A Song of Shadows (6 page)

Like independent bookstores everywhere, Olesens had struggled to adapt to the new age of bookselling. A family argument had erupted between the generations when Larraine and Greg began selling ‘gently used’ books alongside new stock, which their parents regarded as a dangerous step down the slope toward not selling any books at all. But Greg had a good eye not just for a bargain, but for rare first editions, and the store’s Internet presence, along with a nice sideline in greeting cards, wrapping paper, and other materials that generated the kind of markup that books could only dream of, was keeping the store not only in business, but in profit. It had been Larraine’s decision to add the little coffee bar at the back of the store. It faced out over Clark’s Stream, which ran through the town, and the somewhat unimaginatively named Clark’s Bridge, a pretty thing of stone and moss that looked as though it came from many centuries past, but was not much older than the store itself. The coffee bar sold pastries and cookies baked by Mrs Olesen, and decent coffee. It turned out that no small number of folk, both tourists and local, enjoyed the ambience of the Nook, as it was called, and the markup on coffee put even greeting cards to shame. There had been some tension initially between the Olesens and Rob Hallinan, owner of the Moosebreath Coffee House further north on Bay, but it turned out that Boreas had just about enough customers for both of them, and more than enough in summer.

Charlie Parker had started coming in shortly after his arrival in town, because Olesens prided itself on carrying enough copies of the New York and Boston papers to satisfy demand year-round. The Olesens knew who he was almost as soon as he arrived, of course. Most everybody in town who was worth a damn had an early inkling of the detective’s presence out on Green Heron Bay, and without exception they had become strangely protective of him. Even Chief Bloom had expressed surprise at how little muttering there had been, given that people in Boreas complained if the Brickhouse changed one of its draft beer taps, even if they never drank beer, and had debated for weeks about repainting the town’s welcome sign in a softer shade of white. Perhaps it was something to do with his past: he was a man who had lost a wife and child, and had suffered grievous injury just for doing a job which, as far as anyone could tell, largely involved putting his mark on the kind of men and women without whom the world was a much better place. The shooting made him one of theirs, and the town had quietly closed ranks around him.

In the beginning Larraine and Greg kept their distance, allowing him his space to drink, and read newspapers, books and magazines, all of them bought at Olesens, with none of the books ever returned for a fifty percent trade-in, even though a big sign at the counter invited customers to do just that. But slowly they had tested the waters with him and found him to be gently, slyly funny, and aware of the strangeness of his situation in the town. Greg, in particular, got along well with him, and Greg was the archetypal dysfunctional independent bookseller. He gave the impression that he disapproved of most of his customers’ book choices – which he did – and resented selling copies of books that he loved – also true – either because he wasn’t sure that the buyer was worthy of the book or, in the case of the rarer editions, because he hated seeing them leave the store. The locals had become used to his ways, while Larraine tended to deal with the tourists. Just as there were broadcasters with faces made for radio, so too there were booksellers with attitudes designed for the Internet age, which limited the possible misunderstandings that might arise from any personal contact.

Now, while Parker sipped his Americano and flipped through the Arts section of the
New York Times
, Greg approached him, carrying in the crook of his arm three hefty matching volumes – a psychiatric analysis of marital and sexual humor which he felt certain he could sell at a considerable profit to some visiting shrink during the summer, assuming he could even bring himself to part with them when the time came.

Parker continued to read his paper. He did not look up.

‘You ignoring me?’ said Greg.

‘Is it working?’

‘No. You ever hear of a British band called the Smiths?’

‘Yes, but you’re too old for them.’

‘Anyway,’ continued Greg, now doing his best to ignore Parker’s contribution to the conversation in turn, ‘their lead singer, Morrison—’

‘Morrissey.’

‘—
Morrissey
, has a song called “The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get”. I’m considering adopting it as a motto.’

‘Does that mean if I talk to you, you’ll go away?’

‘No, that’ll just encourage me too.’

He shifted the books to his other arm.

‘You hear they found a body out at Mason Point?’

‘Yeah, I drove by the beach on my way back into town.’ Parker looked up at Greg for the first time. ‘It seemed like Chief Bloom had only just got out there. News travels fast.’

‘In this place? Fast doesn’t cover it. There are people here who probably knew the guy was dead before he did.’

Greg thought about what he’d just said.

‘I didn’t mean that to sound, you know, like it sounded,’ he said. ‘Unless someone here killed him, but that doesn’t seem likely.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Tides. I’d say he went into the water farther south.’

Parker returned to his paper.

‘Well, it looks like Bloom has it all in hand.’

‘She’s good. We’re lucky to have her.’

Greg remained hovering, his shadow falling slightly over the table.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said.

‘Sure.’

‘Do you miss it? You know, what you used to do. What you still do, I guess, assuming you’ll go back to it. If you do.’

‘No.’

Sometimes.

Yes.

‘Just curious.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ll get back to work.’

‘Okay.’

‘Offer you a refill?’

‘No, thanks. I’m good.’

Greg returned to the office that lay between the Nook and the store itself. Larraine left the register to step inside and kick him forcefully on the shin.

‘Can’t you leave the man in peace for five minutes?’

Greg rubbed his shin to ease the pain. Sometimes, when it came to his older sister, he still felt like he was eight years old.

‘It just came out,’ he said. ‘Ouch. I think you broke the skin.’

‘I’ll break your skull next time.’

‘You almost made me drop the books.’

‘You’re an idiot. You have waffles for brains. Go make yourself useful and sell something.’

Greg sat down at his desk, still muttering about his injury. Larraine watched the detective. He had put down his newspaper and was staring out the window at the stream. She could see the reflection of his face in the glass. She thought that, if she were ever to be attracted to a man, it might be one like him. He wasn’t handsome, not exactly, but he had depths. What swam through them, though, she could not tell.

7

L
ater that afternoon, out at Green Heron Bay, Amanda Winter opened the front door of their house to find an envelope lying on the step. Her mother had announced that she was keeping her out of school for the rest of the week. Amanda suffered from severe asthma, on top of her other problems. Her breathing had been especially bad the previous night, and she still hadn’t been quite right that morning. She also seemed to be coming down with a cold, so it made sense to err on the side of caution.

Although the sea air was good for her, she was bored of the house. She had wrapped herself up warmly before going out for a walk along the strand. Now the envelope stopped her in her tracks. It was addressed to her mother in black block capitals, and felt heavy. It didn’t have a stamp on it, which meant that someone must have dropped it off in person.

‘Mom,’ she called. ‘There’s mail for you.’

Ruth Winter emerged from the dining room, where she had set up a small office area for herself. She worked as an independent financial planner and adviser, helping people with everything from cash flow and budgeting to investments and house purchases. Being self-employed had made the move to Boreas easier, even if her daughter still didn’t understand the reasons for it. With luck, she never would.

Ruth took the envelope. There was something small but bulky inside.

‘Thanks, honey,’ she said. ‘Don’t go too far.’

‘Yes, Mom.’

‘And keep your coat buttoned.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you have your inhaler, just in case?’

Amanda reached into her pocket and waved the device.

‘Good girl.’

She watched her daughter head out to the stones and sand, her hands buried in her pockets, her head up to smell the air, her chest expanding to take in almost comically exaggerated breaths, or as deep as her blocked airways would allow.

Ruth opened the envelope. Inside was a man’s wallet. She removed the driver’s license from it and read the name: Bruno Perlman. A yellow Post-it note, folded in half, was stuck to the interior of the wallet. She opened it up. In the same block capitals as the name on the envelope, it read

KEEP QUIET

She walked quickly to the bathroom and was violently ill.

For the rest of the day, the talk in Boreas was only of the body on the beach. Preliminary arrangements were made to transport it to Augusta for autopsy, although the Maine Medical Examiner’s office had indicated that it might be some days before they could get to it, and hence there was no particular urgency, so the body stayed at Kramer & Sons. A description was given to the newspaper and the TV news shows, just in case anyone could come forward to help with identification.

And the one who knew the truth watched it all, and realized that he would have to act.

8

T
he house stood on the southern shore of Seven Stones Lake, a body of water southwest of Machias. It was an unspectacular family dwelling with a view of the water partially obscured by pine trees, and a two-car garage, half-filled with the accumulated junk of a family with three teenage children, and otherwise occupied by a battered Mitsubishi Lancer station wagon. Dream catchers, made by a Penobscot craftsman using twigs and natural feathers, were visible in two of the upper windows.

Through the yard, its grass recently mown, its borders trimmed. Past the rose bushes, past the herb garden. Up the porch steps, taking in the paintwork that remained just about presentable for another year. Into the living room.

Four bodies lay side by side on the floor: a father, a mother, and two daughters aged thirteen and fifteen. The radio played, and the table was laid for breakfast. A newspaper lay open, and had anyone been left alive to read it, they might eventually have come to an article below the fold about a body washed ashore at Boreas.

The parents had been shot first – their blood was on the kitchen floor – and then moved into place on the carpet. The two girls had been killed next, one on the stairs, the other in the bathroom, and then carried down to the living room to lie beside their parents.

One child remained missing. He was outside, watching the house. His name was Oran Wilde, and his parents and teachers sometimes despaired of him. He was seventeen, and among his high school peers had not-so-secretly been voted ‘Person Most Likely to Die a Virgin.’ He had few friends, but he wasn’t a bad kid. He was just angry and confused and solitary. He listened to music of which no one else had heard, read thousand-page fantasy novels, and liked most kinds of clothing as long as they were black. His bedroom window, unlike those of his younger sisters, did not contain a dream catcher.

Oran should already have been at school along with his sisters, even if they always tried their best in public to pretend that they were not related to him. His father should have been behind his desk at the plumbing and bath supply company that he owned. His mother should have been doing whatever it was his mother did when her husband and children were not around. Oran sometimes wondered what that might be, but never asked. His job in life was to show as little interest as possible in his parents and their movements, in the hope that his lack of curiosity about them might be reciprocated, although it never was. They persisted in caring, which frustrated Oran greatly.

Somewhere in the house, a telephone rang. The sound stopped, only to be replaced by his mother’s cellphone trilling. That was followed by the cavalry charge ringtone of his father’s phone. It was probably the school, Oran figured. Mrs Prescott, the school secretary, was responsible for tracking down students suspected of truancy. Not that Oran had ever skipped school: it wasn’t in his nature. By doing so he would have drawn attention to himself, and Oran, as has already been established, preferred to fly under the radar. He just kept his head down and tried to avoid getting the shit kicked out of him. He hated high school. He couldn’t countenance the possibility that there were people in the world who looked back on their schooldays only with fondness; as the best time of their lives. How bad could your life be, Oran wondered, if your days in high school represented the best of it? He had always imagined that the happiest moment of his life would involve leaving his school behind, and perhaps blowing it up immediately after.

Would Mrs Prescott call the police if she got no answer? Maybe. Clare and Briony, Oran’s sisters, were the stars of their respective years. Everyone liked them, aside from a handful of bitches. The sisters wore their popularity easily, and did their best not to look down on anyone, their brother excepted. Even Oran liked them, and he thought that they secretly liked him too. They just put a lot of effort into not showing it. Their parents, Michael and Ella, turned up for school concerts, and basketball and field hockey games. They were a pretty regular family, Oran apart – and, truth be told, Oran was pretty regular too, despite appearances to the contrary. In a bigger high school he would probably have blended in better, or found more young people like himself. Tecopee Fields High was simply too small to allow the Oran Wildes of this world to grow and prosper, or even just to hide.