All of which was true. Except that white males who were chasing the bad guys got at least seventy-two hours before the heavy leaning started. And she was only getting forty-eight. And it was not fair. And it was not right. And, God, she was so tired of their little boy crap. But she did not want to go running to the Deacon about it. She could not. Must not.
As Des sat there stroking the page with her charcoal, she noticed a human figure inching its way in her direction over the rocks and tide pools, subtly altering the composition of her drawing. As the figure got closer she realized it was Mitch Berger, looking a bit like an old-time lobsterman as he slogged along in his heavy dark blue sweater and green rubber wading boots. What was it Bella called him-a shlub? He was not a graceful man, for damned sure. He lumbered, his arms held out to his side. When he paused on the slippery rocks to wave at her, he lost his balance and nearly fell over. It also happened he was one truly awful guitar player. No ear. She wondered why she had talked so openly with him when they’d walked on the beach together. She supposed it was because he was observant and bright, because he was not one of them.
No, that wasn’t it. She’d talked to him because she wanted to talk to him. Could not, in fact, shut up. It wasn’t like Des to confide in a civilian. And her candor may have been ill-advised. Because she had no reason to believe she could trust this chubby, sad-eyed man. None. She’d have to be more careful.
She watched him now as he made his way across the rocks and trudged up onto the island-side entrance to the bridge. He was heading right for her. She closed her sketch pad and stashed it under her seat. She wiped her hands clean on a tissue. She rolled down her window.
“Morning, Lieutenant!” he called out to her, pink-cheeked and slightly winded from his morning hike. “How’s your cold today?”
“I told you-I don’t get colds, Mr. Berger. How’s Baby Spice?” she asked, taking note of the tiny scratches all over his hands.
“You mean Clemmie? She slept like a baby. Made her first foray downstairs at around four A.M. Came right back up. Used her litter box like a champ. Chased this wadded-up piece of paper around for a while. Then climbed up on my chest and and went right back to… Hey, what are you laughing at?”
“A man who said he didn’t want a cat.”
“I’m still not sure,” he insisted. “This is strictly a trial.”
“Uh-hunh.”
“May I see it?” he asked her anxiously.
“See what?”
“Your sketch.”
Damn. She had charcoal under her fingernail again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He peered at her curiously. “You’ve never shown them to anyone, have you?” On her tight silence he added, “You’re afraid to, is that it?” Not accusing her. His voice was very gentle.
“Like I said, I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lieutenant. We’re all afraid of something.”
“Is that right? What are you afraid of?”
“Spending the rest of my life alone.”
“You think I’m afraid I’m not talented, is that it?”
“No, I think you’re afraid that you are.”
She shook her head at him, baffled. “Man, your mind’s on vacation and your mouth’s working overtime.”
Mitch Berger said nothing to that. Just continued to peer at her with his wounded puppy eyes. She was absolutely positive at that particular moment that he could read her mind.
“Do you know a lot about art?” she asked him guardedly.
“I know talent when I see it. That’s my talent. And my job. And I’d really love to see your stuff.”
“Why are you so interested?”
“Because I’d like to see what you do to please you, rather than to please everyone else.”
“Okay, now I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Suit yourself. I thought maybe we were becoming friends. No, hunh?” He let out an unhappy sigh. “Too bad, because you’re my idea of a real first-class individual. But I’ll just have to tell Bud he was wrong. See, when he saw us together on the beach he thought we were. Friends, I mean. Which is why he asked me to give you a message.”
It turned out that Mitch Berger had something for her about Dolly’s missing money: Havenhurst had it. He’d quietly squirreled it away on her behalf, fearing that Seymour was about to grab it and run. Or so Havenhurst claimed.
“He figured you’d get on to it real soon,” Mitch Berger added. “And possibly get the wrong idea.”
“Or possibly get the right one.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, frowning at her.
Damn. She was doing it again. “Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”
“I’m becoming one of them now. I’ve been to the club. I’ve been sailing. I own boating shoes. Soon, I’ll even have my own schoolboy nickname. What do you think of Boopy? Does that suit me?” On her mocking silence he acknowledged, “I’m not really. I could live here for fifty years and to them I’d still be the Jewboy from New York. I think it’s more a case of them circling the wagons-you’re either with us or you’re against us. And I guess they’d much rather have me with them.” He stood there for a moment, leaning his generous flank against her car. “How well do you know Resident Trooper Bliss?”
“We have a decent working relationship. Why?”
Mitch Berger hesitated, choosing his words carefully now. “Is there any chance he’s involved?”
“He’s been helpful to me, if that’s what you mean.”
“It isn’t,” he said heavily.
“Exactly what are you trying to tell me?”
“Bliss was out on the island that day I got locked in my crawl space. One of the islanders saw him. It’s possible that he’s the one who did it to me.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
Now Mitch Berger was the one who fell silent.
Des considered this for a moment. Tal Bliss was an old friend of Dolly Seymour. A seasoned veteran at cleaning up local messes. Was there any chance he had tried to clean up this one? That he knew more than he had let on? Was there any chance at all?
Of course, there was.
“Don’t you have a movie review or something you should be working on?” she grumbled at him.
“I was planning to take the train into New York this morning, actually,” he said. “Have to screen a couple of new mega-movies. Will that be okay?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I thought you might say ‘Don’t leave town.’ Or words to that effect.”
“If I need to find you, I believe I can.”
He grinned at her. “Was that a dare?”
“No, it was an honest response to your inquiry.”
“The key to the front door of my cottage is under the boot scraper,” he informed her.
“You just said what?”
“Well, I can’t take Clemmie with me, can I?”
“Noo…”
“Of course, I can’t-she’s just getting acclimated. And you’ll be around the island, right? So I thought you could look in on her later. Make sure she’s all right. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Okay?”
Reluctantly, Des said, “Okay.” Then she removed her billfold from the inside pocket of her blazer, dug out one of her business cards and handed it to him. “You happen to find out anything else, you can reach me at these numbers. Any hour, day or night. The one on the bottom’s my pager number.”
“Okay, sure,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “You coming out?” He meant to the island.