by Unknown
Mitch had discovered her at her easel when he got there, working on a portrait of Takai Frye in death, her chest blown open by the Barrett, her beautiful face frozen in a final scream. It was truly horrifying, but it was how Des coped. So she drew while Mitch labored over a printout of his article, and some time after midnight they popped open the champagne and collapsed in her tub together.
“Why didn’t you do it?” he asked her quietly. “Why didn’t you shoot Hangtown?”
“Baby, I’ve thought about that a lot,” she replied, staring down into her long-stemmed glass of bubbly. “And I really don’t know.”
“Maybe I do.”
Her face tightened. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Deep down inside you felt he deserved to live and Takai didn’t.”
“She deserved a trial,” Des pointed out. “She had a right to a trial. She didn’t get one.”
“She got what was coming to her, and we both know it. That’s why you didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Maybe so,” Des conceded. “But don’t ever tell anyone that. Because I’m supposed to protect them all, regardless of how I feel about them. If I showed a preference that would make me, I don’t know . . .”
“Human,” he said, grinning at her.
Her almond-shaped green eyes narrowed at him. “And that’s okay with you?”
“Of course it is. If you weren’t human, then I wouldn’t be able to love you as much as I do.”
“Damn, I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” she said, her voice clutching. “It’s just not . . . fair. You could at least warn me, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, stroking her smooth, slender calf. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Crazy Daisy. Hang-town told me about her while I was acting as a journalist, and that made it confidential. I didn’t like keeping it from you, believe me.”
“He told you that day the Deacon came for dinner, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
“You had something heavy on your mind when you came in the door. You weren’t all there.” She reached for a wash-cloth and dabbed at her face with it. “Let’s say Hangtown didn’t die. Let’s say he’s still alive . . .”
“Okay . . .”
“Would you still be putting that in your article?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Mitch confessed, sipping his champagne. “He wanted me to. All I kept thinking about was how it would change the way people looked at his art. Change it for all time. And for what—something that happened thirty years ago?”
“A girl died, Mitch,” Des reminded him.
“Believe me, I know that,” he said, watching her. “You’re not okay with this, are you? Me not telling you about it.”
“Nooo, I’m cool,” she said slowly. “Deciding what’s right isn’t that simple, no matter how much we want it to be. I mean, if there’s one thing I’ve learned at the art academy, it’s just how many different shades of gray there are. But if you’re feeling guilty, I know how you can make it up to me . . .”
“Go for it.”
“How would you like to mentor a troubled teenaged boy? He loves movies, he’s incredibly bright. He’s also a garbagehead with an attitude, but put seventy-five pounds and a pair of baggy khakis on him and, whoop-dee-damn-do, he’s you.”
“This is Ronnie the Mod Squad kid, am I right?”
“You are.”
“I take it the first selectman is pleased that you shut them down?”
“Hey, I’m Dorset’s new fair-haired girl,” she cracked. “So what do you say—will you give it a try?”
“I can’t say no to you. Why is that?”
“I can’t imagine why,” Des said demurely, caressing him with deft, knowing fingers under the water. “What would you think about Bella moving in here for a while? Until she finds a place of her own.”
“I think it would be great,” Mitch replied enthusiastically.
Her eyes searched his face carefully. “You do?”
“Absolutely. You’ll feel better about spending more time at my place if you know that she’s here watching your charges. Plus we’ll get a good, honest brisket dinner every Friday night. Major sandwiches with the leftovers. Of course, I’ll have to grow us some horseradish . . .”
“I’m serious, Mitch.”
“So am I, girlfriend. I’d be thrilled if you never spent a single night here. Stay with me out on Big Sister. We should be waking up in each other’s arms every morning. We should be together. What do I have to do to convince you of that?”
She fell into a guarded silence for a moment, her body tensing next to his in the tub. “You liked Moose, didn’t you.”
“Sure, I did.”
“No, I mean you liked her.”
Mitch gazed at her in astonishment. “Why do you say that?”
“Maybe I can read your mind sometimes, too.”
“What a scary concept.”
“It isn’t pretty, now that you mention it. Are you sorry how things turned out?”
“I’m sorry that she’s dead, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not,” she said, leveling her gaze at him. “And you know it.”
Mitch let out a sigh of sheer frustration. She still didn’t believe they were for real. Was still protecting herself against getting hurt. “If you’re wondering whether I’m sorry that you and I are together, the answer is no, you hardheaded doofus. Sooner or later everybody has got to believe in something. And somewhere along the line—I don’t know when, I don’t know how—you are going to have to believe in us. I sure as hell do.” He reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. “Okay . . .?”
Her eyes were shining at him now. She swallowed, and in a husky voice that sent shivers through his entire body, Des Mitry said, “Boyfriend, it’s way more than okay.”
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT
FROM DAVID HANDLER’S NEXT
BERGER AND MITRY MYSTERY:
THE BRIGHT SILVER STAR
COMING SOON IN HARDCOVER
FROM ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR!
There was no lollygagging in the feathers on Big Sister Island. Not in July. Not when the sun came beaming through the skylights in Mitch’s sleeping loft at five-thirty in the morning. Not a chance. These days, Mitch Berger, creature of the darkness, got up when the sun got up.
And he loved every glorious minute.
He loved the cool, fresh breezes off of Long Island Sound that wafted through his antique post-and-beam carriage house, no matter how hot and sticky the day was. He loved the blackberries that grew wild all over the island and the fresh vegetables that he had brought to life in his own garden. He loved mowing his little patch of lawn with an old-fashioned push mower, which had to be one of the great, lost pleasures of the modern age. He loved parking his pudgy self in a shell-backed aluminum garden chair at sunset, cold beer in hand, waiting for Des to come thumping across the rickety wooden causeway in her cruiser. He loved the bracing dips in the Sound they would take together. He even—and this was the truly amazing part—loved those disgustingly healthy dinners of grilled fish, brown rice and steamed vegetables she would cook for them.
If he didn’t know any better, Mitch would have sworn he was turning into somebody else.
Every day he learned something new about the sundrenched natural world around him. Goldfinches are attracted to sunflowers, hummingbirds to the color red. The male osprey stays behind to teach the fledgling how to fly while the female migrates south on her own. Many of these things he had learned from Dodge Crockett, unofficial head of the unofficial walking club Mitch had fallen in with at the beginning of the summer—four local men who hiked the three-mile stretch of beach that ringed the Peck Point Nature Preserve every morning at seven, so as to exercise, bird watch and chew each other’s ears off.
There was no getting around this: Mitch Berger, lead film critic for the most prestigious and therefore lowest paying of the three New York City metropolitan dailies,
was in a male-bonding group. Or so Des called it. Mitch simply described it as four Dorseteers who liked to walk together, eat fresh-baked croissants and discuss life, love and women—three subjects they freely admitted they knew nothing about.
Besides, today he had a serious career-related matter to discuss with Dodge.
At the sound of Mitch stirring around in the kitchen Quirt came scooting in the cat door for his breakfast. Quirt, who was Mitch’s lean, sinewy hunter, liked to sleep outside during the summer on a bench under the living room bay window. Clemmie, his lap cat, still preferred the safe confines of the house, but slept downstairs in his armchair as opposed to upstairs on Mitch’s bed, snuggled into his collarbone. Mitch had grown accustomed to her being there at night and missed her terribly, but he had also come to understand cats and the high priority they placed on their own comfort. When autumn blew in, and Clemmie felt the need for Mitch’s considerable body warmth, she would return to his bed as if she’d never left.
Right now, she yawned at him from his chair and stretched a languid paw out toward him, which was her way of saying good morning.
Mitch was otherwise alone this morning. Des had taken to spending three or four nights a week with him, the rest at her own place overlooking Uncas Lake. Bella Tillis, her good friend and fellow rescuer, had moved in with her on a trial basis, which meant Des could stay over with him and not fret over her own furry charges.
While Quirt hungrily munched kibble, Mitch squeezed himself a tall glass of grapefruit juice. As he drank it down he stood before his living-room windows that overlooked the water in three different directions, savoring the quiet of early morning on his island in the Sound. A fisherman was chugging his way out for the day. Otherwise, all was tranquil. He dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Shoved four blue tin coffee mugs in his knapsack, along with an eight-ounce plastic water bottle filled with that see-through low-fat milk Des had him drinking—he himself vastly preferred whole milk of the chocolate variety. But Des was absolutely determined that Mitch take off some excess poundage this summer. And a determined Des was no one to trifle with. Ever since she’d turned his kitchen into a No-Fry Zone, he’d gone down two whole waist sizes.
He started out the door, binoculars around his neck, and headed down the footpath lined with wild beach roses and bayberry toward the causeway that connected Big Sister with Peck Point. The island had been in the Peck family since the 1600s. It was 40 acres of blue-blooded paradise at the mouth of the Connecticut River, just off Dorset, the historic New England village. There were five houses on the island, a de-commissioned lighthouse that was the second tallest in New England, a private beach, dock, tennis court. Mitch had been only too happy to rent the converted caretaker’s cottage, and to eventually buy it. During the cold months he’d had the whole island to himself. Right now, one other house was in use—Bitsy Peck, his garden guru, was living in the big Victorian summer cottage with her daughter Becca.
Not a day went by when Mitch didn’t tell himself how extraordinarily lucky he was to be here. He’d been a total wreck after he lost Maisie, a Harvard-trained landscape architect, to ovarian cancer when she was barely thirty. He had needed somewhere to go and heal. And it turned out that somewhere was this place. Slowly, he was healing. Certainly, Des Mitry’s arrival in his life was a huge reason why. So was his determination to plunge himself headlong into new experiences—for Mitch Berger, a socially challenged screening-room rat, walking in the sunshine every morning with three men who he’d only recently met qualified as a huge leap into the unknown.
He could see them waiting for him there at the gate as he crossed the narrow quarter-mile wooden causeway—a trio of middle-aged Dorseteers in sizes small, medium and large. Will Durslag, who towered over the other two, was the fellow who’d brought him into the group. Will and his hyperkinetic wife, Donna, ran The Works and Mitch was a huge fan of their chocolate goodies, or at least he had been until Des put him on his diet. Standing there in his tank top and baggy surf shorts, knapsack thrown carelessly over one broad shoulder, 34-year-old Will looked more like a professional beach volleyball player or Nordic god than he did a jolly chef. He was a tanned, muscular six-feet-four with long sun-bleached blond hair that he wore in a pony tail. Early one morning, Mitch had encountered him on the bluff hiking with Dodge Crockett and Jeff Wachtell. Introductions had been made, a casual invitation extended. Next thing Mitch knew he was not only joining their little group every morning but looking forward to it.
It was a loose group. If you were there at seven, fine. If you couldn’t make it, that was fine, too. No explanations required. There was only one rule: You could not take yourself too seriously. Any subject was a legitimate topic of conversation. The group had no name, though Mitch was partial to the Mesmer Club in tribute to The Woman In Green, one of his favorite Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films. Not that he had bothered to mention this to any of them—they would not understand what he was talking about. They had not, for example, grasped the origin of the Rocky Dies Yellow tattoo on his bicep.
“Good morning, men,” he called out to them.
“Another beautiful day in paradise,” said Dodge, his face breaking into a smile.
“Ab-so-tootly,” piped up Jeff, an impish refugee from a major New York publishing house. Jeff ran the Book Schnook, Dorset’s bookstore.
They set out, walking single file down the narrow footpath that edged the bluffs. Beach pea grew wild alongside of them. Cormorants and gulls flew overhead. Dodge set the brisk pace, his arms swinging loosely at his sides, his shoulders back, head up. Mitch fell in behind him, puffing a bit but keeping up. When he’d first joined the group, Mitch could barely cut it. He was definitely making progress—although his T-shirt was already sticking to him.
Dodge was far and away the oldest of the group. Also the wealthiest. He came from old Dorset money, had been a second-team All-American lacrosse player at Princeton and remained, at 54, remarkably vigorous and fit. Dodge was also the single most rigidly disciplined person Mitch had ever met in his life. So disciplined that he never needed to wear a watch. Thanks to his strict, self-imposed regimen of daily activities Dodge always knew within two minutes what time it was. What made this especially amazing was that Dodge had never held a real job in his life. Didn’t need to. And yet he was never idle. Each day he awoke at six, walked at seven, lifted weights at eight, read the New York Times and Wall Street Journal at nine, attended to personal finances at ten and practiced classical piano at eleven. After lunch, the remainder of his day was given over to meetings. Dodge was president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, as well as commissioner of Dorset’s Historic District. He served on the Wetlands Commission, the executive board of the Dorset library and the Youth Services Bureau. Some years back, he had also put in two terms as a state senator up in Hartford. A few of the old-timers around John’s barber shop still called him Senator.
And yet, Dodge was no tight assed prig. Mitch had heard him do some pretty amazing things with Great Balls of Fire on that Steinway of his. Mitch enjoyed being around the man every morning. He was good company, a good listener and, somehow, he made Mitch feel as if walking with him was the highlight of his day. Dodge also possessed a childlike excitement for life that Mitch truly envied. Hell, the man’s whole life was enviable. He had health, wealth, a beautiful renovated farmhouse on ten acres overlooking the Connecticut River. He had Martine, his long-legged, blonde wife of 26 years who, as far as Mitch was concerned, was merely Grace Kelly in blue jeans. Between them Dodge and Martine had produced Esme, who happened to be one of the hottest and most talented young actresses in Hollywood.
And the reason why Mitch needed to speak to Dodge this morning. Because this was by no means a typical July for Dorset. Not since Esme Crockett and her actor husband, combustible blue-eyed Latino heartthrob Tito Molina, had rented a $3-million beachfront mansion for the summer. Tito and Esme, each of them 23 years old, were the biggest thing happening that summer as
far the tabloids were concerned. She was a breathtakingly gorgeous Academy-Award winner. He was People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, not to mention a man given to uncontrollable bouts of drinking, drugs and rage. Just within the past year Tito had served two stints in drug rehab, 30 days in a Los Angeles County jail for criminal drug possession and been sued twice by tabloid photographers for his violent behavior toward them in the street outside of the couple’s Malibu home. Their arrival in Dorset had sparked debate all over the village. Esme was one of Dorset’s own and the locals were justifiably proud of her. This was a girl, after all, who’d gotten her start on stage in the Dorset High production of Fiddler on the Roof. From there she’d starred in a summer revival of Neil Simon’s I Ought to Be in Pictures at the Ivoryton Playhouse, where she was spotted by a top New York casting director. He was searching for a young actress to play an under-aged Roaring Twenties gun moll in the next Martin Scorcese crime epic. Esme won not only the part but an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. Now she was one of Hollywood’s top draws.
But Dorset also cherished its decidely Unhampton low profile, and Esme and Tito had brought a media army with them, along with stargazers, gawkers and more gawkers. The village was positively overrun by outsiders, many of them rude and loud—although none ruder or louder than Chrissie Huberman, the high-profile celebrity publicist whom the golden couple had imported from New York to run interference for them.
“Oyster catchers at three o’clock, Mitch!” Dodge called out, pausing to aim his binoculars at the rocks down below. Dodge had a bristly gray crewcut, tufty black eyebrows and a round face that frequently lit up with glee. He was no more than five-feet-nine but was powerfully built, with a thick neck, heavy shoulders and immense hands and feet. He wore a polo shirt, khaki shorts and size-15 hiking boots. “Two of them, see? They almost always travel in pairs.”
Mitch focussed his own glasses on one of them. It was a big, thick-set bird with a dark back, white belly and the longest, flattest orange bill Mitch had ever seen. “Wow, a cartoon shore bird. What a hoot.”