Tuesday, August 14
“We couldn’t have been luckier with the weather,” remarked Fitz as he leaned back in his rocking chair and propped his feet on the deck railing. Nita slipped into a chair beside him, and together they enjoyed the cool morning breeze that swept in from the ocean. The dune in front of the cottage blocked their view of the water, but the relentless throbbing of waves on the sand was a constant audible reminder that they were at the seaside.
Their breakfast of fresh farm eggs and homemade pork sausage from Dreesen’s, followed by coffee and the remaining donuts, had been a leisurely affair. TJ, a bit frustrated by his parents’ slow start to the morning, was eager to get back into the surf, but Nita wasn’t going to be rushed.
“Just hold your horses, young man,” she ordered. “Your dad and I have some planning to do. We’ll get to the beach before too long, don’t worry. Meanwhile, why don’t you run over to the inn and see what the other kids are up to? Maybe there’ll be a softball game, you don’t want to miss that.”
Effectively distracted, TJ went to his room to retrieve his glove. He stopped for a moment to admire the Pollock print, which he’d tacked to the wall over his bed. Sure looks like a lizard to me, he said to himself. Lots of other funny-looking things in there, too. He liked the way it puzzled him, like a visual guessing game. Plenty of time to study it later, he thought. He grabbed the glove and headed out while Nita and Fitz settled down to enjoy their second cup of coffee in peace.
“I didn’t notice any scratch marks on Ossorio,” he said, “but then I wasn’t looking for anything like that when we met him. Still, I think I would remember if his face had been scratched.”
“I’m sure there was nothing,” Nita agreed. “But, you know, she might have scratched her killer’s arm or hand, trying to get him to release his grip. Marks like that would be much less obvious. Or, as a matter of fact, she could have scratched herself while she was clawing at him. Do you think there was enough under her nails to get a blood type?”
“I wonder whether Cooper thought of that,” said Fitz. “I don’t suppose he’s done many autopsies. From what the chief said, they haven’t had a murder around here in years.”
“Maybe not, but there must be plenty of accidental deaths. How many did he say died on the roads last weekend—eight, wasn’t it, not counting Pollock and Metzger? Seems like drunk driving is a blood sport out here. And I’m sure there are at least a couple of drownings every summer, what with all the city folks who don’t know how treacherous the open ocean can be, not to mention the inexperienced boaters. Heart attacks, strokes, people choking on food, all those things can happen any time.”
“You’re right. These country doctors probably get more than their fair share of autopsies. And the fact that Cooper realized that the broken neck didn’t kill her, and actually found the skin under her nails, shows he didn’t do a superficial job. I wonder if he’s tried to run a blood test. I guess they’ll have Pollock’s blood type. He’d be the first one they’d want to eliminate.”
“But he had no scratches on the left side of his face or neck.”
Fitz continued to examine the possibilities. “No, but suppose he grabbed her from behind. If she reached back with her right hand, she would have scratched the right side of his face, and those wounds would have been masked by his later injuries.”
“Damn,” said Nita. “I should have thought of that. Some detective I am! Hector would have my shield if he knew.”
“I promise not to tell, but it’s gonna cost ya,” Fitz teased. “Price: a kiss. Terms: immediate payment.”
Nita shrugged. “You drive a hard bargain, but what choice do I have?” She shifted from her rocker to his lap and paid him in full, with interest.
Struggling to keep himself from sweeping her up and carrying her to their bedroom, he contented himself with burying his face in her hair, still damp from her morning shower and smelling of Lustre-Creme, the shampoo of choice for famous redheads like Rita Hayworth and Maureen O’Hara. He brushed her curls aside and kissed her neck as she snuggled closer.
“Besides,” said Fitz to make her feel better, “it isn’t exactly a foregone conclusion. I’m not even sure the marks on her throat could have been made from behind. But all this guesswork will be over once Kligman comes to. Surely she knows what happened.”
For the time being there was nothing more to be said. They lapsed into silence, each trying to put the case aside and concentrate on this moment of intimacy. The natural beauty all around them—the dune grass waving in the sea breeze, the refreshing salty tang in the air, the murmur of the waves against the shore, the cloudless blue sky—and the pleasant sound of children’s laughter from the beach just beyond their shaded deck were barely perceived as they focused on each other.
Only a few more days and they’d be back in the city, dealing with the bar fights, gang rumbles, domestic disputes, and other consequences of tempers shortened by the summer heat. Burglaries rose, too, since people left their windows open all day and forgot to close them when they went out.
This far east it was at least ten degrees cooler, and you could leave your windows and doors open all day and night without worrying—though, cops to the core, Fitz and Nita were not about to drop their prudent urban habits just because they were on vacation in the country. When they went out, everything was locked up tight, including the car whenever Fitz parked it.
“Hey, you guys, stop smooching!” TJ had caught them in the act. Startled, they sat up and looked momentarily embarrassed, then grinned at their son as he scolded his father, using a phrase he’d learned from Grandma Blanca. “¡Qué malo eres, Papá! Behave yourself!”
Fitz pleaded innocent. “It’s not my fault, buddy. Your mom threw herself at me, and I just couldn’t resist.”
Nita rose, straightened her dress, and tried to reclaim her dignity, but failed. She pointed at her husband. “Pants on fire!” she exclaimed, and all three of them broke out laughing.
When they had composed themselves, TJ delivered a message. “Mr. Bayley asked me to tell you that Chief Steele called. He said the lady in the hospital is conscious, and he wants Mom to question her.”
“Of course,” replied Nita, suddenly serious. “Now maybe we’ll find out what happened to Edith. I’d better go return that call.”