Wicked Fix (31 page)

"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,