“No, I can’t say he’s behaved inappropriately. It’s just his manner, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.” Des steeled herself and headed into the kitchen. She found Augie on his knees under the sink, turning off the water. Which meant he was treating her to a really unwelcome expanse of hairy white plumber’s crack. “We need to talk, Augie,” she said, turning her eyes somewhere, anywhere else.
“If you say so, sugar lips. But maybe I ought to have a witness in case you try to assault me again, like you did yesterday.”
“I never went near you, Augie.”
“I guess we just have an honest disagreement about that.” Mercifully, he climbed to his feet and went searching in his toolbox for a wrench. “Go ahead, say what you wanted to say.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Fixing the faucet. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Giving Mrs. Breslauer and her guests the once over.”
Augie went to work on the faucet with his wrench. “And why would I want to do that?”
“You told me you have her under surveillance, remember?”
“Okay, true enough,” he allowed.
“Why, Augie?”
“I have my reasons. Good ones. I was going to share them with you yesterday but you weren’t interested-you and your fancy attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude,” she responded calmly. “But you sure do. You go out of your way to antagonize these people. I’m warning you, Augie, keep it up and they will bounce you right out of here.”
“Don’t threaten me, homegirl. And don’t push your luck. I can still swear out a complaint against you.”
“A complaint for what?”
“You pushed me to the ground yesterday.”
“That’s bull. You fell over all by yourself.”
“Did not. But where I come from, only the lowest form of rat bastard swears out a complaint against a fellow officer. So we’re good, you and me.”
“I appreciate it, Augie. That’s real decent of you. Since we’re good, how about if we start over?”
“Start over how?”
“If you want to talk, one professional to another, I’m here to listen.”
“No way,” he snapped. “That window of opportunity is closed.”
“What, you’re punishing me now?”
He turned to face her, his arms crossed, one hand clutching the wrench. “Let’s just say I don’t care what other people think of me. Especially when those other people happen to be you.”
“You have a grudge against me personally, Augie. Why is that?”
He stared at her with his cold, dark, cop’s eyes. They were bottomless pools. He had stared down killers with those eyes. “Are you playing the race card with me now?”
“I’m not playing anything. Just wondering why you have such a big chip on your shoulder. You keep acting like you’re the victim of some grave injustice. Want to tell me about it?”
He soaked that in for a moment before he said, “No. Are we done here?”
“Not quite. Did you stop by my house last night?”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“You tell me.”
Augie raised his chin at her. “You’re talking about that little stink bomb somebody left you, aren’t you?”
“It wasn’t so little, Augie. And if you know anything…”
“If I know anything?”
“Now’s the time to get out in front of it.”
He shook his head at her in amazement. “You think I did it, don’t you? You’re actually accusing me of depositing my poop on your doorstep. Damn, homegirl, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Why don’t you try talking to me instead?”
He went back to work on the faucet. “Okay. If you want me to talk, I’ll talk. Here’s three little words for you: Go. To. Hell.”
CHAPTER 7
As Mitch eased his Studey across the rickety wooden causeway toward home, he was grateful for his island sanctuary. He needed some time alone to reflect. That nice, simple little get-together at Beth’s had gotten complicated in a hurry. It was so great to see Kenny again. He seemed like a terrific guy. Mitch was thrilled that his old friend and Kimberly were so madly in love. But then along came Hal, who it turned out had deep feelings for Kimberly and a world-class temper. Mitch was worried about a round two between Hal and Kenny. He was worried about Augie Donatelli’s obvious and highly unwelcome interest in Beth. The ex-cop was so hot for Mitch’s first love that he’d actually followed her to the Mohegan Sun, for crissakes. Mitch was also worried about the way Augie seemed to be getting under Des’s skin. She’d had words with him in Beth’s kitchen. And wouldn’t tell Mitch a thing about what they had talked about. She’d been unusually tight-lipped. It baffled him. Kimberly’s strange, remote father baffled him. So did her nervous, clingy mother. Hell, they all baffled him. His old life, the one he’d spent in darkened movie houses soaking up the world according to Louis B. Mayer, Sam Goldwyn and the brothers Warner had been so much easier to figure out. Everything was in black and white-even when it was filmed in Technicolor. Out here in Dorset, there were so many different shades of gray that it made his head spin like a gerbil wheel.
An old yellow MGA ragtop was parked at Bitsy’s house. She had company tonight. Mitch could hear the loud, thumping rock music. Although, oddly enough, the music grew louder as he pulled up in front of his own place. Loud enough for him to recognize it as “Trouble No More” off of the Allman Brothers’ landmark Eat a Peach.
The music was coming from his place.
As Mitch climbed out of his truck both Quirt and Clemmie came running up to him, yowling. Clemmie, who seldom went outside, seemed genuinely outraged. Wet clothes were draped over his lawn chairs, Mitch noticed. A pair of jeans, a T-shirt. Mitch didn’t remember leaving them there. He hadn’t. They weren’t his.
He pushed open the cottage’s front door, his heart racing, kick-ass music blasting-and discovered a naked stranger standing in the middle of his living room doing a low-down, hip-swinging boogie to the beat. In one hand he clutched a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in the other a bottle of Corona.
Mitch flicked off the music first thing. Didn’t matter. His bare-assed intruder didn’t stop dancing. Just boogied on for another four, five, six seconds before it dawned upon him that the music had stopped. And swiveled around on one bare heel, gaping at Mitch in surprise.
“Can I help you?” Mitch demanded.
After a long, really long, moment of silence the intruder responded, “Other way around. Bitsy said you wanted my advice.”
“I do?”
Apparently, there was not a reliable high-speed hook up between this guy’s mouth and brain. After another incredibly long gap in time he said, “You’re Mitch, aren’t you? Or am I… Uh-oh, do I have the wrong house?”
“No, you came to the right place.” Mitch studied him more closely. He was slope shouldered and sun-browned, well put together but going to flab, with high, hard cheekbones, uncombed blond hair and zonked-out blue eyes. About forty maybe. If Matthew McConaughey had a brother who’d inhaled way too many paint fumes, he would look just about like Mitch’s naked stranger. “You’re J. Z. Cliffe, aren’t you?”
“That’s what they keep telling me. Bitsy buzzed me out. Figured I’d just wait for you. Got hot so I took a swim. Got wet so I dried off. Then I got hungry.” J. Z. remembered the sandwich in his hand and took a bite. “Then I got thirsty.” He gulped down some beer. “Now we’re all good. Glad to know you.”
Mitch grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts from his wardrobe cupboard and tossed them to J. Z. “Why don’t you put these on? Make yourself at home. What am I saying, you already have. Would you like to write my next column for me? How are you on the subject of icebox questions?”
J. Z.’s face got all scrunched up. “How am I on… hunh?”
“Never mind.”
“Hey, sorry if I stepped on your turf, man. You can come over and help yourself to my stuff any time. What’s mine is yours. I’m real casual about possessions.” He stepped into the boxer shorts and pulled the T-shirt on over his head, then sauntered his way slowly around Mitch’s exposed-chestnut post-and-beam living room, peering at the walls and ceiling. He moved with a rear-slung, rubber legged gait that reminded Mitch of R. Crumb’s Mr. Natural. “Not that I’m trying to talk myself out of a gig or anything but your place looks pretty decent to me. I eyeballed the outside before you got here. You’ve got some minor blistering of your trim on the west side of the house. But you can go another year, easy. Unless what you’re thinking is you want to redo the color in here because of aesthetic or spiritual reasons. Which I can totally get behind.”