CHAPTER 5

Belle remained silent as she climbed into Rosco’s aging Jeep. He closed the door behind her, walked around the car, and sat in the driver’s seat. “Are you okay?”

She looked through the passenger-side window, her face pinched and sad. “Why would someone murder a homeless person, Rosco?”

“What Al said, I guess. A fight over a liquor bottle … an unpaid debt—”

“What if something more sinister is involved?”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know yet … I just feel there’s a missing element. Maybe something to do with discrediting the homeless shelters.”

“Al’s a good cop, Belle. If there’s a connection to this gossip about the Peterman brothers, he’ll uncover it.”

Belle nodded thoughtfully but didn’t speak as Rosco eased into the steady stream of traffic clogging Winthrop Drive. “Where did you leave your car?”

“What? Oh … down on Third, I think. Or maybe Fourth. But it was a good spot. No meter. I should be fine all day.… Oh, look at that. A newspaper vending machine’s been knocked into the street. It’s a Crier box, too.” She picked up Rosco’s car phone, punched in the Crier’s central number, reported the problem, then replaced the receiver. “I don’t know why kids think its such a blast to vandalize these kiosks.”

“Money?” Rosco offered as he drove. “Maybe we should pick up your car and drive over to the yacht separately. Traffic will be worse later on. You’re sure you’re not in one of those areas that’s only good until four P.M.?”

“My parking spot is fine, Rosco, really. I’m not in a tow zone.”

“On Third or Fourth Street? That sounds unlikely.”

“I can show you the exact spot if you want. I pulled in right behind a big green thing. It had enormous wheels.”

Rosco chuckled. “What if the big green thing moves? How will you find your car then?”

Belle let out her own small laugh. “Okay, Mr. Perfect Driving Record. And I do emphasize record. It’s only perfect because you never get caught; and when you do get caught, you give them the mystical ex-cop handshake, and they let you go. At least I stop and ask for directions. When I get lost, I know it … and am willing to admit it.” She glanced through the passenger-side window again. “Another vandalized vending machine. What’s going on here?” She picked up the phone, reported the second situation, then returned to her pensive state. “I hope whoever killed Carson didn’t hurt that puppy.”

Rosco looked at her. “The person did more than hurt its owner.”

Belle didn’t respond for a long, disturbed minute. “You’re right. Freddie probably had insurmountable problems … and I’m worrying about his dog!”

“Carson was an okay guy. A little flaky, but that’s to be expected given a street person’s history … and diet.”

“And here I am, fussing over a pet!”

They drove on in silence through weather that had turned ominous. Black-streaked clouds scudded across a lowering sky; the ocean breeze smelled dank, and the budding blossoms of pears and chestnuts huddling beside the brick and granite of the old town center seemed to retire into themselves as if winter still tarried in the air.

“Let’s hope our wedding day isn’t like this,” Belle finally said. “What happened to May flowers?”

“Let’s hope Buzzards Bay is calm,” Rosco answered. “A ceremony in which the groom turns green and pants like a dying fish doesn’t sound appealing.” He exited Nathaniel Hawthorne Street and turned left onto Harbor Road.

Belle nestled close. “You’re a prince to do this for me.… Married at sea! Plus, I have a theory: This entire experience is going to exorcise your seasickness forever.”

“We have to secure the license first, Belle.”

She smiled. “Let’s not forget the certified justice of the peace.” Belle leaned against him, and he draped an arm across her shoulder.

At the guardhouse of the Patriot Yacht Club marina, they were directed to Senator Crane’s berth and the magnificent motor yacht Akbar. Tied to a gray brown pier among the choppy waves of a steel-colored sea, the yacht still managed to glitter. Seventy feet of teak and mahogany, fresh white paint, spar varnish the color of liquid butterscotch, and brass so gleaming its reflection could harm the eye, the Akbar exuded that indefinable aura known as class. Built for the senator’s father in the 1930s, the yacht had long been a familiar sight in the many playgrounds of the very rich.

Despite his status as dyed-in-the-wool landlubber, Rosco let out an appreciative whistle as they approached. “I guess if we’re going to get married on a boat, this is the one to use.”

“I love you,” Belle answered. Then her face fell. “Sara’s here.”

“How do you know?”

“Her car.”

“Is it a big green thing?”

“Very amusing.” Belle nodded toward the reserved parking. Sure enough, there was Sara Crane Briephs’s 1956 Cadillac. Highly polished chrome, black paint so densely waxed it had beaded with water, the vehicle was as recognizable and redoubtable as its singular owner, the senator’s octogenarian older sister. “I thought we were going to have a little time alone,” Belle murmured.

“Maybe that part doesn’t come until after the wedding.”

Belle’s mouth remained tense.

“Dear ones!” The lady herself stepped from the yacht’s gangway. “Darling Albert informed me you were on your way down here. Some problem with the license … naval coordinates or some such nonsense! Belle, dear! You’re looking awfully bereft for a bride-to-be.”

Belle curved her lips into a semblance of pleasure. She genuinely liked and admired Sara and normally greatly enjoyed her company. Today, however, Belle felt a strong impulse to call, Time out! Rosco and I are getting married, and we could use less input from our friends and family.

Instead, she gave Sara an affectionate embrace and was rewarded with a doting smile. Belle noted the tidy suit and silk scarf, the white cotton gloves, the navy blue pumps: Newcastle’s grande dame was dressed for an important excursion. The only thing she lacked was a wide-brimmed hat, but perhaps she’d deemed the weather too inclement for elegant headgear. “Albert was coughing horribly when I spoke with him. We must persuade him to stop smoking. It’s taking a toll on his health. You talk to him, Rosco. He’s your best man, after all.”

Above Sara’s perfectly coiffed white head, Rosco winked at Belle. “Albert is his own boss.”

“He has a wife, dear boy. What does she say about all this? No man is his own master, Rosco. You’re about to be married. You should know that by now.” Sara returned to Belle. “Now; dear heart, I’ll handle everything. Captain Lancia is desperately willing to help. He’s the Akbar’s new chief. Where my brother found him, I haven’t a clue. But from the man’s Mastroianni eyes and basso voice, I’d guess Naples. There’s such marvelous mystery to that port.… At any rate, he and I will organize all details for the cruise: which waters, and under which municipality’s jurisdiction, and all that other folderol—”

“But—” Belle began.

“And if need be, I’ll accompany you to City Hall myself and inform that little snip of a clerk exactly what happens to government employees who overreach themselves.”

“I don’t believe—” Rosco tried to interject, but Sara bulldozed past him.

“After all, my brother has been overspending taxpayers’ money for a good many years.…”

Belle sighed inwardly. How were these various folks going to coexist on her wedding day? A boisterous family of Greek-Americans, doughty Sara with her dated opinions about noblesse oblige, and Belle’s own father, who’d become markedly incommunicative when she’d written to inform him that she was engaged to a private detective, one who’d attended a state university, to boot.

“There was a homicide downtown this morning,” Rosco said in an attempt to curtail Sara’s monologue. “In Adams Alley. A homeless man.”

The old lady stopped in her tracks. “Why …? Why would someone do that? Isn’t it cruel enough that people are forced to live on the streets?” Sara paused for a moment, then seemed to take a greater interest. “And Adams Alley? Very interesting that it should happen right in the middle of our new empowerment zone.”

“Pardon me?”

“Please Rosco, don’t assume I’m a naive old bat. We all know what’s going on in that area of the city and who the power brokers are. Tax incentives to encourage neighborhood growth, my foot. The only growth I can see shows up in the landlords’ pocketbooks. And we all know who sits on the top of that heap.”

“I wouldn’t want to jump to any conclusion, Sara. This death may be as simple as a squabble over a liquor bottle.”

“If I’ve learned anything in my eighty-some years, it’s that life is not simple.”

“He had a dog,” Belle added, “a puppy—”

Beneath her powder and hint of rouge, the staunch old face blanched. “Don’t tell me the dog was killed, too!” A hint of tears appeared in Sara’s ice-blue eyes.

Rosco answered. He tried to sound reasonable and calming. “The puppy disappeared, Sara. Just probably ran off.”

“We’ll have to find it, then.”

Rosco affixed his professional smile. “At the moment, Belle and I have more pressing business. I’m sure the dog will turn up—”

Sara’s imperious voice cut in. “Your fiancée and I will attend to the details of your marriage license. You, Rosco, will find that poor, defenseless dog. It’s the least we can do.”

“I appreciate your concern, Sara, but let’s let Lever and his homicide boys have a—”

But Sara Crane Briephs refused to be superseded. “You misunderstand me, Rosco. I’m engaging you professionally. I want that dog found.”