Killing the Blues (2 page)

It was owned by an elderly physician and his wife who decided they had finally lived through enough New England winters. They were moving to Florida to be near their children and grandchildren and away from the cold.

But they couldn't bear to sell it. Their life had been in Paradise; their children had been born there.

The possibility existed that they might miss it too much and decide to return. As an interim step, they opted to rent it.

Healy knew the couple and made the introductions. He thought they would find security entrusting their home to the Paradise police chief.

It was well within Jesse's price range, partially furnished, and isolated enough to be attractive to him. Despite the inconvenience of having to lug his groceries across the narrow footbridge that spanned the bay, he fell in love with the place at first sight.

What little furniture he owned would be handled by Dexter's Movers. He had boxed and packed his few belongings and his clothing. Dexter's would move it all.

Jesse had taken one final tour of the condo. Not sentimental by nature, he still had feelings for it, and as he prepared to leave it for the last time, he felt a momentary pang of uncertainty.

Then he'd thought better of it and turned the key in at the management office. He bid the condo good-bye.

His thoughts returned to the missing vehicles.

Only idiots and dead men believe in coincidence, he remembered having read somewhere. It wasn't likely that the disappearance of two Hondas on the same day in the same town could be unrelated.

His first thought was that the cars had been stolen. He knew that gang-related automobile thefts often took place in New England, but they had never before occurred in Paradise.

The summer season was about to begin, and the last thing Jesse wanted to see in his office was the faces of tourists whose vehicles had disappeared.

And although he cared little for him, Jesse was certain the same would hold true for Carter Hansen, the current head of the Paradise Board of Selectmen.

As he left his office, Jesse could hear the sound of warning bells tolling ominously in his brain.

C
arter Hansen waited for Jesse to enter the meeting hall before bringing the annual State of the Summer in Paradise conference to order.

As was his custom, Jesse took a seat in the back row, alongside Molly and Suitcase.

Today's conference had attracted a good-sized audience, comprised mostly of town luminaries and interested citizens.

Most of the regular Paradise police officers were there. Peter Perkins. Arthur Angstrom. Richard Bauer. There were a few of the new summer hires as well.

The five members of the board of selectmen were seated on the dais, including the newly reelected Hastings Hathaway, once the head selectman.

Hasty had owned the First City Bank of Paradise. Facing possible failure, however, he had aligned himself with a Boston-based mobster and had begun using the bank to launder money, a career that abruptly ended when his crimes were discovered by Jesse Stone, whom Hasty himself had hired.

He was apprehended, tried, and sentenced to five years in prison, a sentence that was later reduced to two years. With time off for good behavior, Hasty wound up serving only sixteen months.

Upon his release, having been legally barred from returning to the world of banking, Hasty opened an upscale used car dealership.

His infectious ebullience and easy charm contributed to his success, and when he sought reelection to the board, running on a “redemption” platform, he won handily.

Carter Hansen, who had become the head selectman by default when Hasty had gone to jail, was none too happy to welcome him back. He believed that the board of selectmen was no place for a convicted felon. Hansen was also unhappy that years ago, against his better judgment, Hasty had hired Jesse Stone.

Although Hansen was forced to admit that Chief Stone turned out to be an effective lawman, there was no love lost between them.

He gaveled the meeting to order.

“Citizens of Paradise,” he said, pleased with the sound of his voice. “This meeting will now come to order. The summer season is once again upon us, and there is much to be done.”

His gaze settled on Jesse.

“Chief Stone, have you anything you want to tell us regarding your plans for the summer?”

Jesse remained seated and silent, creating a moment of discomfort for Hansen. Finally, he stood and spoke.

“We're ready,” he said.

Then he sat back down.

“That's it,” Hansen said. “That's all you have to say?”

Jesse nodded.

On the dais, Selectman Morris Comden leaned over to snicker in Hansen's ear.

“Not too much of a talker, is he?”

Hansen ignored the remark.

“For the record, Chief Stone, let it be known that the board of selectmen has approved funding for the hiring of additional law enforcement personnel for the summer season. This will give us a greater capability in the service of tourism, which is Paradise's principal source of income. I assume this meets with your approval.”

“It does,” Jesse said.

“I assume that the force has been properly instructed as to the acceptable rules of behavior for a long and arduous summer season.”

“It has.”

Jesse noticed that Molly was staring at him with a look of exasperation on her face.

He turned to her and grinned.

Carter Hansen sat silently.

Jesse sat silently.

Finally, Hansen spoke.

“All right, then,” he said. “Now that we've heard from Chief Stone, I'd like to introduce Alexis Richardson, who has been hired to head the public-relations and event-planning campaign for the upcoming season. It will be up to Alexis to spread the word that Paradise is
the
hot new location for summer tourism.”

Jesse watched as a young woman in the front row stood and, amid a scattering of applause, made her way to the lectern.

He listened attentively as she discussed her plans to create a summer music festival. She looked to be in her late twenties, exceptionally pretty and fashionably slender. She wore a black Donna Karan summer suit with a very short skirt and a white open-collared blouse. A simple gold chain adorned her neck. Her pale skin was complemented by expertly styled shoulderlength jet-black hair, which she constantly brushed from her forehead with a swipe of her hand.

As she spoke, her eyes scanned the audience, stopping occasionally on Jesse. Her talk was short, and afterward she returned to her seat.

Carter Hansen took to the lectern and talked briefly before calling on a handful of prominent business leaders, the CEO of Paradise Memorial Hospital, the fire captain, and the head of the Sanitation Department.

As was the case with Ms. Richardson, each of the speakers devoted their remarks to their own summer initiatives and their varying degrees of readiness.

Jesse's attention waned.

His thoughts turned to Sunny Randall. Although they had decided to take the next step in their somewhat quixotic relationship, things had suddenly changed when she accepted a job that took her to Europe for the summer.

Once she had gone, he began to feel the weight of his commitment easing. He began to have doubts. He was haunted by remembrances of his marriage to Jenn. He felt his psychic defenses reestablishing themselves. He found himself becoming more and more reclusive and increasingly secure in his solitude.

He was suddenly wrenched from his reverie.

“Jesse,” Molly said, “wake up. The meeting's over.”

W
hen Jesse and Molly left the Town Hall, they found clusters of people milling about on the sidewalk, talk-W ing in small groups.

Alexis Richardson stood alone, her eyes searching the crowd.

“Chief Stone,” she said, when she spotted Jesse.

She approached him.

“Jesse,” he said.

He liked the way she looked. Even more so up close.

“Alexis,” she said. “Do you think you could make some time for me, Jesse? I'd like to stop by and share my thoughts about the summer with you.”

Jesse didn't say anything.

She moved closer to him and lowered her voice.

“I have some ideas about how to successfully promote tourism,” she said. “I subscribe to the spring-break theory. All-day music festivals. Rock and roll. They'll swarm to Paradise like they did to Woodstock. They'll be sleeping fifteen deep on the beach.”

“There's no sleeping on the beach,” Jesse said.

“I'm very serious about this, Jesse,” she said.

Hasty Hathaway approached them.

“Jesse,” he said.

“Hasty,” Jesse said.

Alexis took the moment to make her getaway. Looking at Jesse, she lifted her hand to her ear, thumb and pinky extended as if she was holding a telephone, and silently mouthed the words
I'll call you.

“I hope I didn't interrupt anything,” Hasty said, as he watched her walk away. “That girl has some pair of legs on her.”

“I'm glad to see that some things don't change, Hasty,” Jesse said.

“What's this about a car or two going missing,” Hasty said. “I heard a couple of Hondas disappeared.”

“Don't believe everything you hear.”

“It's a small town, Jesse. Things don't stay secret for very long.”

Jesse didn't say anything.

“If you ever need anything,” Hasty said. “Anything at all, you'll be sure to let me know?”

“I will.”

“I hope you're not just saying that.”

“I'm not just saying that, Hasty.”

“I hope not,” Hasty said. “You know, I'm very fond of you, Jesse.”

Jesse placed his hand on Hasty's shoulder for a moment, then turned away.

He spotted Molly and walked toward her.

The sidewalk crowd had thinned. Several of the lingerers greeted Jesse as he passed.

“You running for office,” Molly said.

“I'm a very popular figure here, Moll.”

“That's only because you're the police chief.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I'm saying is that your popularity is an illusion. Something that comes with the job. Try not to let it go to your head.”

“I'm crushed.”

“I know. You just stick with me. It's my job to keep you illusion-free.”

“And it's a fine job that you're doing, too. Keep it up and there could be a big promotion in it for you.”

“Promotion to what,” Molly said.

“Let me get back to you on that,” Jesse said. They began walking toward Jesse's cruiser.

“You know something, Moll,” Jesse said.

“What?”

“I think we might just have our hands full with Ms. Richardson.”

“In what way,” Molly said.

“Rock and roll,” Jesse said.

“Which means?”

“Trouble. Right here in River City.”

I
t was early evening, and Jesse had already made several trips across the footbridge, each time carrying armloads of groceries and supplies.

He strolled through the rooms of the small house, stepping around his boxes, acknowledging the existing furniture and trying to determine where he'd place his own.

He walked onto the back porch, which overlooked the bay. He breathed in the crisp night air. The remoteness of the house offered a level of privacy and quiet that had escaped him when he lived in the condo.

He went back upstairs. He scanned the boxes in search of the one marked “linens.” He found his sheets and pillowcases and proceeded to make up his bed.

He had just stepped out of the shower when he realized that someone was knocking loudly on his front door.

“Hold on,” Jesse said. “I'm coming.”

He dried himself off as best he could and wrapped the towel around his waist. With water still dripping from his hair, he opened the door.

Healy, now his neighbor, stood before him.

“Have I come at a bad time,” he said.

“What makes you say that,” Jesse said.

“I was on my way home, so I thought I'd stop by to see how you were doing,” Healy said. “So how are you doing?”

Jesse was not yet completely dry. His towel had come loose, and he only just managed to grab it before it fell to the floor.

“Your fly is open,” Healy said.

Jesse stared at him.

“Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to entertain yourself while I tend to my dishabille?”

“Your dishabille,” Healy said.

“My clothing,” Jesse said. “A simple translation for the benefit of any dolts who might be standing in my doorway.”

“Go right ahead,” Healy said. “Where do you keep the scotch?”

“In the kitchen,” Jesse said, as he started up the stairs.

Healy went inside, found the bottle, and helped himself to a healthy pour of Jesse's Johnny Black.

He opened the two French doors that led from the living room to the porch. He went outside.

Haphazardly placed on the porch were a love seat, a couple of tables, and a pressed-wood armchair, none of which appeared to have ever been new.

Healy sat down on the armchair, content to sip his scotch and stare silently at the sparkling reflection of the setting sun on the restless waters of the bay.

Jesse, dressed in jeans and a sweater, joined him. He carried a scotch of his own.

“Beautiful out here,” Healy said.