putting in a bid to restore the old Babcock place.”
“The Winslow woman’s house, you mean?” Lenny gave a low whistle. “She didn’t waste any time, spending her husband’s money.”
“There’s no deal yet,” Mike said.
“Gloria’d tell you to milk her for all she’s worth.”
“What’s Gloria got against Sandra Winslow?”
“The woman’s young, good-looking and she got away with murder. What’s not to hate?” Lenny spread his hands. “The wife’s been following that scandal like a soap opera, on account of it’s local. Say, didn’t you used to be really tight with Victor Winslow?”
“When we were kids. We lost touch.” Mike remembered how he’d been back then, filled with pride that he was actually going off to college, the first of his family to do so. He felt as though someone had taken the shrinkwrap off his ambitions, at last. For two years he had soared, playing football, making the grade, dating the head cheerleader, devouring life like a giant submarine sandwich, all for him.
Then came the tackle that had ripped his right knee into separate parts, the dismissal from the team, three surgeries . . . and finally Angela. The head cheerleader had shown up in his hospital room, brandishing a small white stick with a pink plus sign on one end. Pregnant. He had to quit school, get a job and marry her.
“So what’s the Black Widow of Blue Moon Beach like, up close and personal?” Lenny asked.
Mike studied the line of bobbing fishing vessels, their skeletal arms raised against the darkening sky. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Her house needs fixing, and I need the work.” He knew he wouldn’t tell Lenny that she’d been crying when he met her, that she looked amazing in blue jeans and rubber boots, that her voice was soft and husky and that she never once smiled.
“Gloria still thinks she’s guilty as mortal sin.” Lenny bumped the toe of his shoe against an iron cleat. “I mean, the car went right off the bridge, for chrissake. The dame got herself out, not a scratch on her. Meanwhile, he’s shark bait.”
“Maybe when the car was sinking, she only had time to get herself out.”
“She claims she doesn’t remember squat about the wreck. Selective amnesia, if you ask me.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Hell, nobody believes her.”
“Then why the accident ruling? Why not charge her?”
“I guess that shyster lawyer from Newport fixed things.” He took out an old burl pipe and tucked tobacco into the bowl. “I just feel sorry as hell for the guy’s family. Really nice folks, the Winslows. They didn’t deserve this.”
Mike felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Victor’s parents. Ronald Winslow had returned from Vietnam with a purple heart and a crushed spinal cord. Challenged rather than defeated by his disability, he’d graduated with honors from Harvard Divinity School and had become pastor of the largest Protestant church in southern Rhode Island.
He’d married Winifred van Deusen for love, though it was a great convenience that she came with a large, inherited fortune. They’d doted on their only child, putting all their dreams into Victor.
The thought of losing a child made Mike’s blood run cold.
He’d better pay the Winslows a call, tell them he was planning to work on Sandra’s house. He wanted the job, needed it, but he owed it to the family to let them know.
Lenny lit his pipe, shielding the lighter with his cupped hand. Zeke came skittering along the dock, something disgusting held in his jaws, dripping down his untrimmed chin whiskers. He dropped it at Mike’s feet. Today’s catch was a clump of black mussels strung together with a tough beard of seaweed. Mike kicked it over the edge of the dock and into the water.
Lenny puffed on his pipe. “When are you going to get a real dog, Mike?”
“I didn’t pick him. I’m just the sucker that wound up with him. Anyway, the kids are nuts about Zeke.”
“I guess
“The Winslow woman’s house, you mean?” Lenny gave a low whistle. “She didn’t waste any time, spending her husband’s money.”
“There’s no deal yet,” Mike said.
“Gloria’d tell you to milk her for all she’s worth.”
“What’s Gloria got against Sandra Winslow?”
“The woman’s young, good-looking and she got away with murder. What’s not to hate?” Lenny spread his hands. “The wife’s been following that scandal like a soap opera, on account of it’s local. Say, didn’t you used to be really tight with Victor Winslow?”
“When we were kids. We lost touch.” Mike remembered how he’d been back then, filled with pride that he was actually going off to college, the first of his family to do so. He felt as though someone had taken the shrinkwrap off his ambitions, at last. For two years he had soared, playing football, making the grade, dating the head cheerleader, devouring life like a giant submarine sandwich, all for him.
Then came the tackle that had ripped his right knee into separate parts, the dismissal from the team, three surgeries . . . and finally Angela. The head cheerleader had shown up in his hospital room, brandishing a small white stick with a pink plus sign on one end. Pregnant. He had to quit school, get a job and marry her.
“So what’s the Black Widow of Blue Moon Beach like, up close and personal?” Lenny asked.
Mike studied the line of bobbing fishing vessels, their skeletal arms raised against the darkening sky. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Her house needs fixing, and I need the work.” He knew he wouldn’t tell Lenny that she’d been crying when he met her, that she looked amazing in blue jeans and rubber boots, that her voice was soft and husky and that she never once smiled.
“Gloria still thinks she’s guilty as mortal sin.” Lenny bumped the toe of his shoe against an iron cleat. “I mean, the car went right off the bridge, for chrissake. The dame got herself out, not a scratch on her. Meanwhile, he’s shark bait.”
“Maybe when the car was sinking, she only had time to get herself out.”
“She claims she doesn’t remember squat about the wreck. Selective amnesia, if you ask me.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Hell, nobody believes her.”
“Then why the accident ruling? Why not charge her?”
“I guess that shyster lawyer from Newport fixed things.” He took out an old burl pipe and tucked tobacco into the bowl. “I just feel sorry as hell for the guy’s family. Really nice folks, the Winslows. They didn’t deserve this.”
Mike felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of Victor’s parents. Ronald Winslow had returned from Vietnam with a purple heart and a crushed spinal cord. Challenged rather than defeated by his disability, he’d graduated with honors from Harvard Divinity School and had become pastor of the largest Protestant church in southern Rhode Island.
He’d married Winifred van Deusen for love, though it was a great convenience that she came with a large, inherited fortune. They’d doted on their only child, putting all their dreams into Victor.
The thought of losing a child made Mike’s blood run cold.
He’d better pay the Winslows a call, tell them he was planning to work on Sandra’s house. He wanted the job, needed it, but he owed it to the family to let them know.
Lenny lit his pipe, shielding the lighter with his cupped hand. Zeke came skittering along the dock, something disgusting held in his jaws, dripping down his untrimmed chin whiskers. He dropped it at Mike’s feet. Today’s catch was a clump of black mussels strung together with a tough beard of seaweed. Mike kicked it over the edge of the dock and into the water.
Lenny puffed on his pipe. “When are you going to get a real dog, Mike?”
“I didn’t pick him. I’m just the sucker that wound up with him. Anyway, the kids are nuts about Zeke.”
“I guess
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