“No, but I have to ask.”
“This is all Tiffany needs. She’s kind of fragile, you know. Doesn’t look it but she is. Her father—” Trish bit her lip and for a second closed her eyes. “Don’t get me started on him. He’s in Alaska now, thank God, but when she was younger he abused her. Big time. And her mother — my daughter Claire — is an alcoholic, can barely take care of herself, much less any children. Tiffany’s twenty-six and, sure, one day soon she’ll move out. But in the meantime I guess you could say I’m both her mother and her grandmother.”
Loud squawks issued from the chickens’ enclosure where Captain Ahab was chasing one of the hens. “Oh, come on, Ahab,” called Trish, “it’s getting to be bedtime.” She tapped the bat lightly against the chicken wire. “Did those guys from the crime lab find anything?”
Dean hesitated, then shook his head.
“I should have been a detective,” said Trish. “I think what you do is so interesting. Beats vacuuming rugs and dusting bookshelves, that’s for sure. You know what I think about the murderer? He wipes his prints off the glass, off that ashtray, doesn’t leave anything lying around. A real careful guy, looks like. But somewhere he screwed up. I’ll bet anything.”
“We should hire you.”
The door to the ranchhouse opened, and Tiffany stepped out on the small porch. Gone were the bluejeans and soiled shirt, the bandana around her head. She wore pressed slacks and a raspberry-colored blouse, and her dark hair was piled on top in a thick swirl. Across her wide mouth, black lipstick.
Dean’s mouth formed the word “wow,” but no sound came out. There was a sound from Trish beside him, though: a low chuckle.
“Hello, lieutenant.” Tiffany came down the steps twirling a small umbrella with a forefinger. “Any leads on who killed Lacy?”
“Not really.”
“Someone didn’t like him.”
“Did you?”
Tiffany came so close to Dean that he could smell a lemony perfume. She looked at him for a long time without speaking. A sadness about her, but also a spunkiness. She didn’t look like the type of person who wasted time dwelling on her hard background. “No,” she said. “He was too cheap and he was mean.”
“Mean?”
“If he had something he didn’t want, he might let you have it. But if he thought you wanted it, no way. I found a lampshade in the trash once that was perfectly good, so I got it out to take home. He saw me leaving the house with the shade and decided he hadn’t meant to throw it away after all.”
“If you didn’t like him, why’d you work for him?”
“I’ve wondered about that myself. Right, Gran? I mean there’s plenty of work out there cleaning houses. I didn’t care for him, but I loved his place. The three story house with the big library, the lawns and statues, the tennis court, and behind all that, Shincracker Hill. I used to take my lunch up to Shincracker, sit there on top of the world eating a sandwich. You can see into New York, New Hampshire, Canada from that hill. And Lacy owned it.” Her eyes had taken on a dreamy look. “Sometimes I would pretend I owned his estate. Dream on, right?”
She was looking at Dean but not smiling. He had never seen eyes that dark or that luminous before. They seemed to go right through him, skewer him, and he coughed into his fist and looked away.
“Oops,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Supposed to meet someone fifteen minutes ago. Have a nice evening.” She started across the lawn toward the garage.
“You too,” he called after her, and then blurted out, “On second thought...”
She turned, waiting.
Dean didn’t know what had gotten into him. He knew he could be reckless — a year ago he’d been arrested by a statie for speeding — but something about this woman made him more than reckless. Made him foolhardy. “If you’re going out with someone, I hope you have a lousy time.”
Without any hesitation Tiffany laughed. “I don’t know about a lousy time, but it will be less than exciting. George is nice but dull.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Dean. He watched the Nova pull out and go down the dirt drive.
“Do you like baseball, Dean?”
“Huh?” He turned to the grandmother, who had a knowing twinkle in her eye. He decided he needed to be more professional and squared his shoulders. “Excuse me?”
“Baseball.” Her steady blue eyes held his, and she raised the bat, took a short swing.
“Sure. I like baseball. Why?”
“Tiffany’s playing at Simmons Field tomorrow in that women’s softball league. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.” Trish tapped the fat end of the bat into her other palm. “You want to see someone who can move? Stop by tomorrow at three.”
“Mrs. Hazelton — Trish — I would love to, but I’ve got so much work to do I don’t know where to start.”
Saturday morning Bunk was leaning back in his swivel chair at the station, throwing darts at a blowup of Saddam Hussein pasted to a dartboard. “Why don’t I get better at this?” he said as the dart stuck in the edge of the board. From the far corner of the room Sergeant Bannister, bent over a computer and going through his fourth cup of bad coffee that morning, called out for Bunk to hang in there.
“You’d just better hope Heather doesn’t catch you doing this,” Dean told him. Heather was the police department secretary, with an office in the next room.
“An odd thing,” said Bunk, cocking his arm for another throw, “but I prefer darts to guns. I should’ve been born two thousand years ago when the cops were still using spears. I’d have been a better shot then, too.”
There was a loud thunk as the dart embedded itself in the walnut veneer.
The door to the squad room jerked open, and Heather’s face appeared, flushed under neatly curled, blue-rinsed hair. “How old are you, Bunk?”
“That’s an indelicate question.”
Dean was trying to keep from laughing, but he also felt a wrench. He suspected that Heather, recently widowed, had more than a professional interest in Bunk, who also, five years ago, had lost his spouse. But Bunk, though he clearly liked and respected their secretary, wasn’t responding. It was almost as if he liked being lonely.
The chief rose and headed for the dartboard. “I’ll have to get a bigger board,” he said.
Shaking her head, Heather went back into her office.
“Almost forgot.” Bunk was back in his chair. “This stuff just came back from the lab.” From a box on his desk he took out the whisky glass, the ashtray, Tennis magazine. “Charlie thinks the killer used a hankie to wipe his prints off the glass and ashtray. Oh, here’s something you might be interested in. A little souvenir of the case.” Bunk held up a matchbook with, on the cover, a trumpet amid floating notes and the words BLUE NOTE. “I saw another one of these in the library, so we know they belonged to Lacy, not the killer. Here, you’re into jazz.” He tossed the matches to Dean.
“Maybe a ghost shot him,” said Dean, turning the matchbook in his hand. He opened it, saw that only one match was missing, and shoved it into his pocket.
“We know one thing; this wasn’t a crime of passion, it was planned.”
“So who does that narrow it down to?”
Bunk had gone to the window, was looking at a light rain falling on Church Street. “This is enough to start me smoking again.” He turned and faced his lieutenant, his lined face grim. “Heather got in touch with Lacy’s lawyer, learned that his brother Marty is the main beneficiary, gets the house and close to two million. And get this. The rest goes to setting up tennis clinics in New Jersey for disadvantaged kids. Isn’t that something? Nobody seems to like the guy, but there was something there. He had a dream, I guess.” Bunk picked up a dart, set it down again. “So what about the brother? That house and two million bucks isn’t exactly pocket change.”