Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (22 page)

“Listen,” he said, looking down at the coffee cup still in his hand. “I may have come on a bit strong the other day with my comments about Serena.” He avoided my eyes, his face a blank screen.

“You think?” I snapped, reliving the sting of his racist remark. After hours of listening to Marrano do everything but call me a liar, now I had to listen to his half-assed apology. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from a redneck cop whose grandfather was a Klan leader.”

His conciliatory attitude evaporated, and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, we’re all a bunch of bigots, aren’t we?” His face had colored, crimson highlights tinting his cheeks.

I recalled Walter Howard’s sad story. The pain and humiliation he suffered at the hands of Bat Marrano. Pain that haunted him to this day. Two boys watched the beating; one of them even took the first whack at Howard’s knee. It may have happened forty years ago, but Marrano needed to know actions had consequences.

“I don’t know if you’re all bigots,” I told him, watching to see how he reacted to my next statement. “By the way, I met Serena’s uncle last week.”

He didn’t reply so I went on. “Walter Howard, the old NAACP president who was beaten by the Klan back in the sixties.”

“It must be serious between you two if she’s introducing you to her family, but why should I care?”

“You’ve lived in St. Augustine all your life and I thought you might have made Mr. Howard’s acquaintance at some time. Maybe years ago during all that civil rights stuff back in the sixties.”

“Can’t say that I have, hoss. I would have been a little kid back then.”

I let it hang there while he sipped his coffee. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Besides, why would Bat Marrano’s grandson hobnob with a civil rights leader?”

TWENTY-NINE

Back at my apartment, I stepped into the shower, hoping to wash away the weariness and painful visions parading through my head. I rolled into bed bone-tired wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep. About the time my head hit the pillow Dudley jumped on the bed, placed his paws on my chest and meowed in my face.

Dudley is a smallish gray and white cat I brought home from a case that took me to California last year. He sat patiently staring into my face as if waiting for me to answer some unasked question. When the only answer he got was a grunt, Dudley meowed again and gave my arm a headbutt. I knew he wanted me to move, make room for him to spread out. The queen-sized bed had enough space for a herd of cats to my right, but this cat preferred to sleep on my left side, and he wouldn’t let me rest unless I complied. It was like having a wife, but with none of the fringe benefits.

I scratched Dudley’s head and lightly rubbed along his jaw line. He closed his yellowish-green eyes, momentarily lost in feline bliss while his purring motor cranked into high gear. I let him lick my fingers a few times before shifting over to give him space to snuggle beside me.

The story of how Dudley came to be living with me is complex and almost too incredible to believe. The funny thing, though, is that I’d never owned a cat before. Dogs were my thing. I had two or three of them growing up in Connecticut, and Bogie, my yellow lab, has been with me for eight years.

After I rescued the cat, I named him Dudley after Andrew’s big Maine Coon. Andrew came along as a surprise package to my parents who were both in their mid-forties at the time. My sister, Marlie, seemed a bit embarrassed by mom’s pregnancy, but as the only boy in the family I thought it might be nice to have a younger brother.

Dad’s law practice kept him working long hours and weekends when I was growing up. He didn’t have a lot of time for me, but I understood and had my own life with my own friends. Andrew was a different story. Dad seemed to reconnect with his own childhood with Andrew, finding time in his busy schedule to attend many of his soccer games and swim meets.

My own hedonistic lifestyle didn’t leave much room for jealousy. I was a junior in high school the year Andrew turned eight, quarterback on my football team, and working my way through the cheerleading squad. Let’s say I had different priorities. Besides, Andrew’s winning personality, quick wit and 1,000-watt smile made it nearly impossible to dislike the kid.

Dudley sighed as though understanding he was no longer the center of attention. He butted my arm again until I lifted it and allowed him to squeeze in next to me. Andrew named his cat Dudley after the cartoon character
Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties
on the old
Rocky and Bullwinkle
show. I stroked Dudley’s soft fur and thought about my brother and the events leading up to his death. Reflexively, I raised a hand to my throat and felt the cool silver chain. Running two fingers along the links, I touched the smooth surface of the medallion, traced the arc of its back from the blunt point at one end to the fanned tail.

Andrew’s swim team was named the Dolphins, and the sponsor, a local jewelry store, gave each of the swimmers a bracelet with a sterling silver dolphin after they won the conference title. Andrew wore the bracelet proudly for a few months before putting it aside after his friends teased him, saying it made him look like a sissy.

I found the bracelet after Andrew died and took it without telling my parents. Before I went off to the Gulf War I had the dolphin added to a silver chain. It’s remained around my neck ever since as a constant reminder of my brother.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I said aloud to the cat, and slid over to the other side of the bed. Dudley eased back on his haunches, eyeing me suspiciously. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

I turned on the lamp and pulled a small photo album with a red, green and black plaid cover out of the drawer of the bedside table. I sat with my legs hanging over the bed, the album cradled in two hands like a holy scroll, and willed myself to open it. Dudley left the warm spot on the other side of the bed and padded over to me. He sat by my side, back straight, eyes moist and golden in the lamp light.

While Dudley watched, I opened the album to a picture of my brother and me in front of my first car. Andrew Mitchell held his cat in his arms. I stood next to him in the photograph, one hand resting casually on his shoulder while Andrew’s head craned up at me, a huge smile on his face.

I remember my mother had received a new Canon SLR for her birthday and was irritating everyone with her zeal to record our family’s every waking moment. That day, I was in the driveway washing my treasured Trans Am, which I’d recently bought secondhand from a friend. It was a warm Saturday afternoon in May, and I was shirtless, wearing a pair of old shorts and holding a soapy sponge in one hand. I recall mom took forever to get the f-stops right and frame each shot as if she was on assignment for
Life Magazine
. While she fiddled with the camera, Andrew ran from the house carrying the unhappy Maine Coon. He slid in beside me and I placed a wet hand on his shoulder. He smiled up at me just as mom snapped the shutter.

Looking at that picture of Andrew, sunlight splashed across his face, there was no hint of the traumatic events that would irretrievably alter our family. The photo was a cruel reminder that life deals the cards blindly. To anyone else, there is nothing exceptional in the family photo, just an eight-year-old boy holding a cat and looking admirably at his big brother. But if you knew Andrew, you’d see the sweetness in his face, the intelligence in his eyes, the potential that comes with good genes and social and financial advantages, and an inner strength that was obvious even at his young age.

As he smiled at me, his eyes had a light of expectation in them; filled with the knowledge his big brother would always be there to protect him. Two months later, Andrew was dead.

***

Quint pulled Jillian LeBlanc as close to him as the sport seats in his 1980 Pontiac Trans Am allowed. They were parked in the driveway of her parents’ Tudor-style mansion after taking in the summer’s big hit,
Back to the Future
. While they kissed, Quint’s hand found her knee and slowly inched north toward the promised land.

The Mitchells and the LeBlancs were close family friends when Jillian and Quint were younger, even taking a few vacations together, but the families had eventually drifted apart. Jillian and Quint discovered one another again near the end of the school year, both of them rising seniors. They’d been dating for less than a month, but to his growing frustration, Jillian successfully managed to keep him at arms length—away from the hot zones, as she put it. Now her right hand clamped down on his just as he was within reach of his goal. She pushed him back with surprising strength for a girl whose idea of exercise was carrying shopping bags from the mall to her car.

“My parents won’t be back from their cruise until Wednesday,” she said in a throaty whisper. “I was thinking maybe we could drive over to our beach house this weekend. Just you and me.”

He fell back against the door, dramatically clutching his chest.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, before quickly adding, “Why wait? If they’re away, let’s play tonight.” He pointed toward the big house where spotlights illuminated the shrubbery and driveway.

“I’m sure my sister will appreciate that,” Jillian said. She was the youngest of four girls—two of them were married, and one in college, but now home for the summer. “Besides, the beach house is private and so much more romantic, don’t you think?”

Atmosphere wasn’t a top priority for Quint at the moment. Any bedroom would accommodate the fantasies he’d been conjuring the past few weeks.

“Well, are you interested or not?”

“What do you think?” he said, trying to slide his hand under her skirt. “How about a preview of coming attractions?”

Jillian pushed his hand away and crossed her legs, pulling the skirt primly over her knees. “Not now. We don’t want to spoil the big moment, do we?” Jillian patted his hand as she might placate a pouting child.

Quint liked this girl, but he wanted to tell her she was driving him crazy. Instead he said, “Sure, I was only kidding. What time shall I pick you up?”

“Will your parents let you go if—you know? Spend the weekend alone with me.”

“My parents are busy people. I don’t like to bother them with every little detail.”

Jillian leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “That’s good. You can pick me up at nine Saturday.” She slipped out of the car and walked to the front door of her house.

Quint watched her walk away, admiring the curve of her calf and the delicious bounce of her hips. Each step she took rocketed bolts of testosterone into his teenage bloodstream, and he knew this weekend would be the best in his young life.

At home that night, Quint told his mother and father about Jillian’s invitation to spend the weekend with her parents at their Guilford beach house on Long Island Sound. Bending the truth this way gave Quint a slight twinge of guilt, but parents didn’t need to know everything their kids did or they’d never allow them out of their sight.

“Got a problem, son,” his father said, closing the legal file he’d been reading. Robert Mitchell, still called Bobby by most of his friends and business associates, took off his reading glasses and stood. He was a big man with an athlete’s build that had softened over the past few years as his hairline receded and his waistline thickened

Quint shifted his eyes from his father to his mother. “What’s the problem?”

His father moved several steps to the settee where Quint’s mother sat. “Your mother has decided to accompany me to New York City for my conference this weekend.” He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and rubbed it affectionately.

Quint remembered his father mentioning the conference at dinner last week, but this was the first he’d heard about his mother going along.

“That’s cool,” Quint said, “but what’s the problem?”

“Have you forgotten your brother? Someone needs to take care of Andrew.”

Quint had forgotten. His mind raced, searching for a way around the roadblock his father had thrown in his path to orgasmic heaven.

“Maybe he can go with you. You know, a nice family outing, see the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty.”

His father and mother exchanged glances before his father shook his head. “Sorry, big guy, not this time.”

“What about Marlie? She can come home for the weekend, can’t she?” His sister was in summer session at college, and hadn’t been home in more than a month.

His mother spoke up, “Marlie needs to study for a couple of tests. I spoke with her earlier today and she’s pretty stressed out about her economics mid-term.”

“Can’t she come home and study?” Quint’s dreams of a fantasy weekend were crumbling before his eyes. “I do it all the time.”

His mother smiled at Quint’s desperation. “Think about it, son. She’d have to be on the road for more than seven hours coming and going. That’s seven hours she could be studying.”

He couldn’t think of an answer for that and hung his head, trying to imagine what he would tell Jillian.

“I’ve got an idea,” his father said.

Quint wasn’t sure he wanted to hear his father’s idea. “What?”

“Why don’t you take Andrew with you? It’s a huge house and Andrew will enjoy a weekend at the shore. I’m sure Sam and Betsy won’t mind.”

Quint toed a mauve flower on the Oriental rug wondering what to say next. He wished he never had this conversation in the first place, but now he didn’t have a choice. “I don’t know,” he managed to say. “Maybe they’re having some of their friends over, and—”

Bobby Mitchell smiled at his son. “Come on. I know you think he’s going to get in the way of your fun with Jillian, but there are plenty of things to keep him occupied. It won’t be a problem.”

“Why don’t I call Betsy in the morning and make sure it’s all right?” Quint’s mother chimed in.

“No, that’s okay,” Quint said quickly. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I’ll talk with Jillian later and she can clear it with her parents.”

***

The LeBlanc’s beach house was located at the end of a quiet road on one of the exclusive fingers of land poking into Long Island Sound. The house had all the amenities of the good life, a private beach, swimming pool, boat dock and spectacular views of the water. While he’d enjoyed all of it in past visits, none of these currently held any interest for Quint who had his eye on the four bedrooms.