Repair to Her Grave by Sarah Graves Page A

George asked, still waiting. He looked straight at me, so I would know it was me he wanted to talk to.
    “In the 1700s,” Raines replied. “No electric light to work by, no power tools. Just an artist, making musical instruments.”
    “By hand,” George said approvingly.
    “And by ear,” Raines added. “Now only about six hundred and fifty instruments are left. Not all violins; the family also made harps, guitars, cellos, and violas. And the reason no more will probably ever be found is, almost every instrument they made has already been accounted for.”
    Almost. He knew a lot about them, I realized. “Lost in shipwrecks, burnt up or exploded—the firebombs in Dresden during World War II got a lot of them,” he continued. “The ones that do still exist have individual names of their own, like Greatorex or Messiah.”
    “So if somebody finds one in their attic …” Ellie began. “I mean with a label inside, that says it's a Stradivarius …”
    “Right. Chances of its being real are a zillion to one against.”
    Which seemed like stiff odds, considering what I thought he was really here for. Still, when he turned back to Ellie and me, his eyes held a spark of teasing merriment: I’ve got a secret.
    “All right, now,” I began, annoyed. “I think I’ve had just about enough of—”
    “But I hear from some of your neighbors that you two have been involved in some mysteries yourselves,” he remarked, deftly changing the subject.
    I just stared at him; I knew how to interrupt people that way, too, and make it seem to everyone else as if I hadn’t. It was a technique I’d learned while steering wealthy people into financial plans that did more for their portfolios than for their egos. It took nerve and practice. And he was good at it.
    Too good. “Solving crimes in a small Maine town? It's too wonderful to be true,” he added. “So, like the rest of the place, I guess it must be.” Smooth, very smooth.
    “Wade back tonight?” George asked casually. It was what he’d been waiting to say, and I understood; he liked Raines, so far. So far, though, was as far as it went. Back in the city I could have had a street gang in my apartment and they could have murdered me, and if they didn’t let my body decompose too badly, no one else in the building would even have noticed. Here it was different.
    “After midnight,” I said.
    Most of the time, Wade Sorenson was Eastport's harbor pilot, which meant he guided big vessels in through the deep, tricky channels, shifting currents, and treacherous tides that led to the port. But starting two days earlier he had become part of a two-vessel team delivering a tugboat to its new berth on Grand Manan Island, and right now he was still out on the water, the lights of Eastport not yet even in sight.
    “They promised to radio Federal Marine if they’re delayed,” I told George. “I’ll let you know if they do.”
    Satisfied—George would fight dragons for me and Ellie, and probably would manage to slay quite a few of them, too, if push came to shove—he went out, as we gathered the remaining serving plates. In the kitchen, Sam and Maggie had formed an efficient assembly line for the dishes; not for the first time, I saw how well and happily they worked together.
    Sam, I thought, you dunderhead; I’d tried to raise him right, but he was nevertheless an eighteen-year-old American male, so naturally his idea of female beauty was like Jill: tall, blond, and just enough older than he was to seem sophisticated. Twenty or so, I calculated. Sam was just eighteen.
    “It's true,” I admitted to Raines, averting my eyes from the spectacle at the kitchen sink: unrequited love on Maggie's side, obliviousness on Sam's. Really, it made me want to swat the kid. “There was a string of deaths,” I went on, “and we got to the bottom of them. Untimely,” I added reluctantly, “deaths. And unnatural.”
    And somehow Ellie and I had developed a knack for revealing the