The Cold Blue Blood

by David Handler

  CHAPTER 10

  IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER eight when Des started up her cruiser and eased it across the bridge toward Big Sister.

  As she was pulling up in the driveway Mandy Havenhurst, the creamy blond beer heiress, sidled over toward her wearing a buttery soft suede shirt that looked as if it cost her as much as Des earned in a month. Another one like Dolly Seymour, Des reflected. A product of privilege and good looks. Not to mention dangerously unstrung. Face it, the only reason Mandy Havenhurst hadn’t served any time for her crimes against the men in her life was that she was rich and she was white. Des wondered how Bud Havenhurst slept nights. Herself, she wouldn’t sleep a wink lying in bed next to this particular lemon cupcake.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Mandy exclaimed, showing her a broad, insincere smile. “Are you here to see me?”

  Des shut off her engine and got out. “Not right now, no.”

  “The reason I asked,” Mandy said airily, “is that I was planning to spend the day in New York. But if you wish for me to stay around …”

  “Go right ahead. Mr. Berger’s taking the train in himself this morning.”

  “Yes, I know. We were hoping to ride in together.” Her sultry tone of voice made it sound like she and Mitch had themselves a whole day planned together. Followed by a whole night. Did they? Des wondered. Mandy lingered there, tossing her long golden hair. “Was it my husband you wished to see?” she asked Des offhandedly. But there was nothing offhanded about her blue-eyed gaze. It was piercing.

  “I can catch him later at his office.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Now she was chewing fretfully on her lower lip. Chewing on it almost hard enough to draw blood. “In reference to my husband, I mean.”

  The lady wanted to know what Des had on him. Particularly as it related to Dolly Seymour. Des had no doubt about this. She also had no intention of fueling Mandy’s pathological jealousy. “Enjoy your day in the city,” she said pleasantly. Then Des strode toward the natural-shingled house where Redfield and Bitsy Peck lived, feeling Mandy’s eyes boring into her.

  The Peck house was the most immense single-family home Des had ever seen. Three full stories high, with wings extending off in every direction and a deep shade porch wrapped all the way around. There were balconies upstairs, sun porches, observation turrets, a widow’s walk. The fenced-in garden was also huge. A vast collection of vegetables and flowers and herbs grew there in raised, orderly beds. To Des it looked more like a commercial nursery than it did someone’s yard. There was a greenhouse, potting shed, tool shed. There was a composting area with a dozen or more wire bins and two large, rotating steel drums.

  Bitsy Peck was in the process of dumping a bucket full of orange peels, egg shells and coffee grounds into one of these.

  “Good morning,” Des said to her. “I wondered if your husband was back from Tokyo yet.”

  “Why, yes, Lieutenant,” Bitsy replied brightly. “He landed at midnight. Got home just after two. He’s here for a couple of days and then he’s off again, poor lamb. Four international flights a month makes for a tough, tough schedule. But Red’s used to it. I suppose you can get used to just about anything if you have to.” Bitsy closed the door to the drum, rotated it smartly three times with a hand crank and then reached for her empty bucket. “Do come in—he just sat down to breakfast.”

  She bustled back toward the house, humming merrily. Des followed her, wondering how anyone could be so cheerful with all of this killing going on.

  It resembled a mountain lodge inside, with Adirondack-style furniture of oak and leather, polished plank floors and a good deal of paneling and wood trim. The rooms were large and airy. Each one had its own wood-burning fireplace and its own terrific view of the sea. There was no hallway. One room simply led into another. There was a sitting room. There was a dining room. There was a game room with an antique pool table, a telescope and a chess board set up by the windows. It was not a pretentious home by any means. It was comfortable and lived in—a house meant for laughter and fun, kids and dogs. Although it was quiet and still right now.

  The kitchen was immense. A giant, battered trestle table was anchored in its center, where Redfield Peck sat finishing his scrambled eggs and toast. He had combed his hair but he had not shaved. He wore a hooded Naval Academy sweatshirt, unpressed khakis and a sleepy expression on his lined, craggy face. That expression turned quickly to wariness when he saw Des standing there in his kitchen. And he seemed to grow somewhat pale. He patted his mouth with his napkin and got politely to his feet. He was no more than five foot eight, much shorter than she’d expected from the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She towered over him.

  “There’s coffee in the pot, Lieutenant,” Bitsy offered. “Can I make you some eggs? Skillet’s still warm.”

  “I’m all set, thanks.”

  “How about some nice hot tea for that could?”

  “Don’t have one. It’s just my allergies.”

  Bitsy snuffed at her disapprovingly. “Lieutenant, I’ve raised two children. I know what a sinus cold sounds like. You, my dear girl, have a sinus cold.”

  “Leave the poor woman alone, Bits,” Red murmured with a faint smile. “She already has a mother, haven’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “That I do.” Des smiled back at him. “Was wondering if I could go over some things with you.”

  He swallowed uneasily. “Of course. Why don’t we go out on the porch?”

  “Yes, do that,” Bitsy Peck exclaimed. “I have to get to my garden. I have weeds, weeds, everywhere. They are impossible this time of year. Unless, that is, you need me, Lieutenant.”

  “No, ma’am, you go right ahead.”

  And she did just that, humming.

  There were kitchen herbs growing in pots out on the porch. There was wicker furniture. They sat in two armchairs facing the water, Redfield Peck’s manner studiously calm and careful. He put Des in mind of a doctor who was about to give her a gynecological examination—everything about his body language was geared toward putting her at ease, to conveying competence and professionalism. It was a manner he had no doubt cultivated after years of moving through a cabin full of apprehensive air passengers.

  Interesting that he would fall back on it now, she reflected, seeing as how it was he who was about to climb into the stirrups and say aaah.

  “How may I help you, Lieutenant?” he asked her quietly, folding his large, blunt-fingered hands in his lap. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “You’re not a suspect in the murder of Tuck Weems. You were out of the country when his shooting took place. This has been confirmed by your airline. But I do have a question for you.”

  His bushy eyebrows raised slightly. “By all means.”

  “Mr. Peck, where are you the one week out of every month when you are not where your wife thinks you are?”

  Her question did not take him by surprise. He was braced for it. “What do you mean?” he asked coolly, reluctant to volunteer any more than he had to.

  “I mean,” Des replied, “that for the past year you’ve been making three flights a month to Tokyo—not four.”

  “Please keep your voice down.” He shot a glance in the direction of the garden, where his wife was crouched stoutly in a flowerbed, weeding.

  “Wasn’t aware that I was shouting.”

  “Look, it’s not what you’re thinking, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not thinking anything, Mr. Peck.”

  “I haven’t got some tootsie stashed somewhere that Bits doesn’t know about. It’s a family matter. A private matter. I’ve been in San Francisco, as I’m sure the airline can confirm.”

  In fact, he was averaging a half-dozen employee discount flights per month to San Francisco. Some of these flights originated in Tokyo, others in New York. Many were layovers lasting no more than one night.

  Redfield Peck sat back in his chair and crossed his short legs. He gazed out at the Sound. “It’s Becca—Rebecca, sh
e’s our eldest. Twenty-four now. She moved out there because of the dance community. She dances, you see.” He paused, sighing heavily. “And she’s gotten herself into some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Intravenous drug trouble,” he replied, his voice choking with emotion. “Becca’s a sick, sick girl, Lieutenant. And I’ve been doing everything I possibly can to help her get well again. Getting her treatment, counseling. Making sure she’s using clean needles. God, I am so afraid she’s going to get the AIDS virus … She won’t come home. I can’t talk her into that. But she can’t seem to stay out of trouble either. She seemed to be doing better over the winter but then she got mixed up with some guy and he dropped her and she … I fly planes for a living, Lieutenant. I am trained to believe that there is no problem I can’t solve. Becca I can’t solve. Because there’s no solution. There’s only today and tomorrow. It’s utterly perplexing to me. And it’s humbling. And it’s very, very lonely.” He breathed in and out a moment, wringing his hands. “Her mother doesn’t know about it, you see. Any of it. It would kill Bits if she found out Becca was on drugs. She didn’t want her to move out there in the first place, because Becca was always a bit wild. I talked Bits into it. I thought the girl would be fine—she just needed to grow up a little. And now, well, Bits just wouldn’t be able to understand. Or forgive. She’s always been closer to our boy, Matt. Matt knows. And Evan, who has always been tight with Becca. But I live in constant fear that he’ll tell Jamie, who can be very indiscreet when he drinks. If Jamie were to let it slip to Dolly or Bud, it would immediately get back to her. You can’t keep a secret on this island … I-I’m hoping to get her cleaned up and home before it’s too late. She used to love horses. We could get her one. There was a young man here who was fond of her. And would give anything to see her again. She’s a lovely, lovely girl …” He pulled her picture out of his wallet and held it out to Des.

  It was a snapshot of a slim blond girl in a tu-tu and ballet slippers. She was not especially pretty. She had too many of her father’s features. What Des found most remarkable was that it was a picture of her when she was no more than twelve years old.

  Redfield Peck had some trouble sliding the photo back in his wallet. His eyes were filling with tears now. “Please don’t say anything to my wife about this, Lieutenant,” he pleaded, a wrenching sob erupting from his chest.

  Des did not like to see men cry. She knew how painful it was for them. She knew this because she knew how painful it was for her. She got to her feet and said, “My interest is in the investigation of these killings. Nothing more.”

  “Then I-I can count on your silence?”

  “I am like money in the bank,” she assured him.

  Then she left him to his tears. He would have a much easier time if she were not there.

  His wife was still digging up the weeds in her flower garden.

  “You have got yourself one lovely garden, Mrs. Peck,” Des said to her.

  “Why, thank you, Lieutenant,” she responded gaily. “I do love it so. Every morning when I come out here to play I think to myself just how lucky I am to be around things that are fresh and growing. They make me feel so alive and … Oh, beans, those darned birds!” Her eyes had zeroed in on a clump of weeds under the peony bush next to her. “See those shiny green leaves? That’s poison ivy. No matter what I do it comes back. The darned birds spread the seeds. And I am so allergic to it. Even if I’m wearing gloves I break out like the dickens. Red will have to come pull it out for me.”

  “Your husband’s not allergic to it?”

  “My husband can roll around in it buck naked and not get a rash. It’s not fair. All of the Pecks are lucky that way. Dolly isn’t allergic. Neither is Evan.”

  “And Tuck Weems? Did he ever help you pull it out?”

  “Yes, he did, now that you mention it. I asked him to once when Red was in Tokyo. Tuck wasn’t allergic either.”

  “You folks out here all go to the same doctor?”

  “Why, yes. Shoreline Family Practice. Three doctors, actually. Pretty much everyone in town goes there. They’re right across from the A and P on Big Brook Road.” Bitsy Peck climbed to her feet and brushed herself off. “Do you like rhubarb, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, you must let me give you something to take with you.”

  Des dabbed at her runny nose with a tissue. “Totally not necessary, Mrs. Peck.”

  “Nonsense. You absolutely cannot leave here empty-handed. Do you care for these?” she asked, waving a chubby arm at a wildflower bed that was bursting with white geraniums. “That’s Geranium Cantabriense Biokovo. It originated in the mountains of Yugoslavia. Aren’t they just the loveliest?”

  “Yes, they are. Very much so.”

  “Well, that settles it, then.” She went trudging off to her potting shed and came back in a moment with a vase filled with water. “It’s a funny thing about geraniums, Lieutenant,” she said, cutting some for her with a small pair of shears. “They’ll never be as pretty as they are at this very instant. The second they leave the garden they’ll start to wither and die. But if they stay here too long they become overgrown and crowd out the other plants. I have to thin them out,” she explained with a touch of sad resignation. “It’s a law of nature that beautiful things have to be shared with others.”

  Des nodded, wondering whether Bitsy Peck was talking about her flowers or her drug-addicted daughter. She couldn’t help but get the feeling that this was the woman’s oblique way of letting her know that she actually knew all about Rebecca’s problem. That she wasn’t nearly as clueless as her husband thought.

  Bitsy Peck was no fool. She was just old school.

  She deftly arranged a generous fistful of the flowers in the vase and handed it to Des. “For your kitchen table, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling at her warmly.

  “Thank you.”

  “The morning haze is lifting,” she observed, gazing out at the Sound. “It’s going to be a nice day.”

  “Yes, it is,” Des agreed. “It’s going to be a very nice day.”

  “I’ve already told your sergeant all of this,” Jamie Devers said to Des in total dismay. “At least I think I did. I can never be totally sure, you understand.”

  “Why’s that, Mr. Devers?”

  “I’ve lost a lot of gray cells along the way,” he responded. “You know those things they told us about how drugs would fry our brains? They were all true.” Now an alarmed expression crossed the former child star’s face. “Oh, God, I’ve just confessed to habitual recreational drug use. Forget I said that, will you? It was the sixties, Southern California. Everyone inhaled.”

  “It’s forgotten, Mr. Devers,” she assured him as they strolled along together. “Hey, I am digging on your shop.”

  “I’m so glad.” Jamie was relieved to change the subject. “If you see anything you like, don’t be bashful.”

  Great White Whale Antiques was housed in a drafty old barn up in Millington, a small country hamlet in the rolling hills north of Dorset. The shop was eclectic and cluttered. He and Evan Havenhurst offered a little bit of everything. Colonial furniture. Weathered Victorian garden ornaments. Rugs, quilts, paintings. There were some very expensive pieces. There were some that bordered on tag sale junk. At the moment, Evan was at an estate sale up in Farmington. There were no customers around.

  “We positively freeze our buns off in the winter,” he confided. “There’s zero insulation—and nothing but a wood stove. But it’s fun. And it keeps us off the streets.”

  “You have any trouble with mice?”

  “Yes, we do. They scare the old ladies to death.”

  “What you need is a barn cat.” Maybe two. Rob and Fab would be perfect.

  “Please don’t get the wrong idea, Lieutenant,” Jamie said. “I really don’t mean to be difficult. I just don’t see why I have to go through it all again. It seems so unnecessary.”

  “It’s necess
ary.” Des could no longer be sure Soave was feeding her everything.

  He folded his arms, looking at her curiously. “Well, what is it you need to know exactly?”

  “I need to confirm where you were the night Tuck Weems was shot.”

  “As I told your sergeant, I was camped out on Little Sister. Went out there after Dolly’s cocktail party for Mitch. Evan and I often spend the night out there.”

  “You two were together?”

  “Of course. I can’t sail the damned boat without him.”

  “Can he sail it without you?”

  “Evan can sail anything. He’s part pirate. Why do you ask?”

  Des didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. Because a certain object had caught her eye over by a china cupboard in the corner. It was a truly fantastic object. In fact, she had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Slowly, she approached it.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Jamie enthused, gazing affectionately at the painting. It was an Impressionist landscape of a lush green meadow streaming with morning sunlight. “It’s a Bruestle. George M. He was a fairly prominent member of Dorset’s art colony at the turn of the century, best known for his well-ripened greens. The meadow’s located off of Ely’s Ferry Road. It’s still there.”

  “It’s very fine. Only what I’m beaming on is the easel.” She could not take her eyes off the artist’s stand that the painting was displayed upon.

  “You do have a keen eye, don’t you? It was Bruestle’s. His son Bertram, who was a fine painter in his own right, used it for years. I bought it from the estate of his widow. It was custom-made by a local cabinet maker. Solid oak, with brass fittings. Truly one of a kind. Works like a charm.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “Dear girl, everything here is for sale, including the barn, the land under the barn and me. It’s perfect for displaying things on, isn’t it? A sampler perhaps?”

  “I’d want to use it.”