David Handler - The shimmering blond sister

“Is that why you retired from the NYPD?”

“That is none of your damned business.”

She’d run a computer background check on him at the Troop F barracks. Detective Lieutenant Augie Donatelli had received four commendations for valor during his career. He’d been working out of the 24^th Precinct on Manhattan’s Upper West Side last year when he chose to retire after twenty-six years on the job.

“I’m here for the both of us,” he grunted as he toted one more armload of wood to the Gator. His gait was not entirely steady. He was at least a six-pack into the Ballantine. “The job was dead to me. The city was dead to me. House was empty. So here I am, sugar pie. You got a problem with that?”

“No, Augie, I don’t.”

He got back in behind the wheel of the Gator, grinning at her. “Good, because I think I’ve got a break in our flasher case.”

Des immediately felt herself tighten up inside. “I thought we had an understanding about that, too. You’re not on the job anymore. And I don’t discuss ongoing investigations with members of the public.”

He shook his head at her in disgust. “Drop the act, will ya? I’ll admit it-you’re walking around with one of the top ten cabooses I’ve ever seen in my life. And I used to work uptown, if you follow what I’m saying…”

“Actually, I’m trying really hard not to.”

“But I was busting heads back when you were still in kindergarten. So be smart. I’m a resource. And I’ve got one doozie of a theory. If I were you, I’d listen to it.”

“It’s been a long, hot day. How about tomorrow?”

“You blowing me off?”

“I’m saying how about tomorrow.” And hoping he’d forget that they’d ever had this conversation. Beery haze and all. “Have a good one, Augie.” She tipped her Smokey hat at him and started down the driveway toward her cruiser.

Augie turn the Gator around and eased along next to her. “What time should I call you?”

“I’ll call you.”

“Know what? You have got some attitude on you, homegirl.”

“I don’t have an attitude. I treat everyone with respect. Why don’t you give it a try sometime?”

“Wait, I got something else for you. I’m talking huge here. Has to do with our Beth Breslauer,” he confided, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of her condo. “She and your boy Mitch are real tight, you know. They met for smoothies at The Works this afternoon.”

“And you know this because…?”

“I have the lady under surveillance.”

Des came to a stop, hands on her hips. “You’re following her?”

“She’s quite some dish. I’d tap that in two seconds flat if it gave me a chance.”

“Um, okay, I’m guessing it hasn’t. Augie, are you aware that we have stalker laws in this state?”

“Who’s stalking? The Works is a public place. So’s the Mohegan Sun Casino in Uncasville.”

“What about the Mohegan Sun?”

“I drove up there a couple of weeks back to see Billy Joel. The Piano Man did ten straight sold-out nights there. And, believe me, he put on a show. Pounded those ivories for two and half hours, sang his heart out…”

“You saw Mrs. Breslauer at the Billy Joel concert?”

“Outside in the parking lot. She was working it.”

“What do you mean by ‘working it?’ ”

“Trust me, that lady is not who she pretends to be,” he explained, taking a long swig of his Ballantine. “This is one of the most fascinating characters I’ve come across in a long time. Ever hear of the Seven Sisters?”

“Sure, that’s what they called the ladies’ Ivy League back before the schools went coed. There was, let’s see, Vassar, Bryn Mawr, Wellesley, Smith…”

“No, not those Seven Sisters. Geez, don’t you hick troopers out here know anything?”

By now they’d reached the foot of the driveway. Des could see the Farrells seated on their screened-in porch. Dex Farrell was sitting in a rocker, reading a book. He was a severe-looking white-haired man with rimless eyeglasses. He didn’t look up at them. But Maddee did-and promptly got busy making space on the porch for the firewood.

Across the street, John the barber was locking up his little shop for the night. He and a couple of his fellow volunteers from the firehouse next door were gabbing. All three of them waved at Des.

She waved back at them, then took a deep breath and said, “Can I give you a piece of advice, Augie? If you want to remain employed in this hick town, you’d better stop tailing your tenants and start fixing their leaky faucets. And you might want to cut back on the Ballantine, too.”

“You are trying to get me fired,” he snarled in response. “Nothing makes you people happier, does it?”

“By ‘you people’ you mean…?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, you bitch! You know what I mean. Can’t stand having me around, can you? Afraid your little secret will get out.”

“What little secret?”

“That you haven’t got the slightest goddamned idea what you’re doing!”

The men across the street could hear Augie quite plainly. Were missing none of this.

“Get hold of yourself, Augie,” Des cautioned him quietly.

No chance of that. He climbed out of the Gator and charged toward her, staggering slightly. “They don’t know the truth about you!” he roared, stabbing her in the shoulder with his finger. “But I do! I know you stepped over a dozen good men to get this job. And I know you stink at it!”

“You’ve had a few too many, Augie. Why don’t you go up to your apartment and sober up?”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

She put a gentling hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy. I’m on your side.”

“Like hell you are. Get your goddamned hand off of me. Get it off!” he hollered with a violent shrug of his shoulder. So violent that it rocked him back on his heels. Teetering, he lost his balance and came down hard on his butt in the driveway.

John and the others across the street were laughing at him now.

“You shoved me!” he spat at her, enraged.

“I did not.” Des held her hand out to him. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He bared his ugly, yellow teeth at her. “Get away from me.”

“Take my hand, Augie.”

He refused. Just sat there on the gravel like a petulant little boy.

“Fine, have it your way. But go home and sleep it off, will you?”

In response, Augie told her to do a very bad thing to herself. Then, in a menacing voice, he said, “Homegirl, you’re going to be sorry you ever met me.”

“Trust me, wow man…” Des showed him her wraparound smile. “I’m already there.”

In the city there was no such thing as autumn. There was summer. There was one cold, rainy weekend in October when all of the leaves fell off of the street trees. And then there was winter. But out on Big Sister, even though a torpid August haze hung low over Long Island Sound, autumn had already begun. Mitch saw its signs everywhere as he made his way down the beach to Bitsy Peck’s house, bucket in hand. Orange leaves dotted the island’s gnarly old sugar maple trees. A squadron of geese flew low overhead in a V-formation, heading due west. And a swarm of monarch butterflies were encamped in the cedars bordering Bitsy’s place, resting up on their long migration south. Fall was coming for sure. It just wasn’t in the air yet.

Bitsy had a mammoth, natural-shingled Victorian cottage with sleeping porches, turrets and amazing views in every direction. Her multilevel garden was truly spectacular. Hundreds of species of flowers, vegetables and herbs grew in her fertile terraced beds. It was Bitsy who’d taught Mitch the joys of gardening. She was out there right now, pruning away the yellowing vines on her heirloom tomato plants, the better to expose the ripening fruit to the sun’s rays.