Fox Island by Stephen Bly Page B

long summer,” she said with a sigh. “Do you
think the two of them will ever become friends?” She stopped to
check his attention. “Tony? Tony, what are you thinking about?”
    “I think you might be right.”
    “Right about what? About Kit and Kathy
becoming friends?”
    “Oh, that, too. I was just thinking that
you’re right about opening each chapter with an italicized
descriptive passage.”
    “Really? You like it?”
    “I think so. It does tend to highlight the
rest of the chapter, doesn’t it? I say let’s leave it that way for
the whole book and then evaluate it when it’s done.”
    Price whirled around, her hair whipping
against Tony’s face. “Great. I really do think it’s creative and
... hey, wait a minute, Shadowbrook.”
    “What?”
    “You aren’t just trying to placate me and
then toss the whole thing out later on?”
    “Nope.”
    “Prove it.”
    “Well... “ He pondered. “I promise we won’t
delete any of the opening paragraphs unless we both agree on it.
How will that work?”
    “Splendid!” Price leaned over and gave him a
kiss on the cheek.
    “And,” he said with a wide smile, “you
promise you won’t delete any of my sections of the book without my
approval, right?” He kissed her lips, long and full.
    She finally pulled away and winked. “Dream
on.”
    Price padded across the carpet toward the
hall, then turned around. “You should change that shirt. It’s too
plain. You really ought to cowboy up a bit for that museum
visit.”
     
     
    Dressed in beige shorts and a forest green
sweatshirt shoved up to his elbows, Tony straddled a redwood bench
on the deck, his laptop in front of him, and reworked the opening
two pages of chapter three. After hammering away on a single
sentence for the fifth try, he stared at the fog hovering lower
than ever above the water, his sandal-clad feet freezing.
    What if the Davenport sisters were runners
for the mob, carrying great sums of money between Seattle and the
East Coast? And maybe the car wreck in Iowa wasn’t an accident, but
payback for skimming off millions. Jessica had been hiding out
waiting for...
    Relax, Shadowbrook.
    This was nonfiction. Historical tidbits, a
traveler’s delight. Flowers, fauna, wildlife. Annual mushroom
festival. He wished they did have a mushroom festival.
    He thought he heard the doorbell. He started
into the house, then stepped to the side of the deck and hollered,
“Around back. I’m back here.”
    The man who sauntered toward Tony wore an
apologetic smile and silk gray stripe on gray suit that fit like a
seasoned tailor studied his every move. Yet his face was thin,
almost gaunt. Bald on top, white hair cropped close to his head,
his eyes and mouth formed identical slits, friendly but appraising,
tentative. He leaned over one of the blooms, reached down as though
to pluck one, then patted it instead. “Such a lovely pompon,” he
commented. “I’m so glad to find someone at home. I’m Lloyd
Bennington... from Chestertown, Maryland. I’m looking for Jessica
Davenport. I mean, I’m sure she’s ... I think her married name is
Reynolds.”
    Tony stared at the man’s starched white
shirt. The tight collar seemed to scrape his neck a raw red.
“Jessica is living in a retirement community now.”
    “Are you her son?”
    “No, we’re leasing the place for the
summer.”
    The man stuck a finger into the neckline of
his shirt and gently rubbed. “Oh dear, I was so hoping to speak to
Jessica.”
    “She’s not more than five minutes from here.
Are you a friend?”
    “I’ve never met Jessica. I’m really looking
for her sister, Jill. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. I
didn’t know her address and was hoping to get it from Jessica.”
    “You’re looking for Jill Davenport?”
    “Yes, do you know where I might find
her?”
    “Mr. Bennington, Jill Davenport was killed
in a car wreck in Council Bluffs, Iowa, on June 2,1942.”
    The half slits in Lloyd Bennington’s eyes
closed,