"He wore a big ring," Tommy explained. "Hit me
backhanded with it one time, I bothered him about
something."
The deep scar was shaped like a square-cut gemstone.
"He's changed, though. He's okay now. Don't
worry about me, Mrs. Tiptree," he finished solicitously.
"Okay, Tommy. Tell your mom I said thanks for
the library stuff." A foolproof biscuit method, I expected,
or a new way of basting a turkey.
But when he was gone I found no recipes inside the
folder. Instead it held copies of old newspaper articles
about my house. Or rather, about one of its previous
occupants: Jared Hayes.
The first clipping was an untorn copy of the same
paper Wade and I had found stuffed into the woodwork,
detailing facts about the local composer and fiddler
and his latest tune: "The Pirate's Revenge." It had
debuted to much enthusiasm in the ballroom of the
Eastport Hotel, September 27, 1831.
All present had agreed that it was much the finest
dance tune Hayes had produced, the Eastport Sentinel
reported; they hoped he would supply many more as
pleasant to the ear and as persuasive to all those who
might otherwise be tempted to remain "wallflowers."
But he didn't. Carrying the folder into the dining
room, I turned to the next photocopy, which reported
that on the night of the dance, Jared Hayes had gone
missing from his residence at 20 Key Street. The Sentinel
ran his likeness, dark eyed, bearded, and intense,
with a headline that read have you seen him?
No one had. From the remaining articles in the
folder, it seemed Jared Hayes was never seen or heard
from again.
And then four whole days went by in which
nothing happened, and I thought I would
lose my mind.
Willow Prettymore refused to speak
with me. It got so she hung up the telephone hard,
banging it down, as soon as she heard my voice. When
I wasn't calling her, I talked to a lot of other people,
but none of them had anything useful to say.
Meanwhile, Mike Carpentier and Molly stayed on
the hilltop; Paddy Farrell, Terence Oscard, and the
Sondergards were seen around town as usual. I
weatherstripped twenty windows, leaving twenty-six
remaining to do, and practiced until I got pretty good
with that circular saw; I called the carpenters about the
rot in the wall, and Monday's nose healed. But nothing
more, and in particular no more pranks.
Or attacks, depending on how you looked at them.
Gradually the topic of Reuben Tate's murder faded
too, replaced by anxious questions about the weather:
Would the rain drown out the Salmon Festival or hold
off? A low over the Midwest was threatening to combine
with another, more threatening one over the Car
olinas and roar up the East Coast.
Finally, the wheels of justice turned with excruciating
slowness; Victor's bail was denied, as was a pretrial
motion to dismiss, both hearings attended by an attorney
Bennet had bullied Victor into accepting, and the
case was transferred to superior court. Victor himself
had begun calling me on the telephone, alternately
worrying and complaining; Sam lost weight and took
on more hours at the boatyard to distract himself.
"The hell of it is, I actually miss the damned fool,"
George Valentine grumbled, meaning Victor. "How's
he doing?"
It was the Saturday night before the Salmon Festival,
and we were eating boiled lobsters at a picnic table
by Wilson's dock.
"Victor's okay," I told George. "As well as you
can expect."
I hadn't felt like cooking, and we couldn't get into
any of the other restaurants, the town was so jammed
with visitors. Past more tables crowded with folks
who'd gotten the same idea we had, Campobello Island
shone in the sunset like a long bar of gold.
"Says hello," I added. "Says he wants you to keep
holding a good thought for him."
The truth was, Victor wasn't doing well at all. His
bravado was determined but behind it I detected the
truth--he was scared. But Sam was listening, so I spoke
carefully.
"Sam can visit him," I said, "next week. Unless
he's out."
Which was unlikely. A wisp of smoke from the
outdoor brick fireplace where they boiled the lobsters
tinged the salt air, making it smell like autumn.
"Huh," Wade said. "Sam, do you think that's a
good idea?"
"Sam will be fine," I put in firmly; Wade caught on
and bent to his dinner. Actually, I thought it was a
terrible idea. But at my objections Sam had turned so
stonily mutinous that I gave in.
"Sorry I've been scarce," Ellie said, changing the
subject as best she could.
"That's okay." I poured wine, spilling some, sopping
it with a napkin. "I know you've been busy with
the festival."
I'd hoped the outing might lift my mood; instead I
seemed to be infecting everyone else with my glumness.
It was awful, like the supper after a funeral for someone
that no one had liked. Sam picked listlessly at his
food, excused himself, and wandered off; the men finished
and got up too, to chat with Tim Poole, the fish
market owner.
Tim at least looked cheery at the sight of all the
customers eating his lobsters. People had brought candles,
silverware, and tablecloths, even tape players; it
was becoming a party.
"I guess you think I've left you in the lurch," Ellie
said.
The thought had occurred to me. Every time I finished
the weatherstripping on another storm window, I
got a different view of the town. And Ellie always
seemed to be in it: hanging bright streamers, stringing
paper lanterns, or finishing the bandstand paint job.
"Maybe a little," I admitted. "But it's not as if
anything's been going on. I'm stonewalled."
A payment was due on the option-to-buy for
Victor's medical-building property, a great big whacking
payment. If I didn't ante up, the option would expire.
"Nothing more about the house?"
The old clippings, she meant. In the evenings to
busy myself I'd been poking around the library. But the
dusty tomes in the historical collection gave no clue as
to what had happened to my old house's tenant. Nor
did the microfilms of antique newspapers supply any
hint; brief follow-ups said he continued missing, but
nothing more. And then there was nothing at all, as if
the violinist and composer Jared Hayes had vanished
not only from Eastport but from the face of the earth.
"Nothing about anything. I swear, Ellie, this week
has been one long fizzle from beginning to end."
"Don't be so sure of that," Ellie said. "It might
seem like I've bailed out on you, but I've been working
behind the scenes. You know what we do while we're
foil-wrapping a thousand potatoes for baking or mixing
up another thousand blueberry biscuits?"
"Talk," I said, feeling a sudden dart of hope pierce
me. She sounded confident. "About ... ?"
"Willow Prettymore, for one. That's her over
there, by the way."
I turned sharply. "Where? You mean that ...
that bombshell?"
It was the only word for the woman at the nearby
picnic table: tall, blond, built like a swimsuit model
only more so.
A lot more so. Willow Prettymore was encased in a
sheath of some shimmery white material, dripping in
gold jewelry, and shod in the kind of spiky-heeled
pumps that make your legs look like stilettos, an honest-to-gosh
mink stole draped over her arm.
"She's staying up there," Ellie said, pointing to one
of the Motel East's balconies overlooking the water.
"The best room, of course." Trust Ellie to know.
"Wow," I said inadequately.
She was having an argument with a man who
looked like an ape dressed in a suit: long, thick arms
and bunchy-muscled shoulders, hunched posture, and
dark, glowering eyes set too close together under a low
forehead.
A few words reached us as the conversation grew
agitated. Willow wanted the man in the suit to locate a
waitress, pronto. But Poole's was self-serve; you went
inside to choose a victim, waited for it to be boiled over
the fire before dismantling it with your own lobster
equipment, and cleaned up after yourself.
I got up. "I've been trying to corner her for days.
Now I'm going over there and ..."
"Wait." Willow and her companion figured out the
routine, began moving toward the Quonset to peruse
the big lobster tanks.
"I already asked her," Ellie said, "and it's no go.
Willow isn't going to say a word to us about the
murders, at least not without a good reason to get involved.
And right now she hasn't got one."
"What are you talking about? She can't just ..."
"Actually, she can. Free country and all that. But,"
Ellie raised an index finger wisely, "I have a plan."
She gazed out over the water. "Willow," she said,
"used to look a lot different from the way she does
now. Her teeth were all rotten, and if that's her natural
hair color I will eat this lobster shell. Also, Willow's
reputation was as dirty as ditchwater--rude, crude,
and if it wore pants she would sleep with it. But she
had a kind of natural cunning, I'll say that for her. And
eventually she decided she wanted more."
"So she got out of town," I guessed. "Slicked up,
found that guy, maybe he's the source of all that glitz
she's dolled up in. Married him, now she's reinvented
herself and come back to ..."
"Right. Show the home folks how well she's done
for herself, maybe even rub their noses in it a little.
Which Willow has and wants to go on doing for a few
more days."
They stood by the lobster pots, Willow drawing
the mink closely around her in the harbor breeze. The
loutish fellow hulked beside her, hands dangling at his
sides. You could see he didn't know what to do with
them when he wasn't making fists.
"What I hear in town," Ellie went on, "he's some
sort of behind-the-scenes mover and shaker in Portland,