windswept mounds along the curb. Those few people who were still on the street trudged through it determinedly, the snow merely something added to their burden.
Fletcher had put down the phone when I looked back at him. He was watching me worriedly, observing my wintry features, I thought, the leafless tree I had become.
“You took it hard, didn’t you, Cal? What happened to William, I mean.” He leaned forward, an older man, offering advice. “It’s a shame, a real tragedy. But a man has to go on, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t a question I could answer.
“As to what I might know about Miss March,” he said when I gave no response, “I saw her only once. Outside the bank, I mean.”
“When was that?”
“About two weeks before Ed died,” Fletcher replied. “He was sitting in that little room off his parlor. Miss March brought him in there when I told her I had some papers for him to sign.”
I remembered the room. I’d seen it when Ruth Potter had taken me to the house. It had a polished wooden floor and there were terra-cotta pots hanging here and there. The pots were empty when I saw them, and according to Ruth they’d remained empty during the time she’d worked at the house. It was Dora, she said, who’d “spruced the room up” with flowers and greenery, then removed it all after Mr. Dillard’s death.
“Ed was fully dressed,” Fletcher continued. “Not in pajamas and that old bathrobe he’d been wearing when I’d dropped by at other times. But pants and a shirt. Andhis hair was combed too. Looking at him, you’d have thought he was back to normal.”
“The papers you brought. What were they?”
“Business papers. Evaluations of what his real estate holdings were worth, that sort of thing. Ed had asked me to gather it all together. He wanted to look over it all. Check out the books, you might say.”
In my mind, I saw my brother’s eyes drift up from the ledger book, heard his stricken, unbelieving voice, afraid to admit what he knew she’d done,
Something’s wrong.
“Did Dora look at the papers?”
Everything Joe Fletcher had ever learned of human venality during his forty-three years as a banker in Port Alma flickered behind his eyes. “I usually know when something like that’s going on, Cal. Some kind of fraud, I mean.”
“Why would Ed Dillard have wanted all this financial information about himself?”
“He was intending to make a will.”
“He’d never made one before?”
“He’d never had anyone he wanted to name before. As a beneficiary, that is.”
“But suddenly he did have someone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I could see a dark wind blow through Fletcher’s mind. “I don’t know,” he answered, then stared at me silently, so I said the name myself.
“Dora March?”
“I wouldn’t know that, Cal.”
“Who would?”
“Art Brady was Ed’s attorney.”
I realized that something in my eyes, or in the toneof my voice, had suddenly warned Fletcher not to tell me anything else about Dora or Mr. Dillard. “If you found Miss March, you’d turn her over to the authorities, wouldn’t you, Cal?” he asked.
By then my heart had told so many lies, my mouth had no trouble with another.
“Yes.”
T he snow was ankle-high as I left the bank. The wind howled through the trees, whipped along the seawall, rattled signs and awnings, fierce and snarling, like a cornered dog.
Art Brady was in his office, standing before a wall of books, all with uniformly black spines. They towered above him, a dark obelisk, the grave, unbending laws of unimpassioned Maine.
“What can I do for you, Cal?” he asked as he turned toward me. He was a short man, wiry as a jockey, with gleaming white hair swept back over his head and parted in the middle. He had a close-cropped beard, also white, which made him look like a figure from a distant century, someone who’d put his ornate signature on a famous document no one read anymore.
“I talked to Joe Fletcher down at
Fletcher had put down the phone when I looked back at him. He was watching me worriedly, observing my wintry features, I thought, the leafless tree I had become.
“You took it hard, didn’t you, Cal? What happened to William, I mean.” He leaned forward, an older man, offering advice. “It’s a shame, a real tragedy. But a man has to go on, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t a question I could answer.
“As to what I might know about Miss March,” he said when I gave no response, “I saw her only once. Outside the bank, I mean.”
“When was that?”
“About two weeks before Ed died,” Fletcher replied. “He was sitting in that little room off his parlor. Miss March brought him in there when I told her I had some papers for him to sign.”
I remembered the room. I’d seen it when Ruth Potter had taken me to the house. It had a polished wooden floor and there were terra-cotta pots hanging here and there. The pots were empty when I saw them, and according to Ruth they’d remained empty during the time she’d worked at the house. It was Dora, she said, who’d “spruced the room up” with flowers and greenery, then removed it all after Mr. Dillard’s death.
“Ed was fully dressed,” Fletcher continued. “Not in pajamas and that old bathrobe he’d been wearing when I’d dropped by at other times. But pants and a shirt. Andhis hair was combed too. Looking at him, you’d have thought he was back to normal.”
“The papers you brought. What were they?”
“Business papers. Evaluations of what his real estate holdings were worth, that sort of thing. Ed had asked me to gather it all together. He wanted to look over it all. Check out the books, you might say.”
In my mind, I saw my brother’s eyes drift up from the ledger book, heard his stricken, unbelieving voice, afraid to admit what he knew she’d done,
Something’s wrong.
“Did Dora look at the papers?”
Everything Joe Fletcher had ever learned of human venality during his forty-three years as a banker in Port Alma flickered behind his eyes. “I usually know when something like that’s going on, Cal. Some kind of fraud, I mean.”
“Why would Ed Dillard have wanted all this financial information about himself?”
“He was intending to make a will.”
“He’d never made one before?”
“He’d never had anyone he wanted to name before. As a beneficiary, that is.”
“But suddenly he did have someone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I could see a dark wind blow through Fletcher’s mind. “I don’t know,” he answered, then stared at me silently, so I said the name myself.
“Dora March?”
“I wouldn’t know that, Cal.”
“Who would?”
“Art Brady was Ed’s attorney.”
I realized that something in my eyes, or in the toneof my voice, had suddenly warned Fletcher not to tell me anything else about Dora or Mr. Dillard. “If you found Miss March, you’d turn her over to the authorities, wouldn’t you, Cal?” he asked.
By then my heart had told so many lies, my mouth had no trouble with another.
“Yes.”
T he snow was ankle-high as I left the bank. The wind howled through the trees, whipped along the seawall, rattled signs and awnings, fierce and snarling, like a cornered dog.
Art Brady was in his office, standing before a wall of books, all with uniformly black spines. They towered above him, a dark obelisk, the grave, unbending laws of unimpassioned Maine.
“What can I do for you, Cal?” he asked as he turned toward me. He was a short man, wiry as a jockey, with gleaming white hair swept back over his head and parted in the middle. He had a close-cropped beard, also white, which made him look like a figure from a distant century, someone who’d put his ornate signature on a famous document no one read anymore.
“I talked to Joe Fletcher down at
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