David Handler - The shimmering blond sister

If Josie knew anything she sure wasn’t talking.

Waa-eeeeeeeeeeeeeee…

Mitch was up at dawn, beloved sky blue Stratocaster in hand, sitting in with Hendrix on “Red House” while his coffee brewed. There was no sleeping late on Big Sister Island. Not with the early morning sun streaming through the skylight over his bed. Not with Augie Donatelli’s murder gnawing at him like it was. Because he was missing something. They were all missing something. The key to the whole case was right there in front of them and they weren’t seeing it. Mitch was positive of this. But, damn it, he just couldn’t figure out what it was.

Eeeee-yahhhhhh…

So he played. Standing there in his living room in a sleeveless T-shirt and gym shorts, eyes closed, bare toes wrapped around his wa-wa pedal and Ibanez tube screamer, monster amps cranked all of the way to the proverbial eleven, shaking the cottage to its stone foundation. Reaching for it. Feeling it. Nailing it. Yeah, there it was. Oh, yeah…

Scareeeeeeeeeee…

He’d awakened alone-unless you count Clemmie pad, pad, padding at his full bladder to let him know that her kibble bowl was emp-emp-empty. Des had gone back to her own place from Nan Sidell’s. It had been nearly three a.m. by then. He’d insisted she phone him when she found out what was up-no matter the time-and so he’d heard all about Phillip Sidell’s night terrors. Mitch knew the Sidell boys. The pair of them used to be in and out of Rut Peck’s house day and night before Rut moved into Essex Meadows. Mitch used to stop by Rut’s regularly. The old fellow had been one of the housebound villagers he’d bought groceries for. Phillip and Peter missed having their dad around but they were good kids. Sunny kids full of energy and jostling enthusiasm. Night terrors? No way.

Wa-eeeeeeeeeeeee…

The coffee was ready. Mitch set his guitar aside, poured himself a cup and discovered he was nearly out of low-fat milk. He had enough for his coffee but not for his healthy Grape-Nuts breakfast. He’d have to go out and get some. He sipped the strong coffee gratefully, gazing out his bay window. It was another warm, humid morning. Not a whiff of a breeze. The sky was the color of dishwater, the Sound as calm as a bathtub. Haze hung low over the water. He could barely make out the Old Saybrook lighthouse just across the river.

Outside the front door, Quirt began yowling impatiently for his breakfast. Mitch let him in-and discovered that Yolie’s cruiser was still parked there in the driveway next to Lieutenant Very’s Norton Commando.

Well, well…

Mitch had loaned Yolie a coded card for the security barricade so she could bring Very back to the island after they’d finished doing their thing at the Mohegan Sun. He’d heard the crunch of her tires on the gravel outside sometime in the middle of the night. The engine idling for a long while before she shut it off. Soft voices as the two of them strolled down the path to the beach, talking easily, laughing. Mitch had fallen back to sleep after that.

Well, well…

He raised his coffee mug in silent tribute to them, then padded down to the beach with his coffee and his nagging thoughts about Beth Breslauer. Beth and the Seven Sisters. Beth and Bertha Peck, her grandfather’s mistress. Beth and Vinnie Brogna, the great, secret love of her life. Beth and Lieutenant Very, who it turned out was a blood relation. Beth and Kenny. Kenny and Kimberly. Kimberly and J. Z. Kimberly and Hal…

As Mitch strolled in the direction of the lighthouse, lost in his thoughts, he came upon Yolie and Lieutenant Very seated together on a driftwood log watching the sun come up.

“Morning, kids!” he called out to them.

“Oh, hey, dude…” Very seemed surprised to see him. Also a bit guilty.

So did Yolie. She lowered her gaze, shifting around on the log.

“Whoa, is it six-thirty already?” Very said with a glance at his watch. “I had no idea. Although I did hear some righteous heavy metal a few minutes back. Somebody really bringing it.”

“That was me. And it was blues, actually.”

“No way. I definitely heard Leslie West’s opening riffs to ‘Mississippi Queen’ in there.”

“You know you your vintage axe men, Lieutenant. I’d offer you breakfast but Bitsy is no doubt building you a lumberjack special as we speak.”

“Yeah, I’d better head on over there. I want to hit the road soon.” He climbed to his feet. “Yolie, I’ll call you from the City as soon as I’ve had a go at Vinnie.”

“You do that,” she said quietly, her eyes large and soft.

“And, dude, I’ll holler good-bye before I shove off. If you’re still home, I mean.” Very gazed around at the idyllic Yankee Eden that was Big Sister Island, one knee jiggling, head nodding, nodding. “And here I thought nothing ever happened in a small town like this.”

“You thought wrong, Lieutenant. We play with live ammo here. If you want some real action come back to Dorset.”

“I hate to admit it,” he said, “but this place is cool.”

“Very.”

The lieutenant frowned at him. “Yeah, dude?”

Mitch sighed. “It’s very cool.”

“You got that right.”

Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very started his way up the beach toward Bitsy’s place. Yolie watched him go. Mitch sipped his coffee, saying nothing.

She got up off of the log, swiping the sand from her trousers. “It’s not how it looks, okay? I don’t give it up for men I barely know. I’m not like that.”

“Did I say you were?”

“Didn’t have to. That smirk is saying it for you.”

“I’m not smirking. I’m kvelling.”

“Kvelling? What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m happy for you. Can’t I be happy for you?”

“Whatever. We just talked is all. Talked all night. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that. We spent a good two hours on politics. He’s a borderline socialist, you want my honest opinion. Then a solid hour on the works of Mr. Albert Camus, who he’s read in the original French. Not bragging on himself. Well, maybe just a little. Then, shortly before sunrise, he started reciting Howl by Mr. Allen Ginsberg, which I swear he knows entirely by heart.”

“It’s worth knowing by heart.”

“Hey, I’m there.” She glanced down the beach at Very’s retreating figure. “He’s a sweet guy. Smart, interesting. Drop-dead cute.”

“That nodding thing doesn’t bother you?”

“What nodding thing?”

“Nothing. Pay no attention to me.”

“I wonder what’s wrong with him.”

“Why does anything have to be wrong with him?”

“He told me he hasn’t been in a steady relationship in years.”

“Neither have you.”

“We were talking about him, not me. He’s probably the type who just smiles and dials whenever he feels like it. Except he doesn’t seem like the player type. Listen to me, will you? You’re all players.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Thank you large for noticing.” They started back up the beach toward his house. “What’d you find out last night at the casino?”

“Beth and Vinnie were definitely there Saturday night. Checked in at the front desk at nine-thirty. The hotel has them right there on their time-coded surveillance cameras. That means they had to be on the road somewhere between here and Uncasville at the time of Augie’s death.”

“So they’re in the clear.”

“Unless Vinnie put out a hit on him, like Very thinks. Where’s our girl?”

“Halfway to Boston by now, knowing her.”

“I should get rolling, too. I have to break this case open.”

“Can I pour you a cup of coffee? I just made it.”

“You talked me into it. And maybe I ought to change these stanky clothes before I have a go at Beth. I think I still have some clean ones left in the trunk of my ride.”