The pink-cheeked barmaid returned now with Des’s sandwich and cider.
Des dived in hungrily. “Were you ever involved with Melanie?”
“Why are you so interested in her?”
Des told him why. “Naturally, the lieutenant’s asked me to find out as much background about her as I can,” she explained.
Dirk sat there staring grimly into the fire for a moment, a thumb absently stroking his square jaw. “I can help you out, I guess. But I want you to know this is not something I would talk to you about under normal circumstances, and I take no pleasure in doing so now. I always liked Melanie, understand?”
“I do.”
Dirk shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the other couple in the pub, then leaned across the table toward Des, lowering his voice. “The real deal is that everyone was involved with Melanie-me, Timmy Keefe, Timmy’s brother, Will… Back when we were fifteen years old, Melanie was a rite of passage, I guess, you’d call her. Everybody’s first. You got yourself a couple of joints, a six-pack, and you hit the beach after dark with Melanie Zide. It wasn’t like she’d do just anybody. If she thought you were stuck-up or phony, she wouldn’t let you anywhere near her. But if she thought you were okay then, well, you were in.” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t believe somebody shot her. You say her body washed up on Big Sister?”
“It’s possible that someone took her out on their boat and dumped her.” Des took another bite of her sandwich, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “You mentioned you’ve been out on Tim’s Boston Whaler.”
“That’s right. He and I…” Dirk’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm, his body tensing. “Wait, you don’t think I did it, do you? I swear I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
“It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve you, Mr. Doughty,” Des said, calmly sipping at her cider. “I’m simply recanvassing, that’s all. Since I’m the lowly resident trooper, I’ve been given the longest of the long shots. But I have to do my job, understand?”
“I guess.” Dirk relaxed a bit, although his big calloused hand was still gripping his cider mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. “As long as you understand I had no reason to kill Melanie. I mean, hell, why would I?”
“In theory? Because she knew something that could hurt you.”
“Like what?”
“Like, say, the identity of Colin Falconer’s male cyber lover, Cutter.”
“Why the hell would I care about that?”
“Because you’re Cutter.”
Dirk gaped at her in shock. “Now look, I know I use a laptop, but that’s to keep track of my billing, not to carry on some… some
… Hey, we are still talking theory here, right?”
“All we’re doing is spitballing,” Des assured him.
“That’s good,” he said, pausing to sip his cider. “Because I honestly can’t think of a single reason why I’d want to carry on with Falconer that way.”
“I can-to ruin his career.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he was having an affair with Moose Frye, and you still loved her. You never stopped loving her. That’s why you came back to Dorset-to try to win her back.”
“Whoa, I’m calling time-out here…” Dirk furrowed his brow at her, bewildered. “Are we still spitballing?”
Of course they were. But there was no reason he had to know that. So Des said, “You tell me. She got you that job with the Leanses, didn’t she?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But what does that mean?”
“That you were still in touch with her, maybe.”
“She was like a sister to me,” Dirk insisted, his voice catching slightly. “We all grew up together-me, Moose, Takai, Timmy, Melanie-all of us.”
“And your wife, Laurie?”
“What about Laurie?”
“Is your life together back in Toledo as solid as you’ve been portraying it?”
“It’s rock-solid,” Dirk said, his face a tight, angry mask.
“Would she echo that if I called her up on the phone?”
“Okay, so we have some issues,” he said defensively. “Name one couple that doesn’t. I want kids. A whole bunch of kids. She wants to keep working full-time. My work takes me on the road a lot. She hates the road. She loves Toledo. I hate Toledo. But the important thing is I’m staying focused and sober. We can work this stuff out. We can work it all out.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Laurie?”
“Three weeks ago,” he admitted, ducking his head. “How did you know about us anyway? Have you already called her?”
“No, but you should. The more you talk, the better.”
“You sound awful sure about that,” Dirk observed.
“Only because I’ve been through it. He was in Washington. I was in New Haven. Our marriage died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, just outside of Trenton. You have to stay each other’s best friend, Mr. Doughty. The day the friendship stops, the marriage stops. So call her. Call her to say good morning. Call her to say good night. Damn it, just call her, will you?”
The charred remains of the feed troughs and livestock had been cleared away from the ditch out in front of Winston Farms. But a foul stench still lingered in the air, just to serve as a reminder of what had happened there-not that Des or anyone else in Dorset would ever be able to forget.
She cruised another half mile past the crossroads before she turned at the fire station onto Mill Road. Tim Keefe’s was the third house on the right, an old wood-shingled farmhouse with a sagging porch. His pretty blond wife, Debbie, was finishing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. Tim was out in his shop, she informed Des cheerfully.
It was a converted barn fully rigged up with a big band saw, lathe, drill press, router and workbenches. It smelled of linseed oil, glue and fresh-sawed lumber. Husky young Tim, with his ruddy face, walrus mustache and air of steady maturity, was brushing a coat of water-based polyurethane sealer onto some oak kitchen cupboards, ZZ Top providing background music on the radio.
“Come on in, Trooper Mitry,” he called to her, turning down the music. “Just getting your cabinets ready for installation. How do you like ’em?”
“They look great, Tim.” In fact, they were even nicer than she’d imagined. “Really great.”
“I think so, too,” he agreed. “Hey, we got those new roof joists in for you today.”
“So the roofers can start tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.
“If the weather holds.” Tim never, ever just said yes. Always, there was an if. “What brings you by-is it the Melanie thing?”
“You heard the news on the radio?”
“No, Dirk just called me,” he answered, continuing to brush on the sealer, his strokes smooth and sure. “Why would someone want to do an awful thing like that to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I understand you and Dirk knew her pretty well back in high school.”
Tim immediately reddened, just as Dirk had, and shot a nervous glance through the open barn door at the house. “That was a long time ago,” he pointed out delicately. “Before Debbie and me ever started going together.”
“You went to school with Moose, too, am I right?”
“You bet,” he agreed, eager to change the subject. “Absolutely.”
“How did she feel about Dirk?”
“She loved the guy, no two ways about it. Would have married him, too, if Takai hadn’t turned his head. Dirk, he liked Moose well enough, but he didn’t appreciate her. Not when we were seventeen, eighteen years old. Let’s face it-when guys are that age we’re drawn to certain flashier qualities in women.”
She smiled at him. “You mean you’re taken in by certain flashier qualities, don’t you?”
Tim let out a laugh. “Okay, you win. What Moose had going for her was intelligence and warmth and good, common sense. She would have made a fine wife and mother, a partner for life. Dirk would have come to realize that as time went on, but he never got the chance. Takai made sure of that,” he added with obvious distaste.
“Why did she?”
“Because she could,” he answered simply. “And because she never could stand Moose having anything that she didn’t have. That’s Takai. Hell, she never really wanted Dirk. But she got him. And she poisoned that well for all time. I’ve always felt bad about it, to be honest. If she’d just left him alone, cast her spell on some other poor slob, he and Moose might have had something solid together. Moose would have kept him level-headed, despite all of those ups and downs of his ball-playing career. He’d have a life there on that farm with her. He’d have been happy.” Tim finished coating the cupboards and went over to the work sink in the corner to wash out the brush. He kept an old refrigerator next to the sink. He offered her a beer. She declined. He pulled out a cold bottle of Corona, popped the cap and took a long, thirsty gulp. “As it turned out, neither one of them ever got happy.”