Wicked Fix (33 page)

tastes. "Never mind, I'll go get a gallon of mayonnaise

and a jar of pickle relish. Will that do?"

"Yes," she said, looking around a little wildly. "It's

like putting on," she said, "a military campaign."

"Napoleon would be proud of you. Now get out of

here. Just the sight of you is making me nervous, and if

I get distracted I'm likely to mix that relish into sour

cream by mistake."

She looked anxious, then laughed, sounding a little

short of breath. It was touching, really, to see her get

nervous; she was so calm ordinarily, you felt like

checking to make certain that she actually had a blood

pressure.

Watching her go, I was pierced again by the

thought of how much I really didn't want to leave East

port. But then I had to start doing something about

that tartar sauce. So I sent the boys to the IGA, but

when they got back--

--dashing in, depositing the enormous jars of pickles

since the store had run out of relish, and hurrying

away again as it had suddenly occurred to them that

there would be girls at the festival, actual out-of-town

girls whom they did not already know, so Tommy

wanted to wash and wax the jalopy--

--it turned out that running the pickles through

the blender reduced them to green goo. I had to chop

them individually and mix them into the mayonnaise

with a spoon. By the time I was done, my hands smelling

infernally of pickle juice, it was time to leave.

The carnival atmosphere on Water Street was palpable:

craft booths, cotton candy, strolling musicians,

kids on skateboards. In the park behind the library the

barbecue grills were fired up and the scent of woodsmoke

mingled with the tang of the marinade simmering.

The striped tents over the long lunch tables from

the grade school looked festive, people were unloading

trays of food from the backs of pickup trucks, and

everyone seemed happy.

The sky was still bright, though it was now getting

on for three o'clock; the supper began at four. So even

though a sly little breeze had sprung up, riffling in the

napkins and setting the scalloped edges of the tent canvases

fluttering, I was happy too. Eyeing the storm

clouds still keeping their distance like animals who are

not sure whether to attack, I thought we might yet

squeak by in the weather department.

I set the tartar sauce with the rest of the condiments

on the front table near the coffee urns. Mike

Carpentier lugged over yet another jug of lemonade

and one of iced tea. Sneaking a glass of tea, I tasted

fresh mint, and enough sugar and caffeine to power a

jet engine, as Mike and Molly began setting the plastic

jugs into an ice-filled barrel. They must have been preparing

for this for half a year, I realized, saving the jugs

for this occasion.

A couple of men were pitching horseshoes behind

the freshly painted bandstand where the two Sondergards,

Heywood and Marcus, were setting up their instruments.

Then somebody rang the big brass bell that

used to be the Eastport fire alarm, and the crowd

surged:

Local politicians donned aprons and took their

places in the serving line, smiling determinedly even as

a strengthening breeze sent barbecue smoke swirling

into their faces. The Sondergards broke into a rousing

version of "I'll Fly Away" while the food workers began

serving salmon fillets as fast as they could spatula

them off the hot grates; next came baked potatoes,

boiled sweet corn, and blueberry biscuits.

It was going just like clockwork despite a couple of

rain spatters: threatening at first but then slackening as

if taking pity on us. "So far, so fine," Ellie said, appearing

behind me.

I'd been watching Sam and Tommy exchange

Morse-code messages with a pair of penlights. They

seemed to be commenting covertly on a group of young

women from out of town.

"You've done beautifully," I told her, waving at

the crowded tables under the tents. "They're all having

a high old time."

Bob Arnold strolled the lawn casually, a smile on

his face and professional watchfulness in his eyes. I

went up to him.

"Where's Clarissa?"

At the sound of her name he smiled helplessly as he

always did when she was mentioned; petite and darkly

pretty, Clarissa as a lawyer was hard as nails--she'd

been a big-time criminal prosecutor before she came to

Eastport--but she had a soft spot the size of Montana

for Arnold, and he adored her.

"At home, with her feet up. Says she feels like the

Goodyear blimp. Week late, now, but the doctor says

just be patient. ... I hope she's gonna be all right."

I put my hand on his arm. "First babies are late

sometimes." Across the lawn, people who'd grown up

in the area and then moved away were signing the Old

Timers' book, leaving addresses and phone numbers: a

bright idea of Ellie's for next year's fundraising.

Bob brightened. "Yeah, huh?" He glanced at his

squad car, pulled up onto the lawn behind the bandstand.

"I think I'll go call her."

"You do that," I laughed, hoping Clarissa had the

portable phone by her side; Bob would be calling her

every fifteen minutes for the rest of the afternoon, I

could tell.

Then I saw Willow Prettymore in one of the food

tents, her hair piled today in a gleaming chignon. With

her were the apelike man I'd seen the night before and

a pair of young teenaged children: identical blond

twins, one boy, one girl.

Together they looked like a political poster extolling

the virtues of the good old-fashioned nuclear family,

except that when the father of the family walked,

his knuckles practically brushed the ground. Willow

caught me eyeing her, got up, and stalked from the

table coldly.

Just then the Sondergards flew into an old Dillard

tune called "Biggest Whatever," the subject of which

was--

"... forty feet high, had a gleam in its eye, and a

big purple patch on its craw ..."

It was, naturally, the biggest whatever that anybody

ever saw; Marcus sang the story of the creature in

his fine, accurate baritone, managing not to break into

laughter. And Heywood ...

Well, Heywood Sondergard rocked. White hair flying,

blue eyes flashing, in the chambray shirt with the

pearl buttons and the belt with the silver rose-ofSharon

buckle on it, he played that old guitar as if he

had been born to do it.

Which, I realized belatedly, he had. Heywood was

a natural showman. "Oh," I said faintly, and Ellie nodded.

"None of us kids in his youth group cared much

about the Bible stories," she said reminiscently. "But

we liked the music. He had that same belt back then,

with the rose-and-cross buckle. Funny the things you

remember."

I looked around. "Where'd Willow go?"

Leaving Ellie to dish out seconds of the potatoes

and sweet corn, I scanned the crowd as I moved away

from the tent toward the bandstand. Marcus left Hey

wood to take a solo, came down from the platform,

and headed for the drinks, wiping his forehead.

I kept looking: no Willow. Nearby, I heard one of

the girls Sam and Tommy had been scoping out--close

up, they were older than I had thought--telling Sam

about a boat-design job that she wanted at a firm in

Newport, Rhode Island.

She was very pretty, with dark eyes and glossy

chestnut hair. And she wore the kind of clothes Sam

likes to see on girls: tailored jeans, navy cableknit

sweater with a small red collar peeping out at the top

like a little danger flag, plain leather shoes on her small

feet.

"Of course," she was saying loftily to him as I approached,

"I'll have to finish college first. You can't get

anywhere good in the boat-design business without a

degree, and maybe even a master's degree. I'm also majoring

in engineering."

Sam's face fell. Then I saw his brain kick in. His

shoulders squared, and he tipped his head seriously at

her.

They hadn't noticed my approach. "Where," he

asked the girl, "are you getting these degrees? In nautical

design, and fine art, and engineering? And how

much does it cost?"

Hey, you can listen to your parents all you want.

But if you really want the scoop on something, ask

some kid your own age.

On the other hand, I'd have sent him to canine

obedience school if I'd thought it would make him

happy. Another spatter of rain fell chillingly, pattering

on the tent roofs. I left Sam to plan his future on the

advice of a perfect stranger, squinted around for Willow

again, spotted her blond hair for an instant, then

lost her once more as someone else came up behind me.

It was Terence Oscard, dressed in a white knit polo

shirt, tan slacks, and deck shoes. A white cardigan was

tied by its sleeves around his shoulders. He wore the

clothes well, but the look on his face didn't match the

casual outfit. Also, he was carrying a parcel wrapped in

brown paper and addressed in Magic Marker, which

struck me as odd: it was prepared for mailing but there

were no post-office hours on Sunday.

"Jacobia, can we talk for a minute?" He paused,

then rushed on urgently. "I don't care what Paddy

thinks of this, or how mad he gets. There's something

I've got to tell you."

We sat on the library steps, looking out over the

street. There was a clown juggling oranges, a magician

producing quarters from behind children's ears. Mike

Carpentier went by with Molly, the child looking coltishly

pre-teen in shorts and a T-shirt but still carrying a

rag doll. Then Terence was speaking, and what he said

sent all other thoughts out of my head.

"Reuben didn't just threaten Paddy the other

night. He tried to kill him. Put his hands right around

his throat, Paddy had to fight him off. And I know how

stupid this sounds, but it seems to me that Reuben's

still trying."

I looked hard at him. He was pale, and even thinner

than I'd last seen him. The Ace bandage he'd worn

a few days earlier was gone, replaced by a smaller, less