” Jamella said to him pleadingly, her eyes huge and shiny. “Look me in the eye and say it isn’t so.”
Calvin looked his older daughter right in the eye and said, “It isn’t so, girl, I swear. Chantal’s just trying to get rid of me. She’s never liked me being around here with y’all. You know that.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Chantal begged Jamella. “He’s lying to you. I’m the one speaking the truth. I saw what I saw.”
“What did you see, Mrs. Grantham?” Yolie asked.
“The two of them together in Glen Cove—maybe five, six weeks ago. Everyone else had gone out on Da Beast for the afternoon. Me, I don’t like that boat. Get seasick soon as I’m out on the water. So I didn’t go. And Kinitra stayed behind to work on her music. So did Calvin, who said he wanted to take himself a nap. I-I was walking down the hallway, minding my own business, when I heard a little cry coming from the den. Looked in and he had her cornered in there. His pants was down around his ankles and h-he was making her do him from down on her knees. I let out a scream. Poor Kinitra went running to her room, crying her eyes out. And this thug zipped up his pants, yanked a huge knife from his back pocket and held it right to my throat. He said he’d kill me if I ever breathed one word about it to you, Jamella. Sneak into my room while I slept and slit my throat ear to ear. I-I didn’t doubt for one second he’d do it either. That man is pure thug. I know he’s your daddy and you love him, but he would have killed me. So I-I couldn’t tell you.”
“Moms, why didn’t you tell me?” Tyrone demanded to know.
Chantal heaved her chest. “I was afraid for you. You already got so much trouble in your life. You don’t need no more. I was doing what I should have done for you when you were young—except I was too messed up back then. I was protecting you, understand? Your little brother, too.”
The Blood Red Indian Summer Page 20