“Yeah, I did,” he murmured.
“Were you on board alone?”
“Callie didn’t stay over. She was pulling an all-nighter at the studio.”
“You didn’t answer the question, son,” the Deacon pointed out. “She asked if you were alone.”
June reddened. “Yeah, I was alone.”
No wonder June was no good at selling cars. He was one sucky liar.
“And I think I did hear something going on over there-now that you mention it. A couple woke me up some time in the middle of the night. I don’t know when. But it didn’t sound like any altercation. More like they, you know, snuck away after the party and were getting busy on the beach.”
“Did you hear anything besides them getting busy?”
June frowned. “Yeah, I heard someone spashing around in the water. I think it was her. Yeah, it was definitely her. Because the guy called out to her.”
“How did he sound? Was he angry?”
“No, more like he was afraid she’d drown or something.” June’s eyes widened. “Did somebody drown?”
“Nobody drowned. Did you get a look at either of them?”
“No, I was below deck. Just woke up for a second and then went right back to sleep. I’d completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it.”
“June, do you remember if he called her by her name? Or used a term of endearment of any kind?”
June pondered this for a moment. “He called her ‘girl.’”
“Can you tell me anything about his voice?”
“Not really. Just that he sounded… black. Not that I’m trying to racially profile him or anything. It was just the impression I got.”
“Understood. Did you get any kind of impression in regards to his age? Was he young? Educated? Not so educated?”
“I really didn’t get any kind of read on that. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. You’ve been a huge help, June. Thanks.”
“No problem. And, hey, please thank Mitch, will you?”
“For?…”
“Callie’s been conflicted about some things. She told me he’s been helping her sort them out.”
“That’s my man.”
Des and the Deacon started back across the lawn now toward the patio, where Bonita lay stretched languorously in that lounge chair, her long, lovely legs crossed at the ankles.
“June’s not in some kind of trouble, is he?” she asked them.
“Not at all,” Des assured her. “I was just asking him if he heard a disturbance down on your neighbor’s beach late last night-perhaps two or three o’clock. Were you up that late by any chance?”
“Why, no. That party of theirs was so out of control that I took an Ambien. As soon as you quieted them down, I went to sleep and stayed asleep.”
“And how about your husband?”
“He drank an entire bottle of Scotch and conked out, too.”
“How do you know that?” the Deacon asked her.
Bonita batted her baby blues at him. “How do I know what?”
“That he drank an entire bottle of Scotch and conked out. You just said that you were asleep.”
“Well, I don’t know it. But that’s what he does every single night of the year. Why would last night be any different?”
“No reason at all,” he said to her politely. “Lovely home you have here.”
“Why, thank you, Deputy Superintendent Mitry.”
They took the bluestone path back toward her cruiser.
The Deacon was a very patient man. He waited until he got back in the car, closed his door and fastened his seat belt before he turned to Des and said, “How long has that boy been sleeping with his stepmother?”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“I’d hardly classify that lady as subtle.”
“I’d hardly classify that lady as a lady. Think she took that Ambien?”
“Not a chance,” the Deacon replied. “I don’t think she slept in her own bed either.”
“June told Mitch that it was she who initiated things-for whatever that’s worth. He’s sailing out of here before she gets her nasty on and tells his dad.”
“And this girlfriend, Callie, of his? How much does she know?”
“Poor girl hasn’t got a clue. June wants her to drop out of school and come with him. Mitch is trying to talk her into finishing out the semester first.”
He gazed through the windshield at the Bonds’ picture-postcard home with its multimillion-dollar view of the Sound. “These people make me sick.”
“Welcome to Dorset, Popsy.”
“Get us the hell out of here, Desiree. And don’t you ever call me ‘Popsy’ again.”
CHAPTER 12
“So, Buck, what do you think about these two crazy kids of ours?”
The icebreaker play. Unreal. His father was actually going for the old icebreaker play. Hell, he’d probably been rehearsing that lame line all day.
“I think,” the Deacon replied slowly, “that we all deserve a chance to be happy in this life. And no one should judge what does or doesn’t make someone else happy.”
“Amen to that, Buck.”
Damned if it didn’t work, too. The two fathers actually clinked glasses over the picnic table and took sips of their Sancerre.
Seventeen minutes. Mitch began to breathe in and out normally for the first time since Des and her steely, six-feet-four-inch ramrod of a father showed up seventeen minutes ago. Seventeen whole minutes of forced small talk, awkward silences and even more awkward silences. There wasn’t a natural ease between the Deacon and Mitch’s incredible shrinking father. The Deacon wasn’t a relaxed or easy man. He’d shown up for dinner wearing a gray flannel suit. Chet had on a madras shirt and a pair of mango-colored Florida slacks snugged up to his sternum. Mitch really wanted to floor it to the Frederick House and nuke his father’s entire wrinkle-free wardrobe. Instead he got busy lighting the grill. Des was inside the house with Ruth fetching some nibblies.
“Sa-weet spot Mitch has here, isn’t it?” Chet said as the two fathers gazed out at the Sound.
“Beautiful sunset tonight, too,” the Deacon observed.
Beautiful and rare. It was a blood red sunset. The western sky was pure crimson and the water had a rosy glow unlike anything Mitch had ever seen before. Meanwhile, from the south, ominous gray storm clouds were rolling in.
Des and Ruth came out of the house now, Ruth carrying a bowl of those healthful unsalted soy nuts that taste remarkably like packing material.
“This sure beats the early bird special at our coffee shop, doesn’t it, Ruthie?” Chet called out to her.
“Yes, it does.”
“I hope I can get our dinner cooked before it starts to rain,” Mitch said, studying the dark clouds.
“It’s not going to rain,” Chet said with total certainty. “It can’t.”
“Why do you say that, Pop?”
“Because the sky’s all red. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ Everyone knows that.”
“The Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, predicted rain.”
“Then the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore, is wrong.”
“Not possible. Jim Cantore’s never wrong.”
“Don’t get between Mitch and Jim Cantore,” Des advised Chet. “He has a huge man crush on him.”
“I do not. I just happen to think he’s the greatest weatherman ever.”
Which led to yet another awkward silence. The four of them sat together at the picnic table, Mitch glancing over at Des. She had a slightly panicked expression on her face. And he swore he could hear her stomach churning in the evening quiet.
Happily, the Deacon dove in with an uber-lame icebreaker of his own: “Do you folks enjoy being retired down there in Vero Beach?”
“No, we do not,” Chet replied. “That’s why we’re moving back to New York.”
Mitch stared at him in shock. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Chet beamed at him. “We’re coming back. We’ve been saving the big news for tonight, what with this being a special occasion with special friends. We miss the city. We miss being alive. You know what Vero is? An outpost for a bunch of self-satisfied schnorrers who never did a goddamned thing for anybody else their whole lives. And all they do now is kvetch about their bunions and their lazy, ungrateful kids. We thought we’d be happy down there. We thought it was time to collect our pensions and take it easy. We were wrong. This whole retirement thing is a crock. If you’re not doing something then you’re not alive. Am I right, Ruthie?”