his breathing deepened, becoming even and slow, and I felt him slide away into unconsciousness. Monday slept, too, paws twitching as she chased, with dreaming whimpers, a dream rabbit.
Which left me alone, thinking about Ken, Hallie, and Tim. By now Ken’s body was in Bangor, awaiting forensic autopsy. Timothy was back on Crow Island, grieving for his son. And where Hallie Quinn might have gotten to by now, I didn’t even want to imagine.
And then there was Baxter Willoughby, on account of whom my planned expedition to Dennysville didn’t seem quite so promising.
I’d never met him, but I knew him well in the way that a skilled accountant knows you by examining your bank records, charge accounts, brokers’ statements, and tax filings. I knew of every insurance claim he’d ever made, every parking ticket he’d gotten, the names of his children and the address of the vet where his wife took their miniature Schnauzers to be spayed.
He’d been a crooked trader—his name, in fact, had become synonymous with the breed—and when the SEC had gotten wind of him, they’d called me: fast, accurate, discreet.
I’d spent a year creating a flow chart so detailed, it looked like a map of the New York subway system. I’d had phone records, appointment calendars, even thecontents of his wastebaskets, all collected by an army of SEC snoops; for twelve months, if Willoughby dropped a tissue, somebody picked it up.
The point of it all was to prove the SEC’s suspicions: that over a period of approximately fifteen years, Baxter Willoughby had bilked a whole range of victims out of millions of dollars.
My job was to prove it, and when I was finished, Willoughby went to jail.
13 Early the next morning, I found the paint scraper I’d been using on the kitchen floor and took it out to the backyard, along with a cup of coffee. Hummingbirds flitted among the dahlias in the garden while I spread newspapers along the stone foundation of the house, then began scraping clapboards.
It was too late to get Bill Twitchell to come over, with his mile-high ladders and space-age grinders, to scrape and paint the whole house before Felicity got here. But I could get the loose paint off in spots that were low enough for me to reach, and cover the bare wood with white-tinted shellac. That would protect the wood, and make things look spiffier for Felicity.
I kept scraping until my arm began aching and the rest of the world began stirring: cars starting, dogs barking, the big white garbage truck with the moose painted on the side of it, rumbling down the street.
Trash day: I’d forgotten it. I scrambled to haul the garbage cans out to the curbside, just as Al Rollins swung off the back of the truck to empty them toward the receptacle’s gaping maw.
“ ‘Morning, Al. Thanks very much.”
He muttered a reply, his normally cheerful face clouded.
“Something wrong?” Al’s good nature is a given, around town.
“Aw, them illegal dumpers got me hopping. Too cheap to get trash picked up like normal people. They go out, dump it in the woods someplace, make a big mess. Then town hall hires me to go get it. And I don’t mind telling you it’s a lot more trouble, at the end of some godforsaken dirt track out in the wilderness.”
“I’m sorry about that, Al. Want coffee? I’ve got some fresh.” Al’s pleasant manner has cheered me up on plenty of occasions; I figured the least I could do was return the favor.
“Nah, thanks.” He waved at the rest of the street, with the trash cans lined up neatly at the end of each front sidewalk.
“Worst part is, they got me goin’ through the stuff. You know,” he added at my look of puzzlement, “to find out who it is, doin’ the dumping. Boy, what a lousy chore.”
“Ick. Well, I hope it lets up soon. And look at it this way, when you find out who’s doing it, Arnold will make them stop.”
He brightened minutely. “Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it? Well, see you next week.”
Which left me alone, thinking about Ken, Hallie, and Tim. By now Ken’s body was in Bangor, awaiting forensic autopsy. Timothy was back on Crow Island, grieving for his son. And where Hallie Quinn might have gotten to by now, I didn’t even want to imagine.
And then there was Baxter Willoughby, on account of whom my planned expedition to Dennysville didn’t seem quite so promising.
I’d never met him, but I knew him well in the way that a skilled accountant knows you by examining your bank records, charge accounts, brokers’ statements, and tax filings. I knew of every insurance claim he’d ever made, every parking ticket he’d gotten, the names of his children and the address of the vet where his wife took their miniature Schnauzers to be spayed.
He’d been a crooked trader—his name, in fact, had become synonymous with the breed—and when the SEC had gotten wind of him, they’d called me: fast, accurate, discreet.
I’d spent a year creating a flow chart so detailed, it looked like a map of the New York subway system. I’d had phone records, appointment calendars, even thecontents of his wastebaskets, all collected by an army of SEC snoops; for twelve months, if Willoughby dropped a tissue, somebody picked it up.
The point of it all was to prove the SEC’s suspicions: that over a period of approximately fifteen years, Baxter Willoughby had bilked a whole range of victims out of millions of dollars.
My job was to prove it, and when I was finished, Willoughby went to jail.
13 Early the next morning, I found the paint scraper I’d been using on the kitchen floor and took it out to the backyard, along with a cup of coffee. Hummingbirds flitted among the dahlias in the garden while I spread newspapers along the stone foundation of the house, then began scraping clapboards.
It was too late to get Bill Twitchell to come over, with his mile-high ladders and space-age grinders, to scrape and paint the whole house before Felicity got here. But I could get the loose paint off in spots that were low enough for me to reach, and cover the bare wood with white-tinted shellac. That would protect the wood, and make things look spiffier for Felicity.
I kept scraping until my arm began aching and the rest of the world began stirring: cars starting, dogs barking, the big white garbage truck with the moose painted on the side of it, rumbling down the street.
Trash day: I’d forgotten it. I scrambled to haul the garbage cans out to the curbside, just as Al Rollins swung off the back of the truck to empty them toward the receptacle’s gaping maw.
“ ‘Morning, Al. Thanks very much.”
He muttered a reply, his normally cheerful face clouded.
“Something wrong?” Al’s good nature is a given, around town.
“Aw, them illegal dumpers got me hopping. Too cheap to get trash picked up like normal people. They go out, dump it in the woods someplace, make a big mess. Then town hall hires me to go get it. And I don’t mind telling you it’s a lot more trouble, at the end of some godforsaken dirt track out in the wilderness.”
“I’m sorry about that, Al. Want coffee? I’ve got some fresh.” Al’s pleasant manner has cheered me up on plenty of occasions; I figured the least I could do was return the favor.
“Nah, thanks.” He waved at the rest of the street, with the trash cans lined up neatly at the end of each front sidewalk.
“Worst part is, they got me goin’ through the stuff. You know,” he added at my look of puzzlement, “to find out who it is, doin’ the dumping. Boy, what a lousy chore.”
“Ick. Well, I hope it lets up soon. And look at it this way, when you find out who’s doing it, Arnold will make them stop.”
He brightened minutely. “Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it? Well, see you next week.”
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