they'll prosecute Victor for Reuben's murder, you can
bet on it."
"But ..."
"They can put a case together any way they want
to, and the way they'll do it is the way they think'll get
'em a conviction. They're not going drop a bird they
already got in the hand, to go off hog wild lookin' for
somebody else. No sir."
"But common sense ..." I began. Suggested, I
meant, that the deaths were connected somehow.
"Paddy Farrell says Reuben killed somebody that
way before," I told Arnold. "With a tie, I mean. That
right there makes a link of some kind, doesn't it?"
Arnold shook his head firmly.
"Heard the tie story myself, but be realistic. First
of all, no one knows for sure it's true, however much
everyone in town is so convinced that it is. Top of
which, that's a lawyer's job, try to get Victor out a' this
pickle with sense, common or otherwise. And it'll happen
at trial. If," he added roughly, "it happens at all."
He raised a stubby finger. "And it ain't guaranteed
to work then, either. Common sense--the idea that one
person killed both Weasel and Reuben, and that one
person couldn't be Victor 'cause his hand ain't bit--
that's one thing, but evidence is another. And they've
got good evidence against Victor for Reuben's murder."
He paused, and when he spoke again his tone softened.
"To them, old Weasel's tooth is neither here nor
there. But you might manage to make something of it,
nosy and bone stubborn as I know you are. And something
else."
I looked up, puzzled. "I watch, you know," he
said. "Town doings, it's my job to know all about
them. And when your ex came here, I know it put a
hitch in your git-along."
I nodded, smiling at the phrase. It was pure Arnold.
"I'd thought I was free of him. And then ..."
"And then," Arnold agreed. "But you didn't badmouth
him all around town, set him up so that people
here wouldn't accept him. You didn't take your pound
of flesh."
But I'd wanted to. Oh, I had wanted to. And that, I
suddenly realized, was why Arnold was telling me all
this: a good town cop, he'd been paying attention to
my behavior just as much as to anyone else's. Based on
it, he had made a decision to help me.
As much as he could. At this point, it was really all
out of his hands. He got up. "Guess I better go check
on Clarissa. Doctor says she could have that baby any
damned second, which I sure do wish she would."
Then he grinned. "Know what they're startin' to
call you and Ellie, hereabouts? On account of all your
interest in murder and mayhem and whatnot?"
As I've mentioned, it wasn't the first time Ellie and
I had nosed around into intriguing local doings. Just
the first time someone in my family was intimately connected
to them.
"No, what?" Embarrassed, I swiped moisture from
my face. Funny how you can take bad news and stay
composed, but one kind word and the waterworks
start running like the fountains of Rome.
"The Snoop Sisters," he said, and I burst out
laughing, as he had intended. Then he went out, paying
for his coffee at the register like any other citizen, leaving
me to think.
Which wasn't exactly easy; at the moment my
ideas felt more knotted-up than Molly Carpentier's
macrame. But from what I could see so far, the situation
boiled down to a pair of possibilities:
1. Two killers, one (in a prosecutor's eyes)
being Victor.
Or more likely:
2. One murderer and two victims with no
link between them, except that their deaths
seemed part of someone's attempt to send a
message.
I carried my glass back to the fountain.
"I'm so sorry for the difficulty you've been having,"
Bailey James said kindly. "I hope it all ends up
okay."
"Thanks," I replied. "I do too."
But not just for me, I added silently as I went out.
And not just for Victor, because the feeling I kept having
wouldn't stop:
The feeling that the message was meant for all
of us.
Heddlepenny House, a private home set up
as a bed-and-breakfast, was a tall Victorian
structure replete with gables, porches, bay
windows, and lots of elaborate carved trimmings.
Turning the knob on the hand-operated bell set
into the ornate front door, I gazed down Washington
Street past the massive granite-block post-office building
on the corner, to the water beyond.
A little red-and-black-painted dragger bobbed
jauntily on the light chop riffling the bay. Farther out,
the ferry churned faithfully along its route, sun glinting
off the windshields of the cars lined up on the deck, the
passengers bright splotches.
A man opened the door: handsome, fortyish, with
dark hair, a deeply cleft chin, and an attractive baritone
voice. "Come in," Marcus Sondergard invited
when I had introduced myself.
Guests had the run of the place at Heddlepenny
House so it was not unusual that Marcus himself had
opened the door. He led me to the parlor where an
older man stood gazing out the window, onto Washington
Street. Heywood Sondergard, Marcus's father,
was a tall burly fellow whose grooved, good-humored
face said he was in his late sixties, wearing a blue
chambray shirt with pearl buttons, faded jeans, and a
leather belt with a small but elaborate silver buckle. He
had a luxuriously thick head of silver-white hair, pale
blue eyes with bushy white eyebrows flourishing above
them, and a gaze that while sympathetic was also very
knowing.
"God is merciful," he intoned, his blue eyes darkening
at the mention of Reuben. I'd explained who I
was, the trouble Victor was in, and that I hoped they
might help me understand it.
"But He is also just," he went on. "I have no doubt
that young Mr. Tate is where he belongs. He chose to
reap the wind," Heywood said, "and he is sowing the
whirlwind."
The tongue of the belt buckle was shaped like a
cross with a rose vine twining up it: the rose of Sharon.
"Now, Dad," Marcus contradicted indulgently. "We
don't know that. The Lord works in mysterious ways."
"Hmmph," Heywood uttered skeptically, but subsided
for now.
"Dad," Marcus explained, "leans more toward an
Old Testament interpretation than I do. An eye for an
eye and all that."
His tone grew nostalgic. "Gosh, I grew up hearing
Reuben stories." He looked around fondly. "This was
our house, once, did you know that?"
I hadn't. Marcus went on. "When we lived here,
Reuben was the kid your parents always warned you
about. Dad was a minister here, so I suppose I got a
little more guidance than most local kids."
He glanced affectionately at the older man. "Dad
was very popular," Marcus added proudly. "Big attendance
at his services on Sundays, and he was wonderful
with the youngsters."
Marcus wasn't only big and handsome, I noticed
suddenly. He was powerfully built: thick neck, muscular
shoulders, broad chest tapering to a flat, narrow
middle. His forearms, under the rolled-up sleeves of his
white shirt, looked as solid as mutton roasts.
"Now, Marcus," the older man cautioned. "You
know what pride goeth before. I ran a youth group,
that's all. The boys and girls liked it because I made
sure it had plenty of music. Nothing so remarkable
about that."
"Dad's too modest," Marcus said. "But if he wants
to hide his light under a bushel, so be it. Anyway, after
Mother died the two of us were left on our own. Rattling
around this house like a couple of marbles,
weren't we, Dad?"
Heywood's deep voice rumbled agreement. "Decided
to take our ministry on the road," he said. "So
the Lord," he added, "sent us a Winnebago, and off we
went."
This back-and-forth explanatory banter was an act
they'd honed perfectly, I realized, though to be fair I
supposed that if I had to explain myself in a new town
every week, I'd get pretty good at it, too. A flyer on a
low table, exhorting me to hear the heavenly melodies
of the Bible Belters, said they'd done a dozen shows
over the past three weekends, in places ranging from a
tiny logging camp in the Allagash region to an art museum
in South Portland.
"We're looking forward to performing for the
home folks," Marcus said affably. "Would you like to
see our setup? It's all out in the Winnebago, but maybe
you'd like to see that, too. Dad did all the interior on it.
I'll show you if you'd like."
"Marcus, you brag about me too much," Hey
wood grumbled as we got up. But it was clear that he
was pleased.
For my own part, I thought Marcus wanted to talk
to me alone, so I followed his lead. The Winnebago
stood on a blacktop apron at the back of the house.
Along a picket fence making a border between the lane
and the yard, the season's last zinnias tangled in bright
profusion.
I stood at the end of the back walk, breathing fresh
air; the Sondergards were pleasant enough, but something
about their mutual admiration society felt a little
smothering.
Not false, exactly. Only as if the two of them were
old hands at circling the wagons and did it as a sort of
knee-jerk reflex. The feeling went on bothering me, as
Marcus welcomed me into the Winnebago.
"Goodness," I said inadequately, gazing around.
"You think of these things as being sort of claustrophobic.
But ..."
He led me through. The bunks were pods equipped
with reading lamps, TVs, stereo headphone sets, and
telephones, each snug and secret-feeling, wonderfully
private. The bath was the same: all you could want
tucked in so cleverly that you didn't perceive how small
the cubicle really was.
That left space for three compact but well
furnished common areas, one set up as a sort of meet