“Can I give you a lift to school? We can throw your bike in back.”
Callie shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Why not?”
He hoisted her bike into the back of the Studey and made room for her on the front seat. She got in next to him and Mitch eased the truck down the long, rutted gravel drive. He offered her a donut. Callie declined. He helped himself to one. “How’s June doing?”
“He’s fine,” she answered as Mitch inched out into the traffic snarl on Turkey Neck. “Except he doesn’t want to sell cars anymore. Never did, if you ask me. He’s just been trying to please his father. As if.”
“What does he really want to do?”
“Sail the Calliope down to the Florida Keys. His dream is to work on sailboats there full-time. Restore them and sell them for a profit. It’s something he’s real good at, Mitch. The Calliope was an absolute wreck when he bought her. Now she’s a thing of beauty. He… sort of wants me to sail down there with him,” Callie added with a casual toss of her hair.
“And when would you do that?”
“This weekend.”
Mitch shot a startled look at her. “That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”
“It’s totally sudden. He just dropped it on me last night. He really, really wants the two of us to get away from this place.”
“Are you saying he wants you to quit the Dorset Academy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“I don’t get it, Callie. What’s the big rush?”
“Don’t ask me. He’s just real unhappy here.”
“Are things okay between June and his dad?”
“As okay as they ever are. Justy rides him awful hard.”
“And how about between you and Justy?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-leese. Not you, too. Everyone figures that because I’m so sucky in those commercials that I must be doing him. Darlene, the last Bond girl? She totally was. I hear Bonita caught the two of them getting busy on the sofa in the customer lounge. An epic screechfest went down. Next thing anybody knew there was a sudden opening for a Bond girl.” Callie changed her mind and reached for a powdered donut, munching on it as they broke free of the traffic on Turkey Neck and started cruising up Old Shore Road toward the Historic District. “Justy gave me the job as a favor to June. He knows I really need the money to help cover my tuition. Although he still owes me like a thousand bucks from the last spots we filmed. Mitch, I swear he’s never put a move on me. Not that he’d ever get anywhere. I mean, God, he’s fifty-five years old. He smells like cheese.”
“Do you get along okay with Bonita?”
“I guess. She’s not really my kind of person. She’s a total taker. She broke up Justy’s marriage to June’s mom, you know.”
“Justy had a little something to do with that.”
“June thinks Bonita took advantage of him. Justy tries to come across as all take-charge but he’s really just a horny, clueless trog who drinks too much. Bonita sized him up right away and moved in for the kill. Or so June thinks. He doesn’t like her very much.”
“You say Justy owes you money. What’s up with that?”
“I think he’s having cash flow problems. People aren’t buying cars like they used to. There was nobody around the place last time I was there.”
“Do you think that’s why June is suddenly so anxious to leave-because Bond’s Auto Mall is circling the drain?”
“Mitch, I really wish I knew. But I don’t.” Callie sighed woefully. “Are you going to eat that last donut?”
CHAPTER 3
“I may not be a football star but I have rights, too,” proclaimed Stewart Plotka, who was holding an impromptu news conference on the shoulder of the road just outside Tyrone Grantham’s driveway. The camera crews practically engulfed him. “I’m here for some justice. And I’m staying here until I get it.”
Plotka was short, tubby and on the whiny side. As photo-op proof of how grievously he’d been injured by Da Beast he wore a highly theatrical black eye patch over his left eye and a splint around his right hand. Picture the world’s shlumpiest pirate and that was Stewart Plotka. The man looked about as dashing as a baked apple standing out there in the hot sun in his sweat-stained knit shirt and rumpled Dockers. His slickly tailored power lawyer, Andrea Halperin, towered over him in her stiletto heels.
Des stood there watching them, fuming. She was pissed at herself for letting Bob Paffin move her around. Not that the old weasel had left her a way out. He knew how to get ugly when he needed to. And, with a rich resident like Justy Bond climbing up his ass, he needed to.
“I have a right to be here,” Plotka went on. The news crews were pretty much blocking the entire road now. The trooper on traffic detail-a big, empty uniform-had lost control of the situation. “And I’m staying here until Tyrone Grantham owns up to what he did to Katie O’Brien.”
Des strolled on over and said, “I hope you don’t mean here here, Mr. Plotka. Because you’re impeding the flow of traffic.”
“Mr. Plotka has a legal right to speak,” asserted Andrea Halperin, who had sleek auburn hair and an intensely self-important air about her. “We’re on public property.”
“And I work for the public. I’m Resident Trooper Desiree Mitry and I’m informing you that you are creating a safety hazard. Please move along.”
“My client is not going anywhere. He has taken up residence at the Saybrook Point Inn and he intends to show up here each and every day until Mr. Tyrone Grantham owns up to what he’s done.”
“I said please move along.” Des kept her voice calm for the cameras. If she wasn’t careful it could bottom out on her and she could come across like Barry White on a bad hair day. “Move along.”
Andrea Halperin knew how to get her client on TV. She also knew when to cut and run. She steered Plotka toward a black Mercedes that was double-parked on the shoulder of the road. They climbed in and sped away, Andrea behind the wheel. The media throng promptly began shouting questions at Des. She ignored them as she strode toward the front gate. A tall, impassive blond trooper stood guard there.
“Hey, Oly,” Des said, smiling at him. Trooper Olsen was a pro who didn’t get all weird around her because she was a she. “What are you supposed to be doing?”
“Nothing,” he replied.
“Nothing?”
“Orders straight from the top.”
“I’m going in.”
“Are they expecting you?”
“They are if they’re watching CNN.”
He pushed a button on the inside of the gatepost. The gate swung open and Des started her way up the long, winding gravel driveway toward the house. The Grantham place had been built during the boom years of the nineties. It resembled a cluster of giant glass Kleenex boxes, some laid out lengthwise, others standing on end. A pair of Cadillac Escalades-one black, one white-was parked out front, along with a silver Range Rover, a blue Porsche 911 Carrera convertible and a tan Lexus SC 430 two-seater. Also a Dodge minivan and a beat-up old Ford pickup. All of the vehicles had New York plates except for the pickup, which had Texas plates.
Des rang the bell.
The door was opened by a lanky, way long young black man in a loose-fitting T-shirt and swim trunks. He was long enough to be a baller-six-feet-eight or nine, easy-and sported a retro-eighties high-top fade, a hairstyle she hadn’t known was staging a comeback. “Yo, lookie here, we got us Resident Trooper Des-aye-ray Mitry!” he exclaimed, flashing her a playful grin. “Ain’t nobody messes with you, sister. When you say move along you mean move along. I’m Big Tee’s cousin Clarence. Clarence Bellows. But since you and me’s about to fall in love just call me Cee, awright?”
It was bright and sunny inside the glass house. From the entry hall Des could see floor-to-ceiling river views. Hear a television blaring. Also hear someone playing jazz chords on a piano. Someone who could really play.