The Lavender Lane Lothario, page 12
“Indeed.”
They were approaching her car when the turbo-charged Taurus pulled up behind it with a screech and Toni hopped out. “Glad I caught you, Loo,” she exclaimed breathlessly, her eyes bright with excitement. “I just went through the victim’s banking and credit card activity for the past three months, and we have to talk. I mean, we really, really have to talk.”
“Slow it down, Sergeant,” Yolie said. “Talk about what?”
Toni took in a deep gulp of air, steadying herself. “Our investigation, Loo. I think we may have this whole goddamned thing wrong.”
CHAPTER 10
BY UNWRITTEN ACCORD, THE Mucky Duck, a dark, narrow pub adjacent to the Dorset Marina, was where the village’s divorced men went to eat and drink. Most of them were middle-aged professional men. At noontime they grabbed lunch together at the bar and followed the stock market’s ups and downs on CNBC. After work they drank martinis together and watched the business wrap-up on CNBC. They were in no hurry to go home. Had no homes to go to. Those belonged to their ex-wives now. So they sat at the Mucky Duck and they drank. There was a name in Dorset for these men. They were called Mucky Duckers.
There was a small dining room in back with maybe twenty tables. Even though Mitch showed up five minutes early, Buck Mitry was already sitting there at a table checking out the menu. You could never out-early the Deacon. Des’s steely-eyed father wore his usual charcoal-gray suit and muted tie, and was drinking his usual cup of black coffee. He drank something like fifteen cups a day.
He stood to greet Mitch, all six feet four inches of him. When they shook hands, Mitch’s disappeared. The Deacon had the biggest hands Mitch had ever seen. The man had played first base in the Cleveland Indians organization for two years before it became clear to him that he couldn’t hit a curveball. So he’d come home to Connecticut, joined the State Police, and risen through the ranks to become Deputy Superintendent. He was, at age fifty-six, the highest-ranking black man in the history of the State Police. A disciplined man. A tight-lipped man. A monumentally scary man.
“How are you, sir?” Mitch asked as he took a seat.
“Better than our New York Mets. I simply do not understand what they’re planning to do for offensive production.”
“Stay close to the phone. They may give you a call.”
He took a sip of his coffee, smiling faintly. “How is Desiree?”
“She’s great.”
“Of course she is. That girl hasn’t stopped smiling since she met you.”
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Just speaking the truth, son. When she was married to that no-good cheat Brandon she weighed ninety pounds. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. And if you said so much as ‘boo’ to her she’d burst into tears. He had her so on edge it was criminal. There’s nothing lower in my book than a man who treats a decent woman that way.”
“Especially when that decent woman happens to be your only daughter.”
“Don’t know if I’ve ever said the words out loud but I’m extremely grateful that you came into her life. It means a lot to me that she’s found a good man.”
Mitch studied him with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. Because if there was one thing the Deacon wasn’t it was sentimental. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure you don’t have to go in for more bypass surgery?”
“Positive. My ticker’s fine.”
Their waitress moseyed over to them now.
“What’s good here?” the Deacon asked Mitch.
“I’m partial to the clam chowder myself. It’s Rhode Island style.” Most seafood places in Southeastern Connecticut served Rhode Island style, which was a broth-based chowder. “Shall we try two bowls of their finest?”
“Sounds good.”
She went off to fill their order.
“By the way,” the Deacon said. “On the off chance that Desiree, Yolanda Snipes, or Jack Latham should happen to stroll in and find us here together, we ran into each other strictly by accident.”
“Got it. And you’re in Dorset because…?”
“An arson-homicide joint investigation often leads to a turf battle. I stopped by to make sure everyone plays nice.”
“Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Desiree won’t buy it for one second, but that’s my story. And you are not to repeat one single word of the conversation we’re about to have, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Their bowls of steaming chowder arrived along with a basket of bread.
The Deacon sampled his soup and gave it a nod of approval before he said, “Do you remember the evening when I met your parents?”
“How could I forget? It was epic.”
That was the night they’d reenacted a postmodern version of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, complete with strained dialogue and numerous awkward silences. That was when Mitch found out that Ruth and Chet Berger detested their well-earned retirement in Vero Beach, Florida, and wanted to move back to New York City and do something useful. His dad had taught high school math in Brooklyn for thirty-seven years. His mom had been a middle school librarian. They were living in Jackson Heights now, working as volunteer tutors every day and happy as can be. Actually, the two of them had gotten along fine with Des’s father. Except for when Mitch’s dad, a full-time practicing buttinsky, kept insisting that the Deacon needed to start dating again. Which, according to Des, he hadn’t done since her mom left him. The man lived a stubbornly monastic existence in his home in Kensington.
The Deacon dunked a piece of bread in his chowder, chewing on it thoughtfully before he said, “Your dad mentioned a guidance counselor at Boys and Girls High whom he wanted me to meet. A good-looking widow of color named Marcia.”
“My mom thinks he has a crush on her. And that’s a pretty big deal, let me tell you, because the only other woman he’s ever had eyes for is Sharon Gless. I swear, he’s watched every episode of Cagney and Lacey at least ten times.” Mitch helped himself to more bread. It was sourdough with a good crust. “He wanted you to come into the city so the four of you could double-date. You weren’t wildly enthusiastic about the idea, as I recall.”
“Well, it so happens that Chet talked me into it, Mitch.”
“He can be plenty persuasive, can’t he? That man must have convinced at least a thousand troubled kids to stay in school over the years. So when is this double date going to be?”
“It’s been.” The Deacon cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Marcia and I have been seeing each other for a while now. I go into the city regularly. We have lunch, take in a show, go for a stroll in Central Park.”
“Well, hey, that’s great.”
The Deacon stared across the table at him in chilly silence.
“Allow me to rephrase that,” Mitch said. “Is it great?”
“I truly don’t know,” he answered heavily. “That’s what I’m attempting to ascertain.”
Mitch worked on his soup in silence for a moment. He’d been dead wrong. His ladylove’s fearsome father hadn’t arranged this clandestine lunch date to talk about her. He wanted to talk about him. “Well, what’s to ascertain? Do you like her?”
“Very much. In fact, I haven’t had such strong feelings for a woman since I first met Zelma. Marcia is smart, funny, caring. She’s her own person. And every time I look into her eyes I feel like a lovestruck teenaged boy again.”
“Does she have children?”
“Two grown daughters. One is a speech therapist, the other a nurse. They’re both very nice people. We went out for Sunday brunch together a few weeks ago.”
“So Marcia has introduced you to her kids but you still haven’t…”
“I haven’t said a word to Desiree about her,” the Deacon acknowledged.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a mighty big step. I want to be sure before I take it.”
“That part sounds like baloney to me, no disrespect. When it comes to love you don’t have to ask yourself whether you’re sure or not. Either you know it or you don’t. And it sounds to me like you do.”
“You’re right, I do.” His brow furrowed. “Your parents haven’t mentioned any of this to you?”
“Not one word. I don’t know why.”
“I asked them not to.”
“Okay, now I know why. But I still don’t understand why you haven’t told Des.”
“Because I’m not sure how she’ll take to the idea.”
“What idea?”
“Me being involved with someone other than her mother.”
“Are you kidding me? She’ll be ecstatic. She loves you. She wants you to be happy.”
The Deacon’s eyes searched Mitch’s face carefully. “I’m glad to hear you say that, because I’d like her to meet Marcia. I really would. And I was hoping you’d allow me to bounce an idea off of you.”
“Bounce away.”
“I thought that Marcia might like to spend a weekend out here in Dorset. I could book her a room at the Frederick House, and the four of us could have dinner there together. How does that sound?”
“I’m good with her staying at the Frederick House, but not the part about us eating dinner there. The ambience is much too stuffy and formal for Des, who’s going to be super tense. If I know her, and I do, she’ll spend the entire evening in the ladies room throwing up. No, you’re going to come out to the island for a relaxed, casual meal at my place. The two of them can go for a walk on the beach together. Trust me, it’ll work out much, much better.”
“That’s a good, concrete suggestion.” He produced a pen and small notepad from the chest pocket of his suit and jotted it down.
“Shall we choose a weekend?”
The Deacon started to respond, then stopped. Pocketed the notepad and pen and sat there in uneasy silence.
“Forgive me, sir, but what’s the real problem here?”
“I haven’t…” The Deacon took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “What I mean is, there hasn’t been anyone since Zelma left. And then there’s also the issue of my bypass surgery, although my cardiologist has cleared me for…” His eyes latched on to Mitch’s. “For any sort of activity that I wish to participate in.”
Mitch sat there wondering just exactly how he’d become the Mary Worth of the Cialis set. First Bitsy, then Loretta, and now Des’s father. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d been a highly respected film critic. Actually, it was only yesterday. He had some more chowder, weighing his next move carefully. He knew this wasn’t easy for the Deacon. Buck Mitry was an emotionally walled-off man. A man who kept his feelings to himself. A man who was carrying a loaded semiautomatic weapon. “I take it that you and Marcia haven’t…?”
“We’re seriously considering taking our relationship to the next level,” he answered, gazing down into his coffee mug. “Marcia’s ready to. More than ready to. She’s told me so in no uncertain terms. That’s one of the things I like best about her. She speaks her mind. I’m the one who’s been reluctant, and I have no proper excuse. My heart’s fine, like I told you, and there’s still plenty of lead in the pencil, as the old saying goes. I’m just … I guess you could say I’m a bit rusty, and maybe more than a bit apprehensive. I don’t want to disappoint her.” He grimaced. “I apologize for dumping this in your lap. I almost called you this morning to cancel. But I don’t know who else to talk to. You’re someone I trust, and you’re practically family.”
“I am family. And I’m glad you called, because I know exactly what you’re going through.”
He looked at Mitch in surprise. “You do?”
“Hell, yes. After Maisie died I couldn’t look at another woman without getting sad all over again. A year after she was gone I was supposed to be ready to get on with my life. She had friends who were ready and willing to help me do just exactly that. Bright, nice-looking women, too. But I wasn’t interested in any of them. Believe me, it was a long, long while before I met someone who I felt that way about. The way you say you feel about Marcia.”
“This would be Desiree?”
“Yes, it would. And I want to let you in on something, since we’re being honest with each other here. There is no such thing as rusty. And no need to be apprehensive. When the right person comes along you don’t have a thing to worry about. Believe me, it’s an amazingly cathartic experience. In fact, I cried after the first time we made love.”
The Deacon raised an eyebrow at him. “What did Desiree say?”
“She said, ‘Are you going to do that every time?’”
“Yeah, that sounds like her.” He signaled for the check. Mitch tried to grab it but he wouldn’t let him. “Mitch, I’m glad we had this conversation.”
“Same here. Shall we set the date for that dinner?”
“Let me think it over, okay?”
“Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready. Have you seen my folks recently?”
“The four of us had dinner in Chinatown together just last weekend. Marcia’s very fond of them. So am I.”
“Where’s my dad wearing his slacks these days?”
“On his legs. Where else would he be wearing them?”
“How high up, I mean. The last time I saw him they were starting to creep their way north of his chest. Any higher and they’re going to run into his Adam’s apple.”
“I can’t give you an informed answer, I’m afraid. It was a chilly evening and he was wearing a V-neck sweater. He said it was a Father’s Day gift from you, as a matter of fact.”
“Was it powder blue?”
“Yes, it was.”
“I got that sweater for him at Brooks Brothers when I was twelve years old. I can’t believe he still has it.”
“Believe it, son. I have every present Desiree ever gave me, including a birdhouse that she made out of tongue depressors when she was in the second grade. Fathers are very sentimental. You’ll be finding that out for yourself one of these days.” The Deacon allowed himself a smile. “Or so I’m hoping.”
CHAPTER 11
“LOO, OUR VICTIM WASN’T two-timing Bitsy Peck. He was three-timing her.”
They were parked next to the Lieutenant River in the turbo-charged Taurus, Toni behind the wheel, Yolie up front next to her, Des in back. Hubie Swope’s laptop and cell were on the front seat in between Toni and Yolie.
“How do we know that, Sergeant?”
“Des told us he spent every Saturday night with Bitsy at the Mohegan Sun, which totally checks out. Hubie Swope ran up charges in the neighborhood of seven hundred dollars every Saturday night at the Sun. And every Friday night he ran up charges of roughly the same amount at the Foxwoods Resort Casino. That’s Girlfriend Number Two, right? Well, get this, he spent an additional thousand every other Wednesday at Pure, a high-end spa retreat in North Fairburn. That’s Girlfriend Number Three. That’s also my idea of living large. According to my math, our victim was spending about seventy-five hundred a month on his ladies—which is a solid twenty-five hundred more than the monthly salary he was collecting as Dorset’s building inspector.”
“How did he manage that?” Des asked.
“He didn’t. Over the past six months Hubie Swope had drained his Vanguard investment portfolio from a balance of a hundred and twenty thousand to, like, a dollar. As in one dollar. He’d maxed out his lines of credit on all three of his credit cards. He also took out a hundred-thousand-dollar home equity loan on his house and missed his last three payments. The man was going to lose his house at the rate he was going. He was out of control. Me, I’m amazed. I didn’t know that guys his age could get it up that often.”
“He had some little blue helpers in his medicine chest.” Des stared out the window at the tranquil waters of the Lieutenant River. “But color me amazed, too. It’s hard to keep one secret in this town. I wouldn’t have thought it was even possible to keep three.”
“If Hubie Swope was mixed up with that many women at once,” Yolie said, “then we may be dealing with a pissed-off-husband scenario. Any idea who these other two women are, Sergeant?”
“More than an idea, Loo. He left a trail behind.”
“E-mails?”
“He exchanged e-mails with Bitsy. Plenty steamy ones, too. But he didn’t communicate with his other ladies that way.”
“So, what, he texted them?”
“Talked to them on the phone. According to his cell log he placed calls to the same three numbers each and every morning. I’m talking constant contact.”
“Bitsy told Mitch that Hubie used to call her every morning just to tell her how much he adored her,” Des said.
“Well, he also used to call someone named Inez Neto.”
Des let out a groan. “I swear, if this goes down in Dorset history as the Casserole Courtship Killing I’ll never hear the end of it from Mitch. I told him last night it played Sherm Gant all of the way.”
“Still does,” Yolie said. “We’re just gassing. What’s Inez Neto’s deal?”
“She’s a cashier at the Big Y, late thirties, single, kind of hot if you like them on the blowzy side. Her cheesehead son, Petey, worked at The Pit last summer until Sherm caught him nicking money and fired him.”
“Her kid has a grudge against Sherm? I’m liking the sound of this.”
“Yesterday, I shooed Petey away from Appleby Lane, where he claimed to be looking for tree work, which he knows squat about. He told me his girlfriend was going to throw his butt out if he didn’t start bringing in some money. We’re just gassing here, but it seems to me that if Sherm was looking to hire a handy, inexpensive nobody to torch The Pit for him…”
“Mr. Petey Neto, cheesehead, fits the bill. We need to have us a talk with him, Sergeant. But first you need to tell us about GirlFriend Number Three.”
“Her name’s Loretta Beckwith Holland, Loo.”
Yolie’s eyes widened. “Wife of Gaylord Holland, housewright?”
“Okay, this case has just officially taken a sharp right turn into way too weird,” Des said, shaking her head.
“I hear you,” Yolie said. “This gives Gaylord a motive times two. Hubie was hosing his real estate deal and his wife.”
