Canary (22 page)

In the meantime, Valentine had removed his shirt and was deep into a game of volleyball, which had begun as soon as all the bartenders had taken a vote on whether this was to be a competitive or noncompetitive match. “Cutthroat” was ventured as a third option and won. Sean was on Valentine's team, just ahead of him in rotation. Several times in the course of the game Valentine had to call Sean's attention back to the game. Sean appeared less interested in winning than in watching Press, who sat sketching the players, his back against the trunk of an oak.

Once, as the ball sailed over the net to Valentine's team, Sean leaped suddenly high into the air, twisted his torso to one side, and slammed his fist into the ball. It shot in an arc away from the net and slammed into the oak tree, just inches from Press's head.

“Sean,” Valentine said, mystified by the man's action, “what's wrong with you?”

Without missing a beat, Press got to his feet and said aloud, “Sean doesn't like witnesses; that's what's wrong with him.” He ambled away into the thick forest.

One of the opponents retrieved the ball. The game immediately resumed.

The volleyball game went on for another twenty minutes, with a victory for the team opposing Valentine. The players dispersed, most returning to the coolness of the barroom and others stripping to their swim trunks and racing toward the shore of Cold River. Valentine remained by the net and wiped sweat from his body with his wadded up T-shirt. Press reemerged from the forest on his way to the river.

“Let's see,” Valentine called to him, indicating the sketchbook.

“Don't drip,” Press demanded as he opened the book and flipped the pages for Valentine's inspection. He saw quick sketches of the volleyball game, of men sitting in rockers on the porch, and one of Niobe at the bar inside the lodge.

“Who's that?” said Valentine, pointing at one of the last sketches, less detailed than the others.

“I thought it was a pretty good likeness.”

“It looks like Bander,” said Valentine.

“It is.”

“Is he here today?”

Press grinned maliciously. “That's what Sean's little outburst was about. That's how some people react after they've been bitten by the green-eyed monster.”

“Sean's jealous of
you
?”

“Not only jealous but mad as hell.”

“Do I have to play Twenty Questions just to get a simple answer?”

Press looked up—he'd been filling in one of the sketches. “Oh, all right, it's not very interesting, anyway. Sean was seeing Bander—whom I take it you know—”

“What do you mean ‘was seeing'? I just heard on Wednesday that they were back together again.”

“Like the song says, ‘What a Difference a Day Makes,' or in this case, a phone call.”

“I hate mystic utterances, Press.”

“Sean's pissed at me because this morning he showed up at Bander's apartment and I was there. They had a row and a half. They threw each other around a little, and then Sean stormed out.” Press took a breath. “Then Bander and
I
had a row.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that he'd deliberately arranged that little scene—using me as the third party. When we got up this morning, I went to take a shower. He went to make coffee. The kitchen and bath are right next to each other. He called Sean and told him to come on over. I didn't tell him I'd heard him call, but I rushed like hell to get out of there. I wasn't fast enough, and suddenly there was Sean.”

“Why would Bander do a lousy thing like that?”

“Like what? Sleep with me or purposely sabotage a relationship?”

“Screw their relationship, of course.” Valentine looked away and back. “Sean must be pretty upset.”

“I don't know what his story is. And tell you the truth, I don't care. Bander's one pretty strange cookie so far as I'm concerned.”

“Why?”

“Let's just say that since Jed was killed I don't particularly like kinks between the sheets. In fact, I haven't even thought about sex much. I only went home with Bander because he was the best-looking man in the Eagle last night. He was also the only one who looked even remotely approachable.”

“What did Bander want to do?”

“No details,” Press said adamantly, “but I don't like bondage, discipline, or verbal abuse. I got enough of that working as a floorman in Filene's B.”

“But you did stay the night with him.”

“I wouldn't let him take his toys out, and I made him keep his mouth shut, figuratively speaking. Ask Sean if you want to know sordid details; just don't bring my name up unless you want to see how high you can raise his blood pressure. Now, I made a promise to myself to fill the sketchbook by the end of the day, and I've got a dozen blank pages, so I'm moving on to bigger and better things.”

“Just one more ques—”

“No more anything,” Press said, and turned on his heel, walking quickly away in the direction of the riverbank.

Clarisse had fallen asleep for a quarter of an hour inside the lodge and woke up refreshed. She had her scotch and water refilled and then wandered outside, down to where Fred and Mike were supervising the lunch setup in a willow-surrounded clearing at the margin of the tumbling Cold River. She stepped over and around gossiping sun worshippers sprawled out all over the lawn until she was at the very edge of the stream. The sun was very bright on the water. Even with her sunglasses Clarisse had to shade her eyes with a hand for a clear view of the swimmers. A squeal of laughter rose sharply behind her and grew louder. Someone thumped hard against her, and Clarisse stumbled awkwardly to one side, her hat flopping down across her eyes and temporarily blinding her. She deftly regained her footing, but not before sloshing half her drink across her blouse and onto the oiled backs of several sunbathers, who yelped at the unexpected coldness on their skin.

Angrily, Clarisse yanked up the brim of her hat and whirled about with harsh words ready for whoever had so rudely pummeled her.

“Sorry,” B.J. exclaimed with exaggerated insincerity as she ran off the short wooden pier into the water. Her jeans and cowboy shirt had been replaced by only a scanty bikini bottom. B.J. belly-flopped in the water, and Clarisse was showered with the results of her impact. B.J. squealed again, and without warning leaped up onto the back of the woman Valentine had said resembled a besotted Elvis Presley.

Clarisse glared at B.J.'s bare back. She leaned over and apologized to the disgruntled men she'd splashed. She was about to leave when a hand gripped her ankle. Clarisse revived her glare and looked down to see Bander. He was dressed only in a bright red, wide-banded jockstrap. His gray Boston Gas uniform was folded into a pillow beneath his head.

“You're all wet, Lovelace,” he said, and laughed softly as he released her leg.

Clarisse smiled sweetly and upended her glass. The remainder of the iced scotch and water cascaded over the man's face and shoulders.

“So are you, Bander,” Clarisse replied.

Several men hooted, and Clarisse waved graciously to them as she made her way back toward the lodge, brandishing her empty glass above her head like a trophy.

L
UNCH WAS SERVED AT
a quarter past twelve. Valentine and Clarisse tried to talk to one another across paper plates, exchanging what they'd heard and what they'd speculated, but there were interruptions on every side.

“We'll talk in the car,” Valentine said, pouring coffee out of an urn for them both, “on the way back to Boston.”

“No good,” said Clarisse. “We're hauling Niobe back with us, remember?”

At one-fifteen, Fred stood on the front steps of the lodge and held an electronic bullhorn to his mouth: “The tubing contest will begin at one-thirty sharp! Contestants please assemble in the parking lot to claim their tires!”

The crowd abandoned its beer or coffee and moved toward the bare dirt lot where the cars and vans were parked. There, at the edge of Cold River, nearly a hundred truck-tire inner tubes were neatly stacked. Mike and a helper were checking them for buoyancy and adding air to those that seemed slack.

“Sure you won't change your mind and come along?” Valentine asked Clarisse. “Probably the last opportunity of the season to tube the Cold River.”

“Valentine, I'd rather be strapped to a maharajah's widow committing suttee than be seen floating spread-eagled down a stream in a rubber tire. Besides,” Clarisse added breezily, fluffing the bow of her hat ribbon, “I'm not dressed for it.”

“What are you going to do for the next couple of hours? Nobody'll be back till four at least.”

“First I'm going to inventory the liquor supply, and then I'm going to run a safety check on the hammocks.”

“Contestants, claim your tires and entry numbers!” Fred's bullhorned voice demanded.

“Clarisse, I don't think tubing is Press's sort of activity, either,” Valentine said quietly. “If you run into him, find out everything you can about Sean and Bander breaking up.”

“They broke up?” Clarisse squeaked. “Niobe told us just a few hours ago they were back together again.”

Valentine shrugged. “Life moves too fast for me nowadays.” He winked and then broke into a jog toward the parking lot.

All one hundred inner tubes were dragged and carried down to the river. The contestants tied on their assigned luminous orange-and-black number flags and then proceeded to toss their tubes into the water and waded out to acclimate themselves to the frigid temperature of the mountain stream. Clarisse moved down to watch and waved back to anyone who waved to her first. The Cold River was just deep enough to make navigation via inner tube safe and relatively easy. There was little danger of drowning. The contestants, paddling with arms and legs, bumped their tubes into and off others playfully in anticipation of the start of the contest. A rope, one end in Mike's hand and the other tied to a tree across the lake, marked the starting line behind which the contestants crowded.

There seemed to be much confusion among the contestants, and people kept rushing over to Fred and Mike and asking them questions. It seemed as though the start of the race would be delayed for a while, and Clarisse got tired of waiting. She walked back to the lodge but got only as far as the veranda steps before she changed direction and walked across the yard and went into the forest. She discovered a well-worn path that followed, more or less, the line of the river.

Clarisse walked along the arc of the river. Farther upstream, the tubes behind the starting rope looked like enormous black lifesavers crowding on the water. She lifted her glasses and tried to find which tube Valentine was in but was unable to spot him.

Clarisse was surprised by how suddenly she was swallowed up by the trees, the dense vegetation cutting off sight of the lodge and its guests, and very quickly their noise, as well. She could hear birds, animals rattling in the underbrush, the swift sweep of the Cold River a dozen or so yards away—but nothing else. The trees were tall here, pines and firs mostly, and provided a dense canopy of lush green. The sunlight was filtered and dim, and underneath her feet was a thick carpet of decaying needles.

She bent down to study a clump of tiny yellow flowers blooming in the crevice of a decayed stump. Then she leaned over even farther to determine if they had scent. A noise came unexpectedly behind her—dry wood snapping clean. It did not seem close by, but it was near enough to cause Clarisse to freeze and listen closely. Her peripheral vision was blocked by her hat, so she stood up and removed her dark glasses. She looked about casually as if doing no more than trying to catch a glimpse of the nearby stream. Nothing stirred. She relaxed, replaced her glasses, and moved farther along the path. The eerie feeling of being watched crept over her again.

Clarisse froze once again. She hissed in a sharp breath as she rolled her hands into fists at her side, her eyes riveted to the edge of the dirt path. A thin whitish snake was coiled in the moss in the shadow of some broken flat rocks. Clarisse bit her lower lip and held her breath. The muscles of her calves tightened, and her toes curled back in her sandals. She remembered from the sixth grade that there were four species of poisonous snakes in the continental United States but could not remember how many of those four species could be found in mixed coniferous forests of southern Vermont. She very slowly uncoiled the fingers of her right hand and raised her arm to her face, edging her glasses up with an extended finger. Suddenly her whole body relaxed, and she expelled her breath loudly in relief. She let her glasses drop back onto the bridge of her nose and then bent forward and plucked the length of white from among the leaves and held it up before her eyes. It was no snake at all, but an old rosary of intricately carved ivory beads. Though the crucifix was missing, the beads were not stained or dirty, so she guessed it had not been on the ground for very long.