“Could he figure in?”
“Figure in, Lieutenant?”
“Romantically. He and Mrs. Seymour.”
“He’s quite a bit younger than Dolly, not that that necessarily means no.” Bliss shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what goes on between two people? I certainly don’t.”
“Was he acquainted with the victim?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Doubtful he has anything to do with it, then,” Des mused aloud. “Besides, why dig up the body himself? Why incriminate himself?”
The trooper nodded in solemn agreement. “And Dolly did give him explicit permission to dig there. I can’t imagine her doing so if she knew Niles was down there.”
“Agreed. Not unless she wanted him found.”
The trooper furrowed his brow at her, perplexed. “Why would she want that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just got here. What do we know about this woman who Seymour was supposed to have run off with?”
“Very little. Bud Havenhurst and Red Peck spotted the two of them having brunch together at the Saybrook Point Inn.”
“This was when?”
“Six weeks ago-a Sunday. They described her as young and a bit cheap-looking. The following morning he cleared out and was never seen again. Until now, that is.”
Des made a note to check on this woman at the inn. “And what do we know about Seymour’s background?”
“He showed up here three years ago from Atlantic City, where he’d been selling time-share condos,” Bliss replied with arid disapproval. “I don’t know where he was before that. Or what he was doing.”
She would have to find out. The time-share business attracted some seriously low-life characters. No telling who Seymour may have crossed swords with. Or what else he had been into. Possibly, it was his past that had followed him out here. Because there was the matter of the money-he had, supposedly, cleaned out their bank accounts before he disappeared. Where was it? Possibly, she reflected, he had owed it to someone. Possibly they had induced him to withdraw it and then had killed him so as to cover their tracks. She would have to follow the money trail. Match up the date of the withdrawals with the date he had disappeared. And the means of withdrawal could prove to be critical. Had he done it in person? If so, there would be witnesses at the bank. If not-if he had done it electronically-there would not be. In fact, the withdrawals might have been done by anyone who knew the correct PINs. His widow, for example. She had the means. Possibly a jealousy motive. But could she have acted alone? Not likely. Seymour was killed somewhere else. No way she could have moved him to the garden and buried him by herself. An accomplice, then. But who?
“Do you want me involved from here on in?” asked Bliss, cutting in on her thoughts. Ordinarily, the resident trooper yielded now to Major Crimes and resumed his regular duties.
“Damned right I do.” She had found him to be an exceedingly valuable liaison to the community. He knew the players. He was one of them. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“Where’s Mrs. Seymour right now?”
“She’s upstairs resting. Her doctor’s been out to see her. You’ll discover that Dolly is, well, not a strong individual. I would suggest you tread lightly. Which is not to say you wouldn’t…”
“I hear you, Trooper.”
“As for the rest of them,” he said, “Bitsy Peck, Bud Havenhurst and young Evan were gathered in Dolly’s kitchen last time I looked. Red Peck is about halfway to Japan right now. Mandy Havenhurst’s in New York City and Jamie Devers is up at the Great White Whale, his antique shop. The tenant’s in the carriage house.”
“I do believe I’ll start with him,” Des said. “When Sergeant Tedone returns, why don’t you two set up shop in the kitchen? Give him any assistance he might need while he takes statements. I’ll be along soon enough.”
“Right.” He tipped his hat at her politely and went striding off toward the house.
The front door to the little carriage house was open. She tapped and when she heard a response stepped inside. It was a wonderful little house. But it wasn’t the exposed, hand-hewn beams or the huge fire crackling in the stone fireplace that caught her initial attention. It was the light-windows, windows everywhere. And nothing but unobstructed views of the Sound. Even on a raw gray day the place was drenched with the purest of natural light. What a studio this would make. Not even in her wildest dreams could Des imagine such a studio.
It was so magnificent that it took a moment for her to notice its occupant.
He was standing in front of the fire, sipping a mug of coffee and staring into the flames. He was a large-sized man, not fat but definitely soft around the edges. He wore a rumpled navy-blue wool shirt and baggy khakis. And when he turned to look at her, there was something unusual about his eyes that Des noticed immediately.
Mitch Berger had the saddest eyes Des had ever seen on any creature that was not living at the Humane Society, its wet nose and furry paws pressed to the door of its cage.
“Mr. Berger, I’m Lt. Desiree Mitry of the Major Crimes Squad, Central District. I have some questions.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said hoarsely, crossing the room toward her. He was taller than Des by an inch or two. And a good deal wider. “I’m sorry if I’m…” He ran a hand through his uncombed hair, clearly distraught. “I guess I’m still a little shook. It was the smell more than anything. I-I wasn’t prepared for that, you know? I mean, I’ve seen that kind of thing in a lot of movies. So I was somewhat conditioned. But the stench… I guess I understand now why Smell-o-vision never really caught on in a big way. It’s still there in my nostrils. I just can’t seem to get rid of it.”
“Have you got any oranges around?”
“I think so. Why?”
“What you do, you cut off a piece of the peel and rub it in between your fingers. Then sniff ’em. There’s an essence in the oil. Fix you right up.”
“Thanks, I’m going to try that.” He immediately started for the kitchen. “Can I cut you one, too?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“I guess people like you get used to it.”
“People like me never get used to it. I don’t like to see anything get dead. Not even a cockroach.”
“I guess you’ve never lived in New York.”
She let out a polite laugh while her eyes got busy flicking around the room, taking in the contents. He was a musician. There was an electric guitar and colossal stack of amps. There was a computer. Books and papers. Most everything else in the place looked like it came from a junk shop. All except for the two framed pieces of art that hung from the walls. Over the fireplace there was a framed photograph of Georgia O’Keeffe when she was an old, old woman. Her intricately lined face was as worn as an ancient streambed. It was the face of someone who had known triumph and defeat, love and loss, joy and pain. It was the face of someone who was still hanging on. A survivor’s face.
“Great portrait, isn’t it?” Mitch Berger said, returning with his orange peel. “I look at her every day and say to myself, ‘If Georgia can make it, I can make it.’” Now he rubbed the peel between his fingers and sniffed at them, rather like a large, inquisitive rabbit. “It belonged to my wife,” he added.
“You’re divorced?”
“No, she died.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, making a mental note to check the date and circumstances of his wife’s death.
The other piece of art, which hung on the wall to the kitchen, was a computer-generated drawing comprised of horizontal lines that seemed to grow incrementally in width the farther they moved from the center. “And that one?” she asked him.
“That’s the Fibonacci Series,” he replied. “Last thing my wife designed. She was a landscape architect.” He tossed the orange peel into the fire and turned and gazed at Des with his wounded puppy eyes. “So are you a homicide detective?”
“Something like that.”
“You must encounter a lot of horrible things.”
“We are not a kindly animal, Mr. Berger. We can be especially cruel to the ones we love the most.” This particular nugget of hardedged wisdom she had learned in the bedroom, not the streets. She smiled at him now, looking around. “I am loving this house.”