The Lavender Lane Lothario, page 4
“It’s not easy being Mr. No, is it?”
“Gaylord’s wrong. What’s more, he knows he’s wrong. Not that he’d ever admit it.” He glanced at her curiously. “Our jobs aren’t that different, are they?”
Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “The resident trooper’s generally not the most popular person in town, if that’s what you mean.”
“Right now I’d say you’re the second most unpopular person in town.”
“Who’s the most unpopular?”
“That’s easy,” Hubie Swope replied. “I am.”
CHAPTER 4
IT DIDN’T MATTER THAT the calendar said it was almost May.
Mitch still had to wear Capilene thermal layers under his hoodie and sweatpants when he went for his morning run on the island’s beach. It was thirty-nine degrees out there. The wind was gusting. It felt like the middle of March as he jogged his way past the lighthouse, huffing and puffing, his mind on what he was going to write about today. That conversation with Des about Aurora Bing had gotten him thinking about just how many forgotten stars there were. Not just silent stars whose films were lost, but big names from the glorious 1930s whose films were still very much around. Because for every Humphrey Bogart and Bette Davis—icons who remained household names seventy years later—there were performers who’d once been just as big as them who were now practically unknown. Take Warren William, who’d starred in a string of blockbuster hits like The Gold Diggers of 1933, Cleopatra, Imitation of Life, and Lady for a Day. Yet hardly anyone could pick Warren William out of a police lineup now, just as hardly anyone remembered that it was Kay Francis who’d been queen of the Warner Brothers lot until Bette Davis snatched her crown away.
Mitch huffed and puffed as he plowed his way along, sorting out his thoughts. He was also wondering if it was time to plant his spring lettuce. Bitsy Peck, his garden guru, would know. He kept an eye out for her as he jogged past her three-story natural-shingled bungalow with its wraparound terrace, multiple turrets, and sleeping porches. Bitsy was almost always out working in her vast, terraced garden where she grew hundreds of species of flowers, herbs, and vegetables. She was a round, snub-nosed woman who’d had her share of troubles—not only her husband, Redfield, but her daughter, Becca, who was a recovering heroin addict. Yet Bitsy was a remarkably upbeat person. Also a fount of wisdom when it came to anything having to do with Dorset. She was a Peck. It was the Pecks who’d first settled Dorset back in the 1600s.
And, indeed, there she was in her vegetable garden, planting some of her greenhouse-raised seedlings. “Morning, Bitsy!” he called out to her.
She didn’t respond. Just continued her planting, clad in a mud-splattered barn coat, denim overalls, and garden clogs. But there was something decidedly odd about her body language. Her shoulders kept rising and falling convulsively as if she were having some form of seizure. Concerned, he raced his way up the path to her garden and discovered that his cheery neighbor was bawling her head off.
“Why, Bitsy, what’s wrong?”
“N-Nothing…”
“Is it Becca? Did she have a relapse?”
“N-No…” Bitsy groped for a Kleenex in the pocket of her coat and swiped at her eyes and nose. “It’s nothing like that. I don’t want to talk about it. Please just … leave me alone, will you?”
“I’m your friend. If you’re upset I want to help. Talk to me, will you?”
Bitsy knelt there in stubborn silence, her eyes red and swollen.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to go make my deliveries, but I’m not leaving until you tell me what this is about.”
“Mitch, you have six elderly shut-ins who are counting on you for a hot meal. Just go, will you? I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Take a ride with me. We can talk in my truck.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “I insist.”
She let him help her to her feet and walked back to his cottage with him, her eyes cast despondently down at the ground. He went inside for his keys and his wallet. Then they climbed into his high-riding Studey half-ton pickup and eased over the wooden causeway and down the dirt road that snaked its way through the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve. When they reached Old Shore Road Mitch coaxed the old truck up onto the pavement and started toward the village, feeling the steering wheel begin to shake and pull to the left as he picked up speed. He wondered if it was the tie rods. Probably ought to get them checked.
Bitsy rode beside him in silence, gazing forlornly out her window, before she finally said, “You may have noticed that I have someone in my life now.”
What he’d noticed was that lately she’d been going out every Saturday night and not coming home until Sunday morning. When there’s only one other resident on an island you pick up on such things. “So you’ve been seeing someone?”
“I’m in love, Mitch.”
“That’s wonderful, Bitsy.”
“No, it’s not. It’s awful…” She stifled a sob. “I—I never, ever thought I’d have a man in my life again. I’d gotten used to being alone. I’m a fifty-five-year-old post-menopausal woman and, God knows, I’m no swimsuit model.”
“Nonsense. You’re very attractive.”
“Mitch, if you’re going to sit there and fling poo at me I swear I will jump right out of this truck. I’m being serious here. Men don’t look at me that way anymore. Like they’re wondering what I look like naked, I mean.” She glanced over at him. “Do you know what I’ve missed more than anything else? Being wanted. That’s how he makes me feel. When we’re together I feel like I matter to someone.”
“So you’ve been spending the night at his place?”
“No, we stay in a suite at the Mohegan Sun casino. We order caviar and champagne from room service, take bubble baths together. It’s like a schoolgirl fantasy.”
“And who, may I ask, is this lucky schoolboy?”
Bitsy shook her head. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why not? Wait, is he married?”
She twitched her snub nose at him. “I’m not saying another word about him. So don’t ask me.”
Mitch steered the truck toward the village, dying with curiosity. Who is Bitsy’s boyfriend? “Can I at least ask you how long it’s been going on?”
“A couple of months, although he’s someone who I’ve known for quite a while. He called me up to ask for my advice about a tree he was thinking about planting. We ended up having a drink together.… He loves me, Mitch. He’s told me so. Many, many times. He’s very affectionate. And we laugh a lot, sometimes for no reason at all.”
“So why the tears? What’s gone wrong?”
“Lately, he’s … let’s just say I’ve become aware that I’m not the only woman in his life.”
“What has he done to make you think that?”
“Little things. Like he’ll start to tell me a story and suddenly stop and say, ‘Did I already tell you this?’ Or he’ll call me a pet name that he’s never called me before. Or … I don’t know, I just get the feeling that sometimes he can’t remember which one of us he’s with. Maybe it’s all my imagination. Maybe I’m being silly and stupid and—and…” She sighed mournfully. “Mitch, how do I know if he’s being faithful to me?”
“It’s very simple. You ask him.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. I don’t want to be that woman.”
“What woman?”
“The possessive, clinging vine who makes him crazy.”
“So instead you’re making yourself crazy.”
“What if I were to ask him, say, ‘Where do you see our relationship going?’”
“God, no. That’s the second worst thing a woman can say to a man.”
“What’s the worst thing?”
“The worst? ‘That’s okay, darling. Size doesn’t really matter.’”
“Mitch, he doesn’t like to be seen in public with me.”
“The Mohegan Sun casino isn’t exactly low profile.”
“We take separate cars there and never go inside together. He checks in while I wait in the parking lot. Then he calls me and gives me the room number. He always pays. He insists on that. And we always leave separately. He insists on that, too.”
“So the two of you are never seen together.…” Mitch considered this as he drove them toward the steepled white Congregational Church that was the Historic District’s anchor, its trademark, its Eiffel Tower. “He sure sounds married to me. Is he married?”
“Please don’t ask me anything more about him. Just be my friend, all right?”
“Sure, Bitsy. Whatever you say.”
She mustered a faint smile. “Thank you. And thank you for letting me vent. I’m a total basket case. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Not to worry. We’ll figure it out.” He pulled into the church’s gravel driveway and parked around in back behind the Fellowship Center. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said as he got out, wondering, wondering.
Who is Bitsy’s boyfriend?
The Fellowship Center, which had been added on to the church in the 1970s, functioned as Dorset’s community center. Senior citizens gravitated there every morning to play cards. Support groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous met there in the evenings. Blood drives were held there. And it was the headquarters for Meals on Wheels, which was run by Loretta Beckwith Holland. Loretta was a blue-blooded go-getter who also headed up the Youth Services Bureau, which found part-time jobs for local teenagers.
Mitch went inside through the kitchen door and got in line behind the other drivers to collect his thermal carriers, his nostrils greatly intrigued by the scent that was wafting from them. Yesterday’s hot lunch had been Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. And he was pretty sure he recognized what today’s was.
Loretta was handing off the thermal carriers and checking the names from the list on her clipboard. Loretta was in her late forties, slim, lithe, and extremely attractive. She had long, shiny black hair streaked with silver, great cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and a toothy, radiant smile. She was dressed in a sleek, raspberry-colored hooded sweater that looked like cashmere—probably because it was—and a pair of Ralph Lauren skinny jeans. Not many women her age could wear skinny jeans, but Loretta happened to possess a taut, nicely shaped little butt. Mitch knew this because he’d spent a lot of hours gazing at it. He and Loretta took the same heated vinyāsa yoga class twice a week at the Dorset Fitness Center. His mat was usually behind Loretta’s because she was a highly accomplished front-row yogini and Mitch was a gasping water buffalo who hid in the back row hoping that their teacher, Amber, wouldn’t holler at him. Loretta also used the fitness center’s weight machines several times a week, biked, ran, kept to a vegan diet, and spent a lot of time at spas. Or so it seemed. She was always perfectly manicured and pedicured. Her smooth face positively glowed.
She smiled at Mitch warmly when he arrived at the head of the line. “Why, it’s the great Mitch Berger. I still can’t believe that a man of your stature shows up here to deliver hot lunches.”
“My peeps count on me.” He sniffed at the air. “Fish sticks and tater tots, right?”
“Do your peeps know that the free lunches you bring them aren’t free? That you pay three dollars for each and every one of them out of your own pocket?”
“Loretta, that little detail is strictly between us. They wouldn’t accept the meals if they knew that.”
“I swear, sometimes I think you’re just like a character from one of those old movies you’re always writing about. Will I see you at yoga today?”
“You bet.”
“Can you spare me a few minutes after class? There’s something I’d like to speak to you about.”
“If it’s the secret to my one-legged crow pose that you’re after, I don’t know how I do it. I just do it, except for when I don’t and hit the floor with my face.”
“It’s not yoga related. It’s a sort of project. Shall we discuss it over a smoothie?”
“It’s a date,” Mitch said, grabbing his thermal carriers by their handles.
Loretta gasped. “Did you just say date? You shouldn’t talk that way. You’re an attractive young man. I’m an impressionable older woman. I’m likely to swoon.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” Mitch lugged his carriers out to his truck and piled them on the floor next to Bitsy’s feet. Then he got in, started up the engine, and eased his way out of the parking lot. Bitsy seemed much more composed now, though she did have a damp tissue clutched in her hand. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear that Loretta just went Mrs. Robinson on me,” he said to her.
“Mrs. Robinson as in…?”
“She was flirting with me.”
Bitsy narrowed her gaze at him. “Are you interested in her?”
“I’m in love with Des, remember?”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Why, does Loretta have a reputation?”
“For what?”
“Hello, what were we just talking about?”
“She doesn’t fool around, if that’s what you mean. Loretta didn’t take up with Gaylord Holland until her marriage to John Friday failed. She’s a class act—same as I used to be before I started sneaking off to the Mohegan Sun like a tramp.”
“You told me you were in love.”
“Maybe I’ve just been fooling myself,” she said glumly. “Maybe I’m nothing more than a sad, pathetic idiot.”
“Bitsy, I don’t believe that for one second. And neither do you,” Mitch said as he drove along, all the while wondering, wondering.
Who is Bitsy’s boyfriend?
CHAPTER 5
DES WAS DOING A routine sweep of the Big Branch Road shopping district when the call came in from the 911 dispatcher. A man who resided at 19 Appleby Lane wished to speak to her on the phone about a “personal matter.” Des pulled into the Citizens Bank parking lot and called him.
An elderly man with a raspy voice answered on the first ring. Elderly men always answer on the first ring.
“This is Resident Trooper Mitry. How may I help you?”
“A young fellow just rang my doorbell and I didn’t like the look of him.”
“Why was that, sir?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. When I answered the door he asked me if I needed any tree work done. Only, he wasn’t looking up at any of my trees. He was looking in the front windows at my living room. Pale little fellow with soft white hands. I know what a workingman’s hands look like. This kid was no workingman. Looked more like a barfly to me. When I asked him for a business card he got real shifty eyed and said he didn’t have one, then got in his car and drove off.”
“Would you happen to remember what kind of…?”
“A bright blue Ford Fiesta. Itty-bitty thing. I’ve got the license plate number right here.” He read it to her. She jotted it down. “He headed up the lane maybe three, four minutes ago and I haven’t seen him come back down yet.” Appleby was a dead-end road. “Don’t mean to bother you, Trooper, but I thought I ought to call.”
“No bother at all,” Des assured him. “This is what I’m here for.”
Appleby Lane was in the middle of the Historic District off of Dorset Street, right next to the library. As Des steered her Crown Vic there, she ran the Ford Fiesta’s plate on her computer. It belonged to a Darla Romine, age twenty-one, who lived at 1709 Kelton Avenue, Apartment 1C, in Cardiff, which was Dorset’s landlocked, less affluent neighbor to the north. She ran Darla and turned up one arrest for drunk and disorderly and one for drug possession. Both charges against her were eventually dropped.
She found the Fiesta pulled onto the shoulder up near the top of Appleby, a narrow twisting lane that was a mix of old farmhouses and new McMansions. The kid wasn’t in it. He was knocking on somebody else’s front door. Des idled two houses away, watching him. When nobody answered he stood there looking around rather aimlessly for a moment before he started back to the car, his shoulders hunched inside of the navy blue pea coat that he had on. It looked a couple of sizes too large for him, as if he’d borrowed it from his big brother. He got back in the Fiesta and started it up.
Des moved on in, flashing her lights at him. Then she got out, squared her big hat on her head, and approached him.
He was in his early twenties, scrawny and most definitely not someone who worked outdoors. He was pale and sickly looking, with dark circles under his eyes. Had a wispy goatee, stringy hair, and a runny nose that looked as if it had been squashed in a couple of fights. Skeejie. He looked skeejie. Also familiar.
“Sir, how are you today?” she asked, tipping her hat.
“Okay, I guess,” he answered in a quavery voice.
“What’s your name?”
“Petey Neto.”
“Mr. Neto, may I see your license and registration, please?”
“Why, what did I do?”
“Mr. Neto, I simply asked to see your license and registration. May I, please?”
“It’s my girlfriend’s car. We live together.” He pulled a messy heap of papers from the glove compartment and started sorting through them, his hands trembling.
“That’s it right there,” Des informed him. “Want to hand it to me?”
He handed it to her.
“And now your driver’s license, please.”
He pulled a worn black leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, found his license, and held it out to her.
His full name was Peter Michael Neto. He was twenty-two years old. The address on his license was in South Dorset, not Cardiff. “You said that you and Darla live together?”
“Yeah, for now. Kind of.”
Des studied him as he sat there looking guilty and miserable. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
“I used to stock shelves at the Big Y. My mom’s a cashier there. But I got into, like, this argument with the manager and he bounced me a couple of months ago.”
“I’ve seen you somewhere else.”
