Orient (19 page)

“A family can own a whole island?” Mills couldn’t let go of the most sensational aspect. “That same family has been around since the seventeenth century? Out there? Eating dinner right now?” Mills glanced out the window. “I wonder what they’re eating.”

“All families have been around since the seventeenth century,” Paul said, laughing.

“I mean, in one place.”

“Yeah. You’ve got to hand it to the Gardiner descendants—they know how to hang on to their land.” Paul cleared his throat. “But what I’m trying to say is, those two islands are just like the minds of most people in Orient. They want conservancy, they want to preserve the natural land, they want to hold on to the history and keep Orient untouched by private development. But they also distrust the government. They don’t like laws cracking down on them, deciding
what they can and can’t do with their property. Why else is every house getting swamped with these green leaflets on the horrors of mutant animals? It’s meant to scare us, to make us think the government is creating trouble behind our backs.” Paul braided his fingers together in front of his stomach. “Gardiner versus Plum, private versus public, wrestling over which will win.”

Paul twittered his thumbs for ten seconds, and Mills actually watched to see if one thumb would pin the other. The match was called off, and Paul returned to his seat to finish his sandwich.

“Sorry. I get pedantic after a few glasses of wine.” He stared across the table to gauge whether his sole audience member was bored.

“Which side are you on?”

Paul laughed and clenched his teeth. “I plead the Fifth. You know how you stay popular in Orient? You keep your mouth shut when some of these deep-rooted families get to choosing sides. That’s what’s good about doing a painting of the lighthouse. Everyone can agree on how pretty it is.” Paul took a bite and chewed. Five chews gave him time to contemplate. “Thing is, Plum is going to lose that animal disease lab soon. And the Gardiner survivors can’t afford the upkeep on their grounds much longer. Those islands are about to change, and I bet there’ll be a fight over who gets them.” Paul’s tongue churned through peanut butter, a ship in a lagoon.

Paul should have children
, Mills thought. He had never wished children on anyone, but suddenly he hoped that one day Paul would marry Eleanor or another woman whose number might be lurking on a matchbook somewhere in this house. He should populate Orient and watch his children take sides in the conflict.

“But you’re an architect,” Mills said. “You develop property too, right?”

“Yes, I believe in buildings. Just not crappy ones. Not the kind you see popping up like birdhouses for the elderly the closer you get to the city. And, I’m afraid, I’m still a full-time architect. I thought I was going to have time to get this place fixed up. I’ve hardly even helped you throw out all that junk.”

Paul reached over and patted the table, a substitution for Mills’s hand. Paul had many tiny teeth inside his smile. Mills had begun to appreciate the moments it flared in his direction. Paul seemed less lonely then, grateful for the company, not just a walking encyclopedia stiff from being so rarely opened.

“I’m sorry you saw what you did today,” Paul said. “I’m sorry for what you saw last week. I promise we don’t usually have this much dying out here. I hope you’ll stay and finish up the house with me.” He returned his hand to his plate.

Mills decided not to mention Beth by name. He liked her too much—needed her too much, her company and car—to have her darkened in the mind of his host.

“I heard some talk that Magdalena was murdered.”

Paul dropped his crust on the plate and shook his head.

“Who said that?”

“Some people, a neighbor on the street. Just one person. I didn’t know them.”

“Can’t they even let an old woman die in peace? Can’t they not turn everything into a conspiracy? Can’t they—”

Mills regretted his next sentence as soon as he spoke it. But it was too enticing not to imagine that he had entered the house of a homicide victim, too lurid not to at least verbalize the possibility. What was the point of a confidant if not to speak outlandishly about the dead?

“And Jeff Trader too. One after the other. By the same killer.”

Paul reached for the bottle and poured a small dose of wine. He sipped thirstily.

“Whoever is saying that is just trying to upset everyone. The year-rounders might claim to hate the summer people, but I think they’ve grown used to them—they get a little lonely in the fall when it’s just the regulars. The carnival’s gone.”

“So you don’t believe it could be murder?”

“No.” Paul set his glass down and stared at Mills, as if his
verdict had not been heard. “Not a chance. There’s no one out here like that. And there’s no reason to kill them.”

A noise broke from the foyer, sending Mills and Paul into separate jolts. Paul’s arm knocked his glass, and red wine spilled into the grooves of the marble. Mills rescued the map, rolling it up to keep his fingers occupied. The doorbell rang again. Polite knocking followed. Paul rose and hurried to the door.

Mills heard two unfamiliar voices on the porch. He crept through the living room and lingered in the shadows of the doorway to catch sight of the visitors.

A couple in their midforties wearing matching canvas jackets stood in front of Paul. The man had wavy orange hair, thinning to a bald island of freckles at the crown. Next to him was an Asian woman with a strikingly small nose and mouth, as if forfeiting space for her eyes. Long black lashes curled from their rims. Her hair was gathered in a top bun, almost ridiculing her partner’s lack in its endless twists and tucks. They gesticulated like professional politicians, fists clenched, palms stretched out, hearts tapped.

“So it’s essential to get home owners there,” the Asian woman was saying when Mills moved close enough to hear. “To galvanize as much support as possible. Especially from those like you, Paul, with such roots. We need to take matters into our own hands.”

“Yes,” the man spoke up, belched up, missing a cue or two and trying to overcompensate. “Bryan wants to express that as well. He’d really like to see you there. He told me so.”

“Because we can’t leave it up to Southold. Not the way things are going. Not after the water-main debacle.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Paul replied, his hands balled in his pant pockets.

Another heart tap from the woman, and Mills thought he saw her wink. With those lashes it was difficult to tell.

“Monday at seven. Same as always. Poquatuck Hall. Magdalena would have wanted us to continue her fight. We’re dedicating the
proposal to her. The Kiefer Nondevelopment Advocacy Initiative. After all, the plan was her idea.”

“That’s awfully nice.” Paul nodded and kicked the corner of his welcome mat. The woman winked again. No, it wasn’t a wink. It was a blink, as her eyes peered around Paul and froze on Mills, half-hidden behind the doorframe. Paul followed her stare.

“Have you two met Mills?” He glanced back and beckoned him onto the porch, apologizing to him with his eyes.

“Mills, this is Ted and Sarakit Herrig. They’re neighbors from over on—”

Sarakit gripped his hand, keeping his fingers buried between her smooth palms. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. “I was wondering when we’d meet. It’s nice to have visitors in the colder months. It’s so gorgeous out here in autumn, and most people don’t stay to appreciate it.”

Ted extended a hand, giving Mills an excuse to pull away from his wife.

“Ted and Sarakit are on the Orient Historical Board,” Paul said. “I was just giving Mills a lecture in local politics.”

“I hope you said nice things,” Sarakit said. She dipped her head. “You should come too,” she told Mills. “It’s important to get the youth involved. Like Obama.” She smiled at Mills as if she’d just mentioned a pop star that bridged generations. “Fang is coming. That’s our oldest. He’s almost getting to be your age.”

“Sarakit, he’s only fourteen,” Ted said.

“I know how old our son is,” she sang from the side of her mouth. She returned her attention to Paul. “So we’ll see you. We’ll count on your being there.”

They backed down the porch, lost in the night before they reached the sidewalk. Paul closed the door and found his empty wineglass, shaking his head as he poured a last sip and drank it back.

“Not everyone in Orient has two minds. The historical board certainly doesn’t.” He gathered the plates, twittering his thumbs
on the china. “Magdalena’s not dead a day, and they’re already out lobbying. Don’t let the quiet of this town fool you. It’s all just—”

Mills had stopped listening. He was looking at a pale face in the dining room window. Tommy blew a perfect smoke ring against the storm glass.

Mills feigned exhaustion
and went up early to his bedroom. He waited until he heard Paul turn on the shower at the end of the hall, then put Jeff Trader’s book in his back pocket and closed his bedroom door behind him. Thinking he could impress Tommy, or at least seize a minute’s focus in the screaming playground of his mind, he told himself that he wasn’t betraying Beth by showing him the journal—that Tommy, the self-declared keeper of Orient secrets, might be able to shed some light on its contents. He tiptoed down the stairs, slipped quietly through the first and second door, and stepped out into the cold. House lights beamed onto driveways and porches across the street, safety lights that Mills hadn’t noticed on previous nights. He should have brought a jacket. The wind ripped through his shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin.

Tommy, bundled in a bulky Sycamore Bucks sweatshirt, stood by the hedges. He flicked his lighter and placed the flame under his chin to jack-o’-lantern his face.

“What took you so long?” he huffed. “It’s fucking freezing. And it’s not like I’m waiting out here to get laid.” Mills smiled in disappointment. “You really need to get a cell phone. Pray for the teenager without a cell phone. I don’t think you realize how unarmed you are for the vicissitudes of the future.”

“Vicissitudes?” Mills repeated.

Tommy rubbed his chest, as if to assess any spontaneous muscular development. “You’re so lucky you never had to study for the SAT. My dad’s forcing me to take an SAT prep class an hour before school starts, just when the girls’ cross-country team is showering
in the locker room. There I am, in the same building with all those naked girls, and I’m stuck memorizing a bunch of twenty-syllable words.
Rebarbative. Pusillanimous
.” Tommy paused to imagine the melee of locker-room crocuses, or, at least, he seemed to want Mills to think he was.

“Let’s go down to the beach.” Tommy walked fast, but Mills had learned the geography of Paul’s backyard in the past week, and he managed to avoid tripping over the lawn sprinklers or stepping into the marsh weeds. Tommy brandished his silver flask, took a gulp, and offered it to Mills. “It’ll keep you warm,” he said. “Lisa left a bottle of Jägermeister in her room, knowing I’d find it.”

Mills took a small pull. It tasted like cough syrup, or like syrup to induce coughing.

“Crazy shit today, huh? With Ms. Kiefer dying like that. I mean, granted, she was ancient. And not even a week after Jeff Trader. You know I swam out into the harbor to get him, right?”

“Yeah.” Was Tommy so self-absorbed that he’d forgotten that Mills had gone with him to the beach that afternoon? The question answered itself.

“Thank god I was stoned or I wouldn’t have had the courage. Man, he was heavy. Like a bag of potatoes soaked in water. Skin like potatoes too.” In the moonlight, Tommy’s cheeks were the color of blueberries; the rest of his skin and hair was ghost white. “It’s a shame no one bothered to take a picture. That was a heroic scene. A thing of legend. And where were the reporters? You don’t see an act of courage in Orient very often. Why are there always cameras around when some kindergartener at a craft fair has her face painted like a cat and the
Suffolk Times
runs that huge on the front page? But when a local high school student, Thomas Muldoon, seventeen, bravely strips to his underwear and reels in a dead man, there’s not a reporter in sight. I mean, I didn’t do it for congratulations, but it still would have been nice. You didn’t take a picture, did you? Oh, right, no phone.”

“I’m sure there’ll be a next time,” Mills joked. Either Tommy
didn’t get the joke or he didn’t find it funny. It hung awkwardly in the air, exposing fragile hope.

Tommy took another sip from the flask. He leaped over the rocks that descended to the pebbled shoreline, stopping just short of the black shallows. Mills followed slowly, careful of the cavities between the rocks. The far-off house lights of Connecticut sparkled, fog-stunted, across the Sound. Tommy had his hands tucked in his front pouch pocket, pulling the sweatshirt’s deer-head emblem flush against his chest. Odd, Mills thought—the high school mascot was also the area’s most-hunted animal.

“Wanna go for a swim?” Tommy asked with a grin. Mills studied the water. It must be freezing. As much as he’d like to swim into the Sound with Tommy, shivering in close circles, he didn’t have the willpower to endure the cold past his knees. Tommy steadied himself on Mills’s shoulder and started kicking off his shoes.

“I can’t go in there.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a pussy.”

Mills pushed Tommy’s hand off his shoulder.

“No way.”

Tommy nodded, laughing. “I was only kidding. It’s below zero.” He pinched his pants at the knees and walked a few feet into the water. “Freezing,” he reported, jumping as he returned to the beach. Bright water dripped like coins from his ankles. They found a boulder ten yards down and sat on it, side by side.

“You think it was just a coincidence,” Mills asked, “that Jeff Trader and Magdalena died within a week of each other?” He was trying to propose the possibility of murder to Tommy. That could be the secret they shared, the fantasy of a psychopath running around Orient; that mutual belief could bring them closer together, perhaps close enough to convince Tommy, so willing to try anything, to try something new with him. It was using the idea of murder in the service of lust.