Cape Cod (78 page)

Johnny could see the white suit at the platform steps. Elwood was talking to one of the Secret Service men, and Johnny thought about stalling. Perhaps he could give the President a demonstration with the clam rake.

But the mute—and some said incoherent—Tom Hilyard seemed to understand what Bigelow had said. He stepped forward and held out the painting.

Johnny looked at the beaming faces of the President, the governor, old Heman with the hearing trumpet in his ear, Charles Bigelow with his political ambitions stitched like his watch fob across his vest, and he thought, I’ve done what I could. He pulled the cover away.

“
Murder on the Mayflower,
” Johnny mumbled, so softly as to be unheard. And he saw what he had expected—benign puzzlement on the President’s face, curiosity from the dignitaries surrounding him, and a red, sputtering rage flooding from Bigelow’s chin to his hairline.

“Mr. President”—Bigelow pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow—“there’s been a mistake.”

“Steak?” shouted Heman Bigelow, who could see about as well as he could hear. “The Pilgrims didn’t have steak.”

“Quiet, Pa.”

Heman looked at the President. “Steak dinners on the
Mayflower
. Who ever heard of such a thing? Take him away.”

“Johnny,” said Charles Bigelow, “perhaps you should show your uncle back to his place.”

Tom shook his whole body and tried to shove the painting into Taft’s hands. Secret Service men were moving. Johnny was grabbing his uncle by the arms. Bigelow was saying something about Tom’s violent rages, and Elwood’s white linen suit was squeezing through the crowd on the platform.

But the confusion lasted only a moment, like a little williwaw of sand blowing up on the beach. Then there was a
pop
. The sound of a firecracker. Or a gunshot.

People in the crowd ducked. Secret Service men put their hands on their guns and pressed themselves around the President. Memories of William McKinley’s death were still fresh. But not even a puff of smoke rose from the crowd.

That was because the smoke was contained in a pocket.

The little explosion, whatever it was, punctuated the scene. Tom Hilyard’s emotion faded, and he was led back to his seat. The President accepted
First Light
from Elwood while Charles Bigelow shoved
Murder on the Mayflower
into the hands of Dorothy Dickerson. Then the band began to play.

Perez Nance kept his hand around the gun in his pocket until the President came to the lectern. Then he limped away, leaving a trail of blood from the twenty-two caliber hole he had shot in his foot.

iii.

That afternoon Charles Bigelow hosted a clambake for members of the Pilgrim Association at the Hilyard House Hotel. He conveyed them from Provincetown on a chartered white steam yacht that came gaily in on the high tide. The band oom-pahed at the dock, pennants fluttered atop every turret, and red, white, and blue bunting danced in the breeze.

Elwood Hilyard could not have been prouder than Bigelow was of his investment in the great white edifice that rambled along the shore like the
Rosa rugosa
along the fence in front of it. The hotel had been a fine idea after all.

Bigelow was disappointed that neither the President, the governor, nor Senator Lodge had accepted his invitation. A nod from a Republican stalwart would have been most welcome as the 1912 campaign approached. Nevertheless, it was a day to celebrate his heritage with others of like blood, and some of them would open their pocketbooks when he set his sights on Washington.

So he played the gracious host on the veranda, in the tent on the lawn, and down at the beach, where lobsters, clams, and corn were steaming in a pit of seaweed and hot stones. He had lost his wife the year before, but thanked God for his three sons, the best ambassadors a man could want, and he was especially pleased that his youngest, Theodore, was escorting a beautiful Pilgrim and distant cousin, Dorothy Dickerson. He and his fine family would make everyone forget the strange little scene on the speakers’ platform that morning.

Beer flowed in the tent, barrels of raw oysters rolled, and the band went to the gazebo to play “In the Good Old Summertime” and “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

No one complained that the original Pilgrims had frowned on any music but psalms. And when an old Congregationalist lady complained about the kegs, Charles reminded her that the Pilgrims had put in at Provincetown because they were running low on beer. Then he poured her a sarsaparilla.

While the party went on, Johnny Hilyard was charged with keeping Tom in his room, and he did a good job of it for an hour or so.

But the longer he sat there, with Tom rocking silently and scowling out the window, the louder grew the voice in Johnny’s head. It wasn’t fair. Outside, there was music. People were laughing. Kids played ring-a-lievio. It… wasn’t… fair. And across the lawn, the Japanese lanterns that he had helped to string glowed like fireflies. After all he had been through that day, it wasn’t
fair
.

He pulled out a canvas and set it up on the easel. Then he opened Tom’s paint box and squeezed tubes of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet onto the palette. At the sight of the paints, Tom stopped rocking and began to fish in his pockets. Something in his fractured mind always told him he had a paintbrush in his pocket.

Johnny slipped a brush into his hand. “That ought to keep you busy.”

About an hour later, a game of hide-and-seek was rambling across the lawn, through buildings and tents, under the feet of the grown-ups, and off into the darkening woods. Johnny’s sister Clara was “it,” counting to a hundred by tens with her face pressed against a pillar on the veranda.

Johnny scampered through the refreshment tent and snatched the last piece of blueberry pie. Before any of the grown-ups could make him put it back, he wrapped it in his red handkerchief and went outside.

But where, in all this excitement, could he hide with his pie?
Down there
, behind the gazebo. The band had taken a rest and the gazebo was deserted. Slip in between the shrubbery and the knee wall and no one would ever see him.

After he was settled, he tried to decide what was most delicious—that purloined piece of pie, the knowledge that his sister would never find him here, or the view of Dorothy Dickerson, down on the beach, spoonin’ with Teddy Bigelow.

The pie, he decided. He raised it to his lips, let the bittersweet aroma bring the juices to his mouth, and a girl’s voice whispered from the other side of the rhododendron, “I was here first.”

Aggie Dickerson’s Pilgrim dress was torn and grass-stained, and a smudge of dirt sat right at the tip of her nose. “I was here
first
, Johnny Hilyard.”

“Call me Clam—uh, call me
Rake
. That’s what the President called me. And so what if you was here first?”

“This spot’s mine. You can stay if you give me a taste of your pie.”

Johnny—Rake, gave this some thought, then took the bite he had been planning. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips as though someone had put the rapture of the Lord right on his tongue.

“Hah-hah, very funny,” said Aggie. “Gimme a bite or I’ll scream your name. Then Clara, she’ll find you and you’ll be it.”

That
would be no good. In the dark, he would never find all the kids. As he reluctantly offered her the pie, he heard a funny toot, almost a yelp, as though somebody had stepped on a dog’s paw. It was followed by a whistle.

Johnny peered over the knee wall into the gazebo. What he saw caused him to drop like a rock. Tom Hilyard was methodically wiping off the mouthpieces and testing each untended instrument, while Uncle Elwood and Charles Bigelow hurried down the path.

“I thought you told that nephew of yours to watch him.” Bigelow was shouting in a furious whisper.

Toot… tootle-toot-toot
. Clarinet.

“He could have destroyed my career,” Bigelow went on. “How could you let him out of the house with that painting?”

“He’s gettin’ devious.”

Johnny heard the screen door open, then shut, which meant Elwood and Bigelow were in the gazebo now, and Johnny was in trouble.

“The painting should have been destroyed years ago,” said Bigelow.

“It should have been, but… but my brother said we should hide it, in case you ever turned against us.”

“Turned against you? After the participation of First Comers Cooperative in building your hotel? After we agreed to subdivide the island in 1904 so you could build cottages all over it if the hotel was a success? We had an
agreement
, Elwood.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I honor my agreements.
Ours
made you a prosperous man, and it should have protected
my
reputation.”

Plink. Plink-plinkle-plunk
. What was that? The triangle? The xylophone?

“Put that down,” said Elwood.

Johnny peered over the wall again. Charles was in shirtsleeves, but Elwood, for all the tension in his voice, still looked as fresh as the morning paper.

“C’mon, Tom,” said Elwood.

Tom shook his head and picked up the trombone.

Bigelow snatched it out of his hands. “Get back to the hotel and out of sight before you remind the guests of that painting.”

“Almost no one saw it,” said Elwood, “and
First Light
made a peace de grace.”

“But what happens when the reporters ask about it? We can’t very well destroy it.”

“No one saw the nameplate,” said Elwood. “We can make a new one. Name someone else as the murderer.”

Tom shook his head.

Charles wiped his red silk handkerchief across his forehead. “Blame it on someone who died that first winter?”

“Someone without any offsprouts. That way none of your”—he gestured to the veranda of the hotel—“bonofactors will be offended.”

Tom shaped his angriest face and tried to plant his feet, as if to say he would not be moved. But the ruined left foot collapsed and he fell to the floor.

Johnny wanted to help him, but Johnny was in trouble enough already. If they caught him eavesdropping on a grown-up conversation, his father would warm his hide.

But Elwood and Bigelow were treating Tom like an enfeebled animal. They just stood over him, watching him struggle to get to his feet. This wasn’t right.

Finally Elwood crouched down next to him. “We’ll help you, Tom. Just come back to the house, like a good fellow.”

“If Tom could find this painting, wherever you and your brother hid it,” said Bigelow, “he may be able to produce the book he spoke of, the one he called ‘as authentic as Bradford’s log.’ ”

This was the first time that Johnny “Rake” Hilyard had ever heard mention of the book, and it meant nothing to him.

“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Tom?” asked Elwood.

Tom continued to struggle.

“How much do you think gets through to that devious mind?” asked Bigelow.

“Who knows? What can doctors know about the brain? They could see his fractured skull and six-month coma, but not whatever happened inside—stroke, cerevral hemorrhage. Can’t talk, can’t communicate, keeps painting one little sliver of his past, like it’s the only shaft of light that still gets through to him.”

“And he still hates me,” said Bigelow, “in spite of all I’ve done.”

“
We’re
grateful,” said Elwood.

“
And
trusting.” Bigelow was seized by fury. He dropped to his knees and grabbed Tom by the shoulders. “You said Bradford’s log was not
the
log. Is there another one? The log of the
Mayflower?
The book of history?”

Tom just looked at him.

“Tell me!” Bigelow shook Tom like a shark shaking a piece of meat.

Johnny jumped up, but he had no courage and dropped down again. These were grown-ups. They were supposed to know how to act. He looked at little Aggie. She scraped her top teeth across her lower lip and looked back as though Johnny would know what to do.

“Where is the book!” demanded Bigelow.

Elwood crouched beside him and whispered, as if to remind Bigelow that voices carried far through the night. “There
is
no book. We went through his old house from top to bottom before we moved it. There was nothing hidden but the old… the old broadswords.”

“Broad
sides
. They spoke of the book more than a hundred years ago.” Bigelow released Tom, stood, straightened himself. “I think it still exists.”

“Is my trumpet down there?”

Another voice. Johnny peered over the knee wall and saw old Heman tottering down the path.

“My trumpet! My
hearin’
horn.”

Charles Bigelow whispered to Elwood, “Did Tom ever go back to the old house?”

“Zachary took him when he went out there fishin’ or clammin’. Tom liked Billingsgate. He liked to go there.”

“And I’ll bet the devious old snake brought that book back with him. If we find it, we should burn it.”

“Burn what?” demanded Heman.

“I thought you were deaf,” said his son.

“What? Where’s my horn, my hearin’ horn?”

Charles picked up a trumpet and gave it to his father.

While Heman pressed the valves and held the horn to his ear, Charles whispered to Elwood, “If we find it, we burn it. If we don’t, maybe we should burn the hotel to make sure it’s gone.”

“Burn the hotel?” said Heman. “Good idea. Hotels bring strangers, and we got strangers wanderin’ all over the island tonight, scarin’ the ducks.”

“It’s not duck season, Pa.”

“You don’t want the ducks thinkin’ that.”

“Ducks don’t think, Pa.”

“But they
see
, and they’ll be glad to see that hotel burn.”

“Just a figure of speech, Pa.” Charles put his arm around his father and led him back up the path. “Let’s go find your trumpet, so you can hear when the band starts up. And no more talk of burnin’.”

Elwood helped Tom to his feet, brushed off his trousers, and said a few calming words, but Tom would not go. Elwood tugged gently, because he was a gentle man, but Tom would not move. Then Elwood understood. He picked up the slide trombone, the one instrument Tom had not tested.