Des nodded, wondering whether Bitsy Peck was talking about her flowers or her drug-addicted daughter. She couldn’t help but get the feeling that this was the woman’s oblique way of letting her know that she actually knew all about Rebecca’s problem. That she wasn’t nearly as clueless as her husband thought.
Bitsy Peck was no fool. She was just old school.
She deftly arranged a generous fistful of the flowers in the vase and handed it to Des. “For your kitchen table, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling at her warmly.
“Thank you.”
“The morning haze is lifting,” she observed, gazing out at the Sound. “It’s going to be a nice day.”
“Yes, it is,” Des agreed. “It’s going to be a very nice day.”
“I’ve already told your sergeant all of this,” Jamie Devers said to Des in total dismay. “At least I think I did. I can never be totally sure, you understand.”
“Why’s that, Mr. Devers?”
“I’ve lost a lot of gray cells along the way,” he responded. “You know those things they told us about how drugs would fry our brains? They were all true.” Now an alarmed expression crossed the former child star’s face. “Oh, God, I’ve just confessed to habitual recreational drug use. Forget I said that, will you? It was the sixties, Southern California. Everyone inhaled.”
“It’s forgotten, Mr. Devers,” she assured him as they strolled along together. “Hey, I am digging on your shop.”
“I’m so glad.” Jamie was relieved to change the subject. “If you see anything you like, don’t be bashful.”
Great White Whale Antiques was housed in a drafty old barn up in Millington, a small country hamlet in the rolling hills north of Dorset. The shop was eclectic and cluttered. He and Evan Havenhurst offered a little bit of everything. Colonial furniture. Weathered Victorian garden ornaments. Rugs, quilts, paintings. There were some very expensive pieces. There were some that bordered on tag sale junk. At the moment, Evan was at an estate sale up in Farmington. There were no customers around.
“We positively freeze our buns off in the winter,” he confided. “There’s zero insulation-and nothing but a wood stove. But it’s fun. And it keeps us off the streets.”
“You have any trouble with mice?”
“Yes, we do. They scare the old ladies to death.”
“What you need is a barn cat.” Maybe two. Rob and Fab would be perfect.
“Please don’t get the wrong idea, Lieutenant,” Jamie said. “I really don’t mean to be difficult. I just don’t see why I have to go through it all again. It seems so unnecessary.”
“It’s necessary.” Des could no longer be sure Soave was feeding her everything.
He folded his arms, looking at her curiously. “Well, what is it you need to know exactly?”
“I need to confirm where you were the night Tuck Weems was shot.”
“As I told your sergeant, I was camped out on Little Sister. Went out there after Dolly’s cocktail party for Mitch. Evan and I often spend the night out there.”
“You two were together?”
“Of course. I can’t sail the damned boat without him.”
“Can he sail it without you?”
“Evan can sail anything. He’s part pirate. Why do you ask?”
Des didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. Because a certain object had caught her eye over by a china cupboard in the corner. It was a truly fantastic object. In fact, she had never seen anything quite so beautiful. Slowly, she approached it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Jamie enthused, gazing affectionately at the painting. It was an Impressionist landscape of a lush green meadow streaming with morning sunlight. “It’s a Bruestle. George M. He was a fairly prominent member of Dorset’s art colony at the turn of the century, best known for his well-ripened greens. The meadow’s located off of Ely’s Ferry Road. It’s still there.”
“It’s very fine. Only what I’m beaming on is the easel.” She could not take her eyes off the artist’s stand that the painting was displayed upon.
“You do have a keen eye, don’t you? It was Bruestle’s. His son Bertram, who was a fine painter in his own right, used it for years. I bought it from the estate of his widow. It was custom-made by a local cabinet maker. Solid oak, with brass fittings. Truly one of a kind. Works like a charm.”
“Is it for sale?”
“Dear girl, everything here is for sale, including the barn, the land under the barn and me. It’s perfect for displaying things on, isn’t it? A sampler perhaps?”
“I’d want to use it.”
He cocked his head at her in surprise. “You paint?”
“I draw a little,” she said uneasily.
“How interesting. I would never have guessed.” Jamie thumbed his chin judiciously. “It’s yours if you’ll give me exactly what I paid for it-eight hundred.”
Des shook her dreadlocks at him. “That’s way out of my price range.”
“All right, make it seven-fifty,” he said with nimble ease.
“Not a chance.”
He waved her off. “Nonsense. I believe that when someone loves a piece, they should have it. And I can tell from the glow in your eye that you love this one. I insist that you take it home. We’ll work something out.”
Des glanced at him sharply. “That would not exactly be appropriate.”
“No, of course not,” he agreed hastily. “What am I saying? Christ, now you must think I’m trying to bribe you. God, I am hopeless when Ev’s not around. I just blither on and on, slipping and sliding and…” He broke off, puffing out his cheeks. “Why don’t you just shoot me right now and put me out of my misery?”
“Mr. Devers, please try to relax.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Let’s relax. Let’s all relax.”
There was an old library table just inside the front door that Jamie and Evan used as a desk. A crystal decanter filled with cognac served as a paperweight. He poured some into a snifter and drank it down in one gulp. He sat down in his chair and lit a cigarette, dragging on it nervously.
There was an armchair across from him. Des sat in it, watching him closely. The man was obviously terrified of her. Was this just vintage sixties paranoia? Or was he actually guilty of something? She made a steeple of her fingers. She rested her chin upon it, gazing at him intently across the desk. “It rained that night,” she pointed out quietly.
“What night, Lieutenant?”
“The night Tuck Weems was murdered. There was a truly vicious storm.”
“There absolutely was,” he acknowledged. “It blew in around three in the morning. Lightning, thunder, the works.”
“And you two were camped out in that?”
“Not after it started we weren’t. We went below deck, snug as bugs. Actually, too snug. It can get really stuffy down there. And the water was way choppy. But that’s the vaunted nautical life for you. If you want to be dry you have to be nauseated.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“See us?”
“You recall anyone passing near enough to the island to observe that you were docked out there? A fisherman, maybe?”
Jamie Devers considered this. “No one saw us. Not unless they saw our bonfire. We lit one when we first got out there. The rain eventually drowned it, of course. But the Coast Guard might have spotted that. They patrol pretty regularly.” He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately reached for another. “Once the storm hit, nobody was out on the water.”
“What did you use for firewood?”
He stared across the desk at her, perplexed. “We used firewood, what else?”
“That island’s a barren rock pile. Not one stick of wood out there to burn.”
“We brought it with us. Logs, kindling, the works.”
“Sounds like an awful lot of trouble,” she said doubtfully.
“It is,” he acknowledged. “But to us, it’s worth it.”
“When did you return from Little Sister?”
“In the morning, after the storm had passed over and the Sound had calmed. There was virtually no way we could have made it back during that storm in a J-24. It’s a racing boat. Built very low to the water. We’d have gone down for sure.” He smiled at her hopefully. “So, you see, we couldn’t have killed Tuck Weems. It’s not possible.”