Fever Dream (12 page)

“Like it was yesterday.”

Pendergast took another sip. “And this was where we held the reception, after our wedding ceremony in the formal garden.”

“Yes, sir.” The sharp edge of reserve had dulled somewhat, and Maurice appeared to sit more naturally on the ottoman.

“Helen loved this room, too,” Pendergast went on.

“Indeed she did.”

“I remember how she’d often sit here in the evenings, working on her research or catching up on the technical journals.”

A wistful, reflective smile crossed Maurice’s face.

Pendergast examined his glass and the autumn-colored liquid within it. “We could spend hours here without speaking, simply
enjoying each other’s company.” He paused and said, casually, “Did she ever speak to you, Maurice, of her life before she
met me?”

Maurice drained his glass, set it aside with a delicate gesture. “No, she was a quiet one.”

“What’s your strongest memory of her?”

Maurice thought a moment. “Bringing her pots of rose hip tea.”

Now it was Pendergast’s turn to smile. “Yes, that was her favorite. It seemed she could never get enough. The library always
smelled of rose hips.” He sniffed the air. Now the room smelled only of dust, damp, and sherry. “I fear I was away from home
rather more frequently than was good. I often wonder what Helen did for amusement in this drafty old house while I was out
of town.”

“She sometimes went on trips for her own work, sir. But she spent a lot of time right in here,” Maurice said. “She used to
miss you so.”

“Indeed? She always put on such a brave face.”

“I used to come across her in here all the time in your absences,” Maurice said. “Looking at the birds.”

Pendergast paused. “The birds?”

“You know, sir. Your brother’s old favorite, back before… before the bad times started. The great book with all the bird prints
in that drawer there.” He nodded toward a drawer in the base of an old chestnut armoire.

Pendergast frowned. “The Audubon double elephant folio?”

“That’s the one. I’d bring her tea and she wouldn’t even notice I was here. She’d sit turning the pages for hours.”

Pendergast put down his glass rather abruptly. “Did she ever talk to you about this interest in Audubon? Ask you questions,
perhaps?”

“Now and then, sir. She was fascinated with great-great-grandfather’s friendship with Audubon. It was nice to see her taking
such an interest in the family.”

“Grandfather Boethius?”

“That’s the one.”

“When was this, Maurice?” Pendergast asked after a moment.

“Oh, shortly after you were married, sir. She wanted to see his papers.”

Pendergast allowed himself a contemplative sip. “Papers? Which ones?”

“The ones in there, in the drawer below the prints. She was always going through those old documents and diaries. Those, and
the book.”

“Did she ever say why?”

“I expect she admired those pictures. Those are some lovely birds, Mr. Pendergast.” Maurice took another sip of his sherry.
“Say—wasn’t that where you first met her? At the Audubon Cottage on Dauphine Street?”

“Yes. At a show of Audubon prints. But she exhibited little interest in them at the time. She told me she’d only come for
the free wine and cheese.”

“You know women, sir. They like their little secrets.”

“So it would seem,” Pendergast replied, very quietly.

Rockland, Maine

U
NDER ORDINARY CONDITIONS, THE SALTY DOG
Tavern would have been just the kind of bar Vincent D’Agosta liked: honest, unassuming, working class, and cheap. But these
were not ordinary conditions. He had flown or driven among four cities in as many days; he missed Laura Hayward; and he was
tired, bone-tired. Maine in February was not exactly charming. The last thing he felt like doing at the moment was hoisting
beers with a bunch of fishermen.

But he was becoming a little desperate. Rockland had turned out to be a dead end. The old Esterhazy house had changed hands
numerous times since the family moved out twenty years ago. Of all the neighbors, only one old spinster seemed to remember
the family—and she had shut the door in his face. Newspapers in the public library had no mention of the Esterhazys, and the
public records office held nothing pertinent but tax rolls. So much for small-town gossip and nosiness.

And so D’Agosta found himself resorting to the Salty Dog Tavern, a waterfront dive where—he was informed—the oldest of the
old salts hung out. It proved to be a shabby shingled building tucked between two warehouses on the landward end of the commercial
fishing wharf. A squall was fast approaching, a few preliminary
flakes of snow whirling in from the sea, the wind lashing
up spume from the ocean and sending abandoned newspapers tumbling across the rocky strand.
Why the hell am I here, anyway?
he wondered. But he knew the reason—Pendergast had explained it himself.
I’m afraid you’ll have to go
, he’d said.
I’m too close to the subject. I lack the requisite investigative distance and objectivity
.

Inside the bar it was dark, and the close air smelled of deep-fried fish and stale beer. As D’Agosta’s eyes adjusted to the
gloom, he saw that the bar’s denizens—a bartender and four patrons in peacoats and sou’westers—had stopped talking and were
staring at him. Clearly, this was an establishment that catered to regulars. At least it was warm, heat radiating from a woodstove
in the middle of the room.

Taking a seat at the far end of the bar, he nodded to the bartender and asked for a Bud. He made himself inconspicuous, and
the conversation gradually resumed. From it, he quickly learned that the four patrons were all fishermen; that the fishing
was currently bad; that the fishing was, in fact, always bad.

He took in the bar as he sipped his beer. The decor was, unsurprisingly, early nautical: shark jaws, huge lobster claws, and
photos of fishing boats covered the walls, and nets with colored glass balls hung from the ceiling. A heavy patina of age,
smoke, and grime coated every surface.

He downed one beer, then a second, before deciding it was time to make his move. “Mike,” he said—using the bartender’s Christian
name, which he had earlier gleaned from listening to the conversation—“let me buy a round for the house. Have one yourself,
while you’re at it.”

Mike stared at him a moment, then with a gruff word of thanks he complied. There were nods and grunts from the patrons as
the drinks were handed out.

D’Agosta took a big swig of his beer. It was important, he knew, to seem like a regular guy—and in the Salty Dog, that meant
not being a piker when it came to drinking. He cleared his throat. “I was wondering,” he said out loud, “if maybe some of
you men could help me.”

The stares returned, some curious, some suspicious. “Help you with what?” said a grizzled man the others had referred to as
Hector.

“There’s a family used to live around here. Name of Esterhazy. I’m trying to track them down.”

“What’s your name, mister?” asked a fisherman called Ned. He was about five feet tall, with a wind-and sun-wizened face and
forearms thick as telephone poles.

“Martinelli.”

“You a cop?” Ned asked, frowning.

D’Agosta shook his head. “Private investigator. It’s about a bequest.”

“Bequest?”

“Quite a lot of money. I’ve been hired by the trustees to locate any surviving Esterhazys. If I can’t find them, I can’t give
them their inheritance, can I?”

The bar was silent a minute while the regulars digested this. More than one pair of eyes brightened at the talk of money.

“Mike, another round, please.” D’Agosta took a generous swig from the foamy mug. “The trustees have also authorized a small
honorarium for those who help locate any surviving family members.”

D’Agosta watched as the fishermen glanced at one another, then back at him. “So,” he said, “can anybody here tell me anything?”

“Aren’t no Esterhazys in this town anymore,” said Ned.

“Aren’t no Esterhazys in this entire part of the
world
anymore,” said Hector. “There wouldn’t be any—not after what happened.”

“What was that?” D’Agosta asked, trying not to show too much interest.

More glances among the fishermen. “I don’t know a whole lot,” said Hector. “But they sure left town in a big hurry.”

“They kept a crazy aunt locked up in the attic,” said the third fisherman. “Had to, after she began killing and eating the
dogs in town. Neighbors said they could hear her up there at night, crying and banging on the door, demanding dog meat.”

“Come on, now, Gary,” said the bartender, with a laugh. “That was just the wife screaming. She was a real harpy. You’ve been
watching too many late-night movies.”

“What really happened,” said Ned, “was the wife tried to poison the husband. Strychnine in his cream of wheat.”

The bartender shook his head. “Have another beer, Ned. I heard the father lost his money in the stock market—that’s why they
blew town in a hurry, owed money all over.”

“A nasty business,” Hector said, draining his beer. “Very nasty.”

“What kind of a family were they?” D’Agosta asked.

One or two of the fishermen looked longingly at the empty glasses they’d downed with frightening rapidity.

“Mike, set us up again, if you please,” D’Agosta asked the bartender.

“I heard,” said Ned as he accepted his glass, “that the father was a real bastard. That he beat his wife with an electrical
cord. That’s why she poisoned him.”

The stories just seemed to get wilder and less likely; the one fact Pendergast had been able to pass on was that Helen’s father
had been a doctor.

“That’s not what
I
heard,” said the bartender. “It was the wife who was crazy. The whole family was afraid of her, tiptoed around for fear of
setting her off. And the husband was away a lot. Always traveling. South America, I think.”

“Any arrests? Police investigations?” D’Agosta already knew the answer: the Esterhazy police record was clean as a whistle.
There were no records anywhere of brushes with the law or police responses to domestic trouble. “You mentioned family. There
was a son and daughter, wasn’t there?”

A brief silence. “The son was kind of strange,” said Ned.

“Ned, the son was junior-class valedictorian,” said Hector.

Class valedictorian
, thought D’Agosta,
at least that can be checked out
. “And the daughter? What was she like?”

He was met with shrugs all around. He wondered if the high school would still have the records. “Anybody know where they might
be now?”

Glances were exchanged. “I heard the son was down south somewhere,” said Mike the bartender. “No idea what happened to the
daughter.”

“Esterhazy isn’t a common name,” offered Hector. “Ever think of trying the Internet?”

D’Agosta looked around at a sea of blank faces. He couldn’t think of any other questions that wouldn’t lead to another chorus
of conflicting rumors and unhelpful advice. He also realized—with dismay—that he was slightly drunk.

He stood, holding the bar to steady himself. “What do I owe you?” he asked Mike.

“Thirty-two fifty,” came the reply.

D’Agosta fished two twenties from his wallet and placed them on the bar. “Thank you all for your help,” he said. “Have a good
evening.”

“Say, what about that honorarium?” asked Ned.

D’Agosta paused, then turned. “Right, the honorarium. Let me give you my cell number. Any of you think of something else—something
specific
, not just rumors—you give me a call. If it leads to something, you might just get lucky.” He pulled a napkin toward him and
wrote down his number.

The fishermen nodded at him; Hector raised a hand in farewell.

D’Agosta clutched his coat up around his collar and staggered out of the bar into the stinging blizzard.

New Orleans

D
ESMOND TIPTON LIKED THIS TIME OF DAY
more than any other, when the doors were shut and barred, the visitors gone, and every little thing in its place. It was
the quiet period, from five to eight, before the drink tourists descended on the French Quarter like the Mongolian hordes
of Genghis Khan, infesting the bars and jazz joints, swilling Sazeracs to oblivion. He could hear them outside every night,
their boozy voices, whoops, and infantile caterwaulings only partly muffled by the ancient walls of the Audubon Cottage.