tempting.”
“Wait,” I said. “Just … look at him.”
Asleep, Victor resembled one of those Botticelli angels that used to get painted on the ceilings of cathedrals. He could be funny, too, when he wanted tobe. When he wanted to, Victor could charm the birds out of the trees.
“Right, he looks harmless enough, now,” Ellie said. “So does a wasp’s nest if you don’t know what’s in it. Why you put up with him the way you do, I can’t understand.”
As if in reply, Victor snorted and sat up suddenly, his face twisting peevishly into an expression of anger tinctured with paranoia. Then the alcohol hit him, and you could practically see every blood vessel in his skull reacting to the blow.
“Oh,” he moaned, clutching his temples, and saw me standing there feeling sorry for him in spite of myself.
“Well,” he snapped, “what are you waiting for? Go get me two aspirin, and some bottled spring water. And hurry it up.”
12 Later that evening, upstairs with Wade, in the dark:
“Move your elbow a little, will you?” I said. “Right, that’s better.”
We’d nixed the champagne—Victor’s presence in the house would probably just make the bubbles go flat, anyway—and then Monday had decided to get up on the bed with us, so now the three of us lay companionably under the quilt.
“I’m going out in a couple of hours,” Wade said.
To work, he meant; to go out on the water. The tug often went out to meet a freighter while it was still dark.
A breeze moved the curtains, moonlight shifting in the lace. A foghorn honked at the lighthouse a couple of miles away. Wade put his arms around Monday and me, gathering us in. “Don’t worry.”
A week earlier, a freighter had capsized off Newfoundland: five saved, sixteen lost. There had been film of the awash vessel on Canadian TV, the craft moving helplessly, being swallowed.
“I won’t worry.” I made myself smile when I said it.
If anyone is safe out on the water, it is Wade; that’s well known. He will come home if anyone does. There is not a woman in town who would say any differently. Then again, there’s not a woman in town who will speak of capsizing, who will say the word aloud, not even if you pulled her fingernails out with pliers.
Which reminded me: “Listen, if Ken’s boat was adrift, how did his killer get to shore?” Not by swimming; the water was too cold.
Wade’s shoulder shifted. “Another boat?”
“Maybe.” But it meant Ken had let someone aboard. From listening to Wade, I knew boarding another guy’s boat was nearly impossible without that guy’s cooperation.
On the other hand, maybe Ken didn’t know Forepaugh meant any harm. Ike could have stolen a boat, then put it back afterwards.
“You located,” Wade asked drowsily, “those shutters?”
I found his hand and held it. “Over in Dennysville, some guy remodeling a house. I talked to George when he came to take Ellie home, and he says there are shutters in the Dumpster, out back.”
I felt Wade nodding in the dark. “Yeah, I know the place. Guy’s got every tradesman in town on the job, turn that farmhouse into a palace. You might know him, up from New York. Somebody in the Waco says the guy was a stockbroker, ran into some trouble.”
A little pang of something nudged me, but I ignored it. Lots of stockbrokers have run into trouble; it didn’t mean anything.
“Funny name, the guys said he had. Something like a tree.”
The pang sharpened. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“… birch, alder …”
Sure it could. With Victor around, anything could happen. The man spread disaster like a head cold.
“… willow. That’s it—Willoughby. Do you know him?”
Down the hall, Sam slept the untroubled sleep of adolescence, out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow, while in the guest room Victor tossed and moaned, misery seeping from his pores.
“Baxter Willoughby,” I said resignedly.
Suddenly, Wade’s last waking defenses fell;
“Wait,” I said. “Just … look at him.”
Asleep, Victor resembled one of those Botticelli angels that used to get painted on the ceilings of cathedrals. He could be funny, too, when he wanted tobe. When he wanted to, Victor could charm the birds out of the trees.
“Right, he looks harmless enough, now,” Ellie said. “So does a wasp’s nest if you don’t know what’s in it. Why you put up with him the way you do, I can’t understand.”
As if in reply, Victor snorted and sat up suddenly, his face twisting peevishly into an expression of anger tinctured with paranoia. Then the alcohol hit him, and you could practically see every blood vessel in his skull reacting to the blow.
“Oh,” he moaned, clutching his temples, and saw me standing there feeling sorry for him in spite of myself.
“Well,” he snapped, “what are you waiting for? Go get me two aspirin, and some bottled spring water. And hurry it up.”
12 Later that evening, upstairs with Wade, in the dark:
“Move your elbow a little, will you?” I said. “Right, that’s better.”
We’d nixed the champagne—Victor’s presence in the house would probably just make the bubbles go flat, anyway—and then Monday had decided to get up on the bed with us, so now the three of us lay companionably under the quilt.
“I’m going out in a couple of hours,” Wade said.
To work, he meant; to go out on the water. The tug often went out to meet a freighter while it was still dark.
A breeze moved the curtains, moonlight shifting in the lace. A foghorn honked at the lighthouse a couple of miles away. Wade put his arms around Monday and me, gathering us in. “Don’t worry.”
A week earlier, a freighter had capsized off Newfoundland: five saved, sixteen lost. There had been film of the awash vessel on Canadian TV, the craft moving helplessly, being swallowed.
“I won’t worry.” I made myself smile when I said it.
If anyone is safe out on the water, it is Wade; that’s well known. He will come home if anyone does. There is not a woman in town who would say any differently. Then again, there’s not a woman in town who will speak of capsizing, who will say the word aloud, not even if you pulled her fingernails out with pliers.
Which reminded me: “Listen, if Ken’s boat was adrift, how did his killer get to shore?” Not by swimming; the water was too cold.
Wade’s shoulder shifted. “Another boat?”
“Maybe.” But it meant Ken had let someone aboard. From listening to Wade, I knew boarding another guy’s boat was nearly impossible without that guy’s cooperation.
On the other hand, maybe Ken didn’t know Forepaugh meant any harm. Ike could have stolen a boat, then put it back afterwards.
“You located,” Wade asked drowsily, “those shutters?”
I found his hand and held it. “Over in Dennysville, some guy remodeling a house. I talked to George when he came to take Ellie home, and he says there are shutters in the Dumpster, out back.”
I felt Wade nodding in the dark. “Yeah, I know the place. Guy’s got every tradesman in town on the job, turn that farmhouse into a palace. You might know him, up from New York. Somebody in the Waco says the guy was a stockbroker, ran into some trouble.”
A little pang of something nudged me, but I ignored it. Lots of stockbrokers have run into trouble; it didn’t mean anything.
“Funny name, the guys said he had. Something like a tree.”
The pang sharpened. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“… birch, alder …”
Sure it could. With Victor around, anything could happen. The man spread disaster like a head cold.
“… willow. That’s it—Willoughby. Do you know him?”
Down the hall, Sam slept the untroubled sleep of adolescence, out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow, while in the guest room Victor tossed and moaned, misery seeping from his pores.
“Baxter Willoughby,” I said resignedly.
Suddenly, Wade’s last waking defenses fell;
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