Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) by Melanie Jackson Page B

but they
wouldn’t be forgotten. This feud could last decades. There was still anger from
when the historical society had taken over the local museum from the descendant
of the original founder who had turned out to be a scurvy knave who used funds
earmarked for acquiring artifacts to repair a leaking roof. This might have
been forgiven if the roof had been of period slate, but the old director was a
fan of Southwest architecture and had opted for a tile rook imported from
Mexico which is, I have to admit, a bit of an eyesore on the gray clapboard
building.
    “What Indian maiden?” I asked against better judgment. “There was no
Indian maiden in Goose Haven. Well, not after the white men came along. Probably not before then either. Nobody lived on the islands
back then.”
    I knew this from doing preliminary research for my speech. And anyway both
women were long past the age when they could pass for maiden anything so the
quarrel was especially stupid.
    Bryson shrugged.
    “All I know is the insults are flying and the turbulence has spilled
over to the historical society and museum, since each is refusing to work if
the other one is there, and it’s thrown off everyone’s schedules.”
    And probably no one would be happy with the suggested compromise of
having two Indian maidens.
    “For pity sakes, let’s make a dash for the docks before they see us
and demand arbitration,” I urged. “I don’t want to get dragged into this.”
    “Now, Tess, you know I don’t dash.”
    But he didn’t dawdle either. Bryson knows all about the better part of
valor and there were no winners in skirmishes like this one. An onlooker might
have thought that I was herding Bryson for his boat, but really it was a
question of who was herding whom.
    I wondered who else would end up as mortal enemies at the end of the
affair. Events like this always spawned quarrels because there were way too
many chiefs without any tact, and not enough Indians—and apparently too many
Indian maidens—who could abide bossiness in silence.
    The reminder of the pageant and the fact that I hadn’t chosen a
costume had put my other concerns briefly out of mind, but they reappeared the
moment we got near the water. It wasn’t that I actually felt something bad
would happen in daylight, but there was the sense that there was something
under the waves. Watching. Aware. Nothing would get me out there after dark.
    I was also very aware of the enclosed shed of weathered gray wood. The
islands have a lot of historic charm that somehow hasn’t carried over to this
plain building that has no purpose except to hold the bodies of drowned
fisherman until they can be removed. Actually, to hold dead anyone, and that likely included Mrs. Tudor.
    Who had died babbling about pirates. That
couldn’t be good.
    Some people will stick their head in the sand and hold it there
forever rather than admit to something they don’t like or weren’t expecting. I
am not one of them, but I sure wished I could be. This kind of free-floating fear
wasn’t dignified in someone who represented the founding family.
    “You’re being awfully quiet,” Bryson said. “This worries me.”
    “I got some cognac for us,” I said as we climbed aboard. It wasn’t
actually cold, but I felt chilled and took a lap robe out of a locker and
spread it over my legs while we cast off. I kept well back from the gunwales
and did not peer into the water.
    “Good. I could use it. This will be a hard week. Saturday folks will
be out decorating in the silent city and I shall have to be on hand to direct
traffic and keep the peace. Hopefully the weather will be clear by then or it
will be a muddy mess.”
    “Decorating?” I asked. “Where is Silent City?”
    “The cemetery.”
    The silent city—right. And he meant
putting flowers on graves and weeding and straightening tombstones that tend to
lean and topple over time. It was a local version of Tomb Sweeping Day, enacted
on the anniversary of some