Chapter Five

Claire

Jenny Rose came up to the cottage after the doctor and the coroner had come and the police had cordoned off the place. She fell into my arms and I let her cry, then we sat down together on the old couch, which, at last free of clutter, was warm and embracing.

“So you gave them the stones?” I said.

“No,” she whispered, like they were listening.

“What? Are you crazy? Now they’ll think we have something to do with it!”

“Well, you left!”

“Oliver told me to come here and wait. Did the detective interview you?”

“No, I said I had to go get Wendell.”

“But it was you who found Patsy! And Wendell’s in school.”

“I know. I lied.”

I stared at her. “You can’t lie to them. They’ll find out and think you have something to hide!”

“They’ll arrest me. Is that what you want? Whoever killed Mrs. Mooney was after me.”

“What! Why?”

“Don’t you remember me telling you I changed rooms with her? Somebody went there to get me. And then they found her instead and killed her.”

We sat there looking at each other. Then she said, “So what should we do?”

“Being arrested is better than being killed.” I said. “Anyway, why would they want to arrest you?”

She yelled, “That’s the big story in the media, illegal immigrants who kill Americans! Of course they’ll think it’s me. Is that what you want, me to go to jail?”

“Of course not. Just … Just … I don’t know. There’s a vast difference between a Dominican gang member and an Irish au pair!” But even as I said it I recognized the take a Nassau County detective would have on Jenny Rose with her hip-hop hair and blue nails and tattoos, even if they were fake. She looked like a punk. I said, “Let’s just try and think clearly. You came to Sea Cliff and right away Wendell gave you the moonstones.”

“Not right away. Well, yes, right away. But it wasn’t like he gave them to me. He wanted to and then Patsy Mooney snatched them from him and I demanded she give them to me—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted, “she had the stones in her hand?”

“They were in a scarf. He had them wrapped up in a scarf. I don’t think she knew they were in there. I certainly didn’t. I only discovered them when I cleaned out my bag.” She looked puzzled.

“We’ve got to talk to Wendell.”

Jenny Rose made a helpless gesture. “Every time I ask him he shuts up.”

“What, like he’s frightened?”

“No. More like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Look. I know you don’t like the idea, but this goes way beyond illegal immigration, toots. This is withholding evidence in a murder investigation, and in this country they don’t take kindly to that.”

She sniffled into her hanky and pleaded, “Do you think they’ll put me in jail?”

“No, of course not,” I said but without much conviction. If no one had reason to kill Patsy Mooney, the police probably would look for the nearest illegal immigrant. They’d call her a person of interest and come up with some reason to hold her. Even one night in jail was something to be avoided at all costs. I tried to think of how I could use my ex-husband’s connections without getting him involved.

Someone tapped on the door, the dog howled, and we both jumped and grabbed hold of each other. But I knew that shadow. It was Mrs. Dellaverna. I got up and threw open the door.

“I just heard!” She barreled in holding her head. “I’m thinking, what’s gonna happen now?”

Ignoring me and simply brushing past Jake, she sat down at the table facing Jenny Rose. “You the one who found Patsy?”

“Yes.” Jenny Rose seemed very tiny and young sitting there all hunched up. Jake seemed to sense her distress and went over and sat on her feet.

“Oh, my God, what are we gonna do?!” Mrs. Dellaverna raved and the two of them started crying. Suddenly Mrs. Dellaverna reared up and squinted, gypsylike, at Jenny Rose. “It’s a kind of funny. You find the girl drowning, it’s Radiance; you find the body, it’s Patsy!”

“Wait,” Jenny Rose cried, “you think I had something to do with it?”

“I’m not looking for a wage-a-war. All I’m saying is it’s funny, that’s all.”

“Fuck you.” Jenny Rose stood in a fury.

Mrs. Dellaverna threw the dishtowel she held up over her face and ran out the door home. Jenny Rose flung herself onto the bed, sobbing. Jake circled, gargling restrained submission. I called him to me and held him tight because he and I were both trembling. Then a soft tapping at the door sent him rigid and yowling with fright. I calmed him down and went to get it. It turned out to be young Teddy. I was so relieved. He stood in the doorway, his skin all flushed and rosy, looking past me to Jenny Rose. You could tell he was crazy about her. And worried. “Come on in,” I invited. Because Jenny Rose didn’t care a fig for him, she hardly minded that he saw her in such a state.

“Look,” he said as he sat cautiously on the edge of the sofa, “I thought I’d better let you know. Patsy Mooney’s husband is on the loose.”

“Her husband?” Jenny Rose squawked. “She doesn’t have a husband! She told me!”

“Well, she does, I’m afraid. Did.” He sighed sadly. “She didn’t have an order of protection against him because he was a retired cop himself. She thought the police here would have it on file and give her away. Oliver, Paige, Mr. Piet, and myself all knew. We thought he had no idea where she was. And we have no idea how he found her. We knew he was violent. Mooney is her maiden name. She didn’t use his.”

This let Jenny Rose off the hook. “What’s his name?” I asked, more relieved than I wanted to let on.

“Woods,” he said the name with little-disguised scorn. “Donald Woods. One of those control-freak, hooplehead cops you think you’ll only read about in the paper.”

“Oh,” Jenny Rose sank back in the pillows, and cried, “that’s why she said, she said, ‘Thank God that’s over,’ about her marriage! I can hear her clear as a bell like it was yesterday! Oh, my God! I can’t believe it! Maybe if I’d left her alone in her turret she would have heard him coming up the stairs! Maybe she wouldn’t be dead! That fuckin’ thick carpet! She wouldn’t have heard a sound!”

“Now, now,” Teddy comforted her. “There’s no stopping these wife beaters. It’s no one’s fault but his. I won’t have you blaming yourself.”

I shot him a bemused look because he seemed to have affected a Ronald Colman accent. And then I remembered Mrs. Dellaverna telling me about her friend hiding out at her place. Some shit of a husband who’d beat her up good … I said, “So they’re sure it was him?”

“It certainly looks like it. He was seen at the deli, asking around. We know he’d been arrested before for smashing her up. A real violent guy.” He shook his head, grimacing. “I’d give a pretty penny to know how he found out she was here.”

Jenny Rose sat up. Her expression turned suspicious. “And how he knew she was in the basement. You know, I knew someone was watching the house. I felt it!” She shivered.

I remembered last night and Jake flipping out. Had the fellow come looking for her at the cottage? “Where do they think he’s gone?” I asked cautiously.

Teddy raked his hair. “That’s just it. He was seen coming into town but no one saw him leaving. He might well still be here.”

“Shit,” I said.

“So I want you both to lock your doors and windows.”

“Well, he’s not after us.” Jenny Rose quaked in her blanket.

“No, but he might be looking for a place to hide out for a while. You don’t know. He could be in someone’s garage or—”

“Or break into someone’s home and hold them captive till the coast is clear!” Jenny Rose finished for him.

“I’m afraid so.”

I’d brought Jake to Sea Cliff at just the right time. I thought of that poor, demented Daniel on his own. He would be easy prey for a man like that. Obviously, someone like him would never think to lock his doors.

Teddy’s blue eyes moved around the cottage, taking it all in for the first time. “I love your curtains,” he said, trying to lighten things up.

“Amazing what you can do with a little strong detergent and a hot iron,” I said, glad he was here. I was sure he’d be happy to look after Jenny Rose while I did some investigating on my own. I lured Jake up onto the bed—he knew any bed was typically off-limits—to keep him happy and left the two kids with a fresh pot of coffee and some Ikea cinnamon buns.

I almost asked Teddy if I might borrow his station wagon but decided against it. Morgan would have my car back to me shortly and it wouldn’t hurt me to pedal up and down these steep hills, quiet and swift. I went out to the shed, opening the creaky door with care in case Patsy’s murderer lurked inside, and lugged out the bicycle. It was rusty but it seemed to work all right. I was grateful to Morgan. Morgan. His words came back to me and echoed in my brain. I almost strangled him, he’d confessed about the seminarian that’d molested an altar boy. I was only halfway down the path into town when my cell phone rang. I bumped onto the side of the road and opened it.

“Auntie Claire?”

“Jenny Rose. What’s up?”

“Remember I told you Wendell acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about when I asked him about the stones?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I got to thinking. Maybe he really didn’t know about the stones.”

“What do you mean? You told me you got them from him.”

“That’s just it. I assumed he was frightened about having the stones. But when I asked him about the scarf, remember I told you he was completely forthright about answering? Maybe the stones weren’t wrapped up in the scarf at all. Perhaps they were already in my pocket.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe I swept them from Patsy when I grabbed the scarf from her.”

We were both silent, digesting this possibility. “Or,” I suggested, “maybe Patsy put them there. Or anybody. Put Teddy on the phone.”

“He had to go.”

“What? I thought he’d stay with you!”

“No, he had to open a house up on Dosoris Lane for Paige. The police are still questioning her and there’s a couple waiting there to see a house. And Mr. Piet is still waiting to be questioned and no one’s heard from Radiance. Teddy’s going to stop off at her apartment over Gallagher’s and check on her.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want you there alone. We’d better meet.”

“Where?”

“Twillyweed.”

“Okay. I’ll come to you.”

“I’ve got to make a stop or two, first. Then we can talk. Just get there quickly. And, Jenny Rose, stay there! Just answer any questions they have truthfully. Really, this changes everything.”

“All right,” she agreed and she sounded relieved. Little did I know she had her own plans for getting some answers by heading into town.

Meanwhile I bicycled down to the beach and Daniel’s house, dead on the water. It was shabby, but you could see how all the real estate agents in town would give their eyeteeth to get their hands on it. It had charm—or it would have with a lot of money thrown in. It was one of those small cottages with a low-hanging roof that resembles a thatch. I tapped on the back door. There was no sound from within. I knocked again and the door just moved open. All right, I pushed it. The kitchen was outdated in the style of the ’70s and it was damp. A fly battered itself against one of the windows, buzzing. There was an unopened package of baking soda on the table, some toothpaste, and a cylinder of Comet, like someone had gone to the store and left some things for him. “Daniel?” I called, mentally cursing myself for not telling Jenny Rose, or someone, where I’d gone. I looked out the window into the yard. A decrepit lawnmower stood leaning, suspended, in the half-finished yard. I peeked through to the next room. It was a sort of bedroom–living room, the bed covered neatly with a yellowed chenille spread, a permanent sagging dip in the middle where he must sleep. A toy lay upside down on the rug on the floor: a doll, half covered with a blanky, her arm reaching out. I resisted the urge to go in there. This was a strange and complicated place, but it wasn’t degenerate. It was like an empty kindergarten classroom, fizzing with energy that’s gone away, vivacious colored boxes on top shelves and viruses and moving orbs of dust in sun shafts from dirty windows. On the kitchen table beside me I noticed a list of grocery items. Something about it looked familiar to me and I skulked closer to peer at it. It was Jenny Rose’s and my list of suspects! A thrill of fear ran through me. How in hell had that got here? Steadying my heart, I tiptoed in and picked it up and put it into my pocket. Frightened now that someone was watching me, I slipped out the door. Jenny Rose certainly hadn’t been here. Had she? Paige? I wouldn’t put it past her to go through Jenny Rose’s things. Feeling safer in the light of day, I reread the list. My eye fell to the name Mrs. Lassiter, the woman who worked at the rectory. The snoop in me wouldn’t mind checking her out. I got back on my bike, and as I pedaled away I heard the unmistakable clatter of a lawnmower resuming its course. Evidently I frightened old Daniel as much as he’d frightened me.

St. Greta’s Rectory was a beautiful place with a mature copper beech, a profusion of birds, and a lovely, well-tended garden. I rang the bell, but it seemed to be out of order. I clopped on the heavy wood.

A bad-tempered lady threw open the door. “I heard you the first time, so!”

She was a skinny, busy lady with a whirl of graying ginger hair, a snub nose, a giant bust, and a mass of freckles all over her arms and face. Her teeth were spaced apart and separate. “Mrs. Lassiter?” I asked meekly.

“What is it?”

“I’m Jenny Rose Cashin’s aunt. My name is Claire Breslinsky. I’ve come to tell you—”

“Claire? You’ll be Claire, Mary Cashin’s middle girl?”

I was startled. “Yes,” I admitted unsurely.

“You’re the very likeness of her!”

“You know my mother?”

“Know her? I wouldn’t have come to this country were it not for her!”

I was so thrown off my kilter I just stood there while we gaped at each other. I don’t know which upset me more—that she knew my mother or that I looked just like her. My mother was old. She was plump. I was … I was …

She mopped her strong farmers’ daughter’s hands on her apron and herded me in, saying, “Come in, come in. No sense standing here in the vestibule looking like a pie hit you full in the face!”

I blessed myself from the holy water font and followed her through the cool, timbered archways, over the scrubbed and walnut-oiled tiles, and under a series of handsome naval prints. There would be no doubt a County Cork widow was in residence here. The place shone.

She led me into a white kitchen, fitted out in unfashionable but sturdy oak cabinets, and sat me at the checkered oilcloth. In the tiny window a cactus bloomed an orange wart.

“There now,” she said, releasing a happy, eager sigh, and I realized I might be in for a long one. With easy movements she had the teapot up to boil and soda bread whisked from the box, transported butter and jam from the fridge, then carefully sliced a wedge of soda bread and placed it reverently on a doily before me.

“I’m not sure my mother mentioned you were here,” I declared cautiously. Had she told me about this woman while I hadn’t listened?

Her face fell. “Did she not?”

“But,” I hurried to say, “wait a minute, I do remember now! She told me to tell you she was polycoating Jenny Rose’s picture in the paper and sending copies off to Skibbereen! That was it. I’m sorry, I forget everything these days. You understand. It’s quite an event for us, having Jenny Rose here in the States.” I gave up with a heaving breath. “What I mean is, it’s not because of her that I’m here.”

Suspicious, she looked at me, her freckled face closed and leaning to one side.

“I’m afraid I’ve come with bad news,” I went on.

“Your mother!”

“No, it’s none of us. It’s Patsy Mooney from up at Twillyweed.”

Mrs. Lassiter clutched her heart. “Patsy? My Patsy?”

“I’m afraid she’s dead.”

She turned red and began to make a strange noise in her throat. I looked around for something stronger than tea. I thought she might be having a stroke, or was choking on something, the way she sat there gurgling and sputtering.

“Mrs. Lassiter, is there someone I can call? Is Father in the rectory?”

She gasped, “He’s having a pre-Cana.”

“Would you like me to call him?”

Chalk faced, she shook her head then demanded, “How did she die?”

“I’m afraid it was murder.”

“Murder?” She stood up and sat down, covered her mouth with her hand. “He got her? Donald, that blaggard, he finally got her?”

“They think so.”

She sucked in her breath. “She always said he would! She always said he’d find her one day like he promised and kill her!”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sherry. Under the sink. Hurry.”

I went right to it and poured her a water glass full. It smelled like something stronger than sherry. “Sláinte,” she gasped and drank it straight down. It didn’t seem to hurt her. She began to cry. “How did he do it?”

I looked around uncomfortably. “He strangled her.”

“Ahh!” She fell again into sobs, her large shoulders heaving up and down.

I sat with her for a good long time. After a while she came around and blew her nose. “But we have such lovely plans! I’ve got to call my friend Maureen,” she said and went into the hallway to call. During this time I swiftly polished off two more thick pieces of her hopelessly good soda bread. Then, feeling guilty, I moved the rest around the plate so it didn’t seem so much was gone. She came back in. “I’ll have to wait awhile. Nobody’s there.”

“So you were best friends with Patsy Mooney, then.”

“Oh, aye. Grand friends.” She peered up toward the little window and shook her head. “Best friends when it comes to that. We’re bingo partners. We’ve been to every jewelry show at the Coliseum. And every fortnight we sit together on the bus to Atlantic City. It leaves from the mall parking lot over at the Americana Mall. She always wins, let me tell you. Patsy can play anything—poker, all of it. Not just the slots like me. I don’t know who I’ll go with now!” She looked at me with refreshed shock as the atrocity hit her again. “What about all of our plans?” she wailed. “We have so many wonderful plans!”

I let her calm down. “I guess going down there you’d have plenty of time to talk. She must have told you all about her troubles with … Donald, is it?”

“Oh, yes. She tells me all about it,” she sniffled, still referring to her in the present tense. “I know the whole story, so.” She cut into yet another slice of soda bread and pushed it on me. “That’s why I have to drive us to the mall parking lot. She won’t drive. She thinks if she renews her license, he’ll find her, like, what with all his friends on the job. And he did, didn’t he? Just like she said!” She burst into fresh sobs. “That’s how sly he is. Oh, he’s mean. How many times did he beat her up! Kicked her down the stairs when she tried to leave him!”

“I guess you’re not surprised to hear the tragic news, then.”

She held her arms and her head went down. “It fair breaks my heart.” She looked up with sudden clarity. “But I have to say I am surprised. Shocked, more like. It’s been some years—so long for him to hold a grudge, isn’t it? You’d think he’d have found someone else to torture by now.” She shook her head and snuffled into her tissue. “We’re good friends, me and Patsy. I always make her laugh.”

“She must have been a wonderful woman,” I said. “Well, is there anyone I can call to come stay with you? Shall I call Father in?”

“No, no don’t do that. It’ll all be about him, then, won’t it? I’ll have to get him ready for a death call, iron his purple stole …” She went to budge but couldn’t, sipped her drink, her eyes in the past, unable to move on to this new, terrible reality, I guessed. I let her talk. “Buys me little things, too, she does. Soaps and fancy cooking dishes. See this yellow crock from Portugal? She gave me that. And them fancy things are dear, so. She’ll leave dollar bills on my ashtray in the car. For gas money. She’s that thoughtful.”

I got up to go. We walked together down the hallway, our footfalls echoing in the hollow space. “He couldn’t leave her alone, could he!” She shook her head. “You see what it proves? There’s a sadist on every street corner. But a good masochist is hard to find.”

“What about Mrs. Dellaverna? I could call her to come. I know she’s at home.”

“Lina?!” She gave me a sullen, cud-chewing face. “Don’t know why you’d be mixed up with the likes of her. … Don’t even think about it. No! Not in my kitchen! Not here! Never!”

My, my, I thought, such dislike! “Okay, okay, I won’t call her,” I promised.

“Telephone Paige,” she said, sniffing primly. “Tell her I’ll come up to Twillyweed once I’ve pulled myself together, so.” She opened the massive door. “I’ve got to pick something up there at any rate—a donation for the raffle—and she and I can make the plans for the wake.”

“All right. You’re sure you’ll be all right if I leave you alone?”

She looked at her watch with a capable flourish. “Father will be here in ten more minutes. I’ll give him his lunch and then I’ll be up. Tell her that.”

“All right, and good-bye. I’m so sorry. Thank you for your hospitality at such a grievous time. Your soda bread was a delight.” I patted my belly. “One day maybe you’ll give me the recipe.”

Her pale eyes cheered up. “Och, that’s what I’m famous for. Father even has me sending it back down to his old parish in Broad Channel just to brag how good he has it, so! Now you’ll tell your good mother I was asking for her?”

“Why don’t you call her? I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. Especially since you helped Jenny Rose get her position.”

She shook her head shyly. “Oh, no. She’ll be thinking I’m looking for praise.”

“No she wouldn’t!”

“Aye, we’ll just let that be.”

“We’ll see.” I smiled sympathetically, making a mental note to tell my mother to call.

“Good-bye.” She held her long arm up in the air and waved me off with her sodden tissue in a burst of sentiment. “To happier days. And send my regards to Mary.” She rocked her head reflectively.

“I will.” I hopped on the old bicycle and rattled down the path, once again relieved Jenny Rose’s having the moonstones had had nothing to do with Patsy Mooney’s murder. I was almost happy. Because that’s what this Donald’s involvement meant, didn’t it? They were separate, thank God. But as I pedaled along the old country path and even before I reached the main road to town, something nagged at my complacence. Just suppose this Donald Woods hadn’t killed Patsy Mooney, I conjectured. Although surely he had, if even the police believed it. Still, I scratched my head. The mystery gems turning up in Sea Cliff and then the murder in the same house … I kept having the feeling I was missing something. The wind was at my back. I pumped along, my brow furrowed, this niggling occupying me now. A gull flew off in front and gave an excited cry and all at once it came to me. Broad Channel. She’d said Broad Channel, hadn’t she? I had more than a nagging suspicion that the two crimes had to be connected. I just didn’t know how. Had this Donald Woods clobbered the priest and stolen the statue? No, why would he? Suppose he hadn’t had anything to do with it at all? It could just as easily have been Morgan or Glinty or Oliver or Teddy or even Radiance or Paige—someone who knew enough to cast suspicion on a belligerent ex-husband.

It was a hunch, but I couldn’t shake the suspicion. I coasted my bicycle into a broad circle and pedaled back to the rectory. I knocked. Mrs. Lassiter, half into her fussy black suit and annoyed again from the look on her face, threw the door open. I was aware that very consciously she put on a martyred, sweeter face for me. “Yes?”

“I’m so sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Lassiter. Would it be all right if I took some holy water up to Twillyweed?”

She was glad, I could tell, it was about nothing else. “Have you got the bottle?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you a jar,” she said and let me stand there while she went to get it. A flock of blackbirds went rushing by.

It was a nice, big mayonnaise jar. “Thanks,” I said, then remarked nonchalantly, “Say. Just out of curiosity, what parish was that in Broad Channel your pastor came from?”

“Oh, that’ll be St. Margaret Mary’s. Father Steger’s parish now.”

I put on my stupid face “Ah, too bad.” I acted disappointed. “I thought it might be my dad’s old parish. Oh, well. Just a thought.” I smiled weakly and pedaled off. My mind reeled. When I was clear of the place, I let myself think. St. Margaret Mary’s! That’s where the priest was clobbered and where the statue was stolen from! Wait till I tell Jenny Rose.

I caught sight of Daniel’s house and turned in the driveway, then left my bike lying on the gravel. “Daniel?” I called in. No one answered. I tickled the wind chimes he had hanging from the sill. They were the big, booming, expensive ones. I waited. No one was there. Still, you never knew. I stepped into the kitchen. Everything looked the same. A cat yowled from inside, half scaring me out of my wits. Then there was no sound. None at all. I crept cautiously across the linoleum. I stepped over the threshold and was in the room with the bed. It smelled so nice, like someone had polished the nightstand with Pledge. And then, for no reason I could think of, I bent over and pulled the blanky off the doll. It wasn’t a doll; it was a statue, a statue of Our Lady, her poor eye sockets empty, her arms out extending grace. Hearing my heartbeat in my ears, I picked it up and sheltered it against me. The big cat on the windowsill looked past me, like someone else was there. I started to go. With every step a horror that someone would grab me moved me along with my spine up under me. I made it back outside. I clutched the statue under my jacket and felt tears prick at my eyes. But I didn’t cry. It wasn’t that. I just stood there thinking, I’ve got her. I made the sign of the cross, took off my jacket and wrapped her up in it, and laid her in my basket next to the big jar of holy water. I looked around and saw no one. No one saw me. I rattled along on my bike, my hand outstretched like a guardian vessel, shielding my booty. I should have gone to the police right then. But I didn’t.

Jenny Rose

Hastily making her way into town, Jenny Rose then stood in the middle of Main Street and took a breath. She would talk to Glinty and find out what he knew. She’d been so worried the police would suspect her that she hadn’t given a thought to whether or not he—But no. No, Glinty would never have strangled a soul. She was sure of it. Oh, poor Patsy Mooney! Jenny Rose spotted a shop where they sold crystals and religious items. Surely they’d carry Mass cards. She went in and then, hearing urgent, familiar whispers, busied herself behind a wall of scented candles. It was Paige, wasn’t it? She was lecturing Radiance in that schoolmarm, patronizing tone of hers.

“You never even came to Noola’s wake! What’s wrong with you? You wouldn’t go to her funeral and now you won’t even come back to the house when the poor woman—!”

“I don’t like the dead,” Radiance moaned. “They terrify me! Coffins and holes in the ground—”

“Don’t start that again. It’s not just our duty,” Paige reminded her, “she was kind to us all.”

That stopped her. “Yes,” she agreed in a small voice. “You’re right.”

“I’ve got to get back. They want to interview me again. Why are you all dressed up?”

“I’m not.”

“Where were you? In the city? What were you up to? I can tell you were up to something!”

Paige said this in such an uncharacteristic, almost savage tone that Jenny Rose decided it was time to make herself known. It wasn’t that she minded eavesdropping, but she didn’t like them to catch her at it and thought if Radiance whirled around they might. She stepped out and at that moment saw Paige slide her hand up Radiance’s shirt back and pull her roughly to her. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Paige hissed. But Radiance’s chin went up, her mouth opened, and her eyes dimmed in willingness. In lust.

Jenny Rose took a quick step backward and turned and slipped, dismayed, around the display shelf and out the door. Blindly she clattered down the wooden steps. God! she muttered silently. Imagine it! Two of the best-lookin’ women anyone could think of. Either one of them could have any man she chose. What a waste! She could understand what it was for Brigid and Deirdre, her own stepparents. No disrespect meant, but let’s face it, nobody else would want them, would they? It shouldn’t surprise her, of all people, but it did. And how in hell, she puzzled, could those two be carrying on and nobody have a whiff of a clue? Auntie Claire sprang to mind. Poor old sod. How shocked she must have been when she’d found out about her fellow! It went to show it was just like she said. You can be living your life and not even know the person closest to you. Not even know where they go in their mind. Jenny Rose huddled away down the street. Uh-oh. There was Teddy leaning on his car in front of the bookshop, drinking a cup of coffee from the deli and paging nonchalantly through a book. Smug bugger. Thought himself fine, didn’t he? Smarter than everyone. Figured she’d come around if he just gave it enough time. She went to dart down the alley, but he’d seen her. He kept a blue eye on her until she felt she had to come over and say something. “’Lo,” she said as she nodded grudgingly and crossed over.

“You know what I like most about this town?” Teddy mused. “This bookshop keeps its top step like a shelf for books that don’t sell. You can take any one of them, free.”

She stuck out her pursed lips and slid a reluctant hip against the hood of the car.

“Poor Patsy,” he said, shaking his head softly.

“Yeah.”

“Looking for Glinty, eh?” He took a knowing sip of his coffee. “Did you talk to the detectives?”

“No to both. It’s so horrible, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Horrible. What a way to die!” Teddy sighed, giving the horizon a searching look. “I can’t get over Glinty, though,” he puzzled, “what with all this going on! For him to go off looking for—how did he put it—the prettiest lass on the planet …”

What did he mean? Who was he talking about? Radiance? “Wouldn’t have been me then, though, would it!”

“He must have meant you,” Teddy blustered, sounding conciliatory, but unable to keep the doubtfulness from his voice. He smiled again, loose with charm. “Maybe he was afraid of the cops. Maybe he knows something we don’t …”

Jenny Rose tried to smile, not liking him at all just now. She wasn’t going to stand here. Forget it! She walked the long way back to Twillyweed.

Claire

By the time I got to Twillyweed there were emergency vehicles and cop cars all over. I hesitated, but Oliver’s Alpha Romeo was there and I saw my PT Cruiser, so I left the statue wrapped up in my jacket in the bicycle basket and I walked boldly over the yellow tape. Radiance had just come in and Morgan was grilling her, “Where have you been anyway? Your father’s been sick with worry!”

“I was in the city. I walked up from town. They wouldn’t let me in the house until just now.”

“Well, I want you to calm down. The way you’ve been acting, you’ll be heading for a breakdown!”

No doubt I was gaping at Radiance. I’d never seen her and now here she was—this practically mythological creature, this extraordinary combination of all worlds. You wouldn’t see one like her every day.

He noticed me. “Come in, Claire. I’ve got your car here.”

“Yes, I saw it; thank you.”

“Thank Mr. Piet. Detective Harms wants to talk to you anyway.”

“Me?”

“About Patsy Mooney.”

“Well, of course. But I didn’t know her, really, just saw her that once at the dinner party.”

“Well, then, that’s what you’ll tell him.” He pulled out the straw-back kitchen chair for me.

Jenny Rose, a cherry red sweater thrown over her shoulders with one button done, minced through the back door in a conscientious little jig. You could tell she was making a great effort to compose herself and maintain appropriate decorum. She said, “I’ve got to go pick up Wendell. I don’t know if I should bring him back here or not.”

Oliver, just coming in from the back porch, a cigar in his mouth, addressed her through gritted teeth, “I went over to the school to get him but we decided it would be better if he stayed until dismissal. You’ll pick him up as usual. Oh, and I was hoping you could take him with you to the Great White for a few hours, Claire. Just until they remove the body.”

“Of course,” she and I said as one.

I whispered in her ear, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

But just then Paige, released from the detective and very pale, came in. Catching sight of Oliver’s cigar, she said, “Please put that thing out if you’re going to be in the house, Oliver. It stinks. No sense all of us losing our grip.”

“I’ll get you a cup of sweet tea, shall I?” Morgan put a calming hand on her slim shoulder.

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled wanly. “That’s just what I need.”

Radiance said, “I’ll get it. She’ll want her Japanese Sencha tea. I know where everything is.”

I offered, “Paige, I went and told Mrs. Lassiter what happened. She said she’d come up later and help you plan the wake.”

She put the back of her wrist to her head. “That’s all I need right now. Nosy Lassiter!”

“That’s her, all right.” Jenny Rose hoisted herself onto the marble countertop, “She used to stand outside the confessional back in Skibbereen and listen.”

Everyone stared at Jenny Rose.

“What?” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “She did.”

Through the heavy lace curtains, I saw Teddy’s maroon station wagon pulling up. He hopped out with his real estate clipboard and came in the door, hesitating respectfully. He sat down. “Radiance, I stopped by your apartment. I was so worried about you. Where were you?”

“I’m all right.” She went about setting up the tea things, placing an extra cup and saucer before Jenny Rose on the countertop. Her fingers trembled.

Teddy said, “I can’t say I’m happy they found out who killed her, but I feel a sense of peace. There was always something menacing, something tense around the house. And now it’s over. Or it will be when they catch him.”

I thought of my father who always says Carry a clipboard and you can walk in anywhere. I don’t know what made me think of that.

Radiance gave her little French shrug. “It doesn’t feel very over to me.”

He returned her look. “All right. Where were you all night?”

“If you must know, I had my tryout for the Rockettes this morning.” She sank into the chair.

Surprised, Paige reached for her arm, “Darling! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Radiance bit her lip. “The worst of it was when I came back to Sea Cliff and I saw the police, I was actually glad something terrible had happened so I wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Tell anyone what?”

Her head hung. “That I’d tried out and didn’t make it.”

“Oh, my dear—”

“I’m so ashamed.” Her face crumbled. “I was eliminated before they even got started. They took one look at me when I came in. One girl called me a giraffe! I am too tall.”

“At least you weren’t eliminated because you were a rotten dancer,” Teddy consoled.

Eliminated from the Rockettes and—I made a mental note—eliminated from our suspect list. It would be so easily verified.

“Everything’s ruined now. Whoever killed Patsy should have killed me instead.” Radiance sobbed uncontrollably. “Save me the trouble!”

“That’s a terrible, melodramatic thing to say!” Paige knelt and took hold of her. “Stop it!”

A young police officer came in and said the detectives would like to speak to Morgan Donovan.

Radiance wiped her eyes, and Morgan straightened slowly and marched forward dutifully.

I said, “I’d like to speak to the detectives myself actually.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn, miss.” The officer informed me.

“Well, he asked to see me.”

“You’ll still have to wait your turn.”

They left.

Paige stood up and cleared her throat theatrically. “How did it go, Teddy?”

“Uch. They want to buy low and sell high.”

“They didn’t like it?”

“They like it, they just want it for nothing.”

“It has a lovely porch.”

“And the shade up there. Great old trees.”

“Yes. Well, they won’t get it for nothing. Dosoris is prime location now.”

I thought such a conversation oddly out of place. But then Paige, too, lost it, holding her head in a hopeless gesture.

“Paige! This is too much for you!” Teddy glared angrily at Oliver as though all this were his fault.

Paige babbled, “It’s just … I remember I looked to check the time and the clock was stopped. I should have known something was wrong! Patsy wouldn’t forget to wind the clock!” She pounded her slight fist uselessly on the table.

We all looked at the stilled grandmother clock in the corner.

“I’ll do it, Paige.” Oliver moved to oblige, then stopped. “But I can’t wind it without that red key. We’ll have to wait until the detectives are finished down there. She always had it with her. Poor thing … She couldn’t wind it because she was … dead.”

I think that’s when the horrendousness of what had happened really hit us all. The only sound was Paige’s muffled sobs. The teapot shrilled and we all jumped. Radiance pulled herself together and came over and shushed Paige softly, walking her gently from the room. The rest of us just stood around, dazed. Teddy moved the pot from the fire and said uncertainly, “Do you think I ought to wait and talk to the detective?”

“Of course,” I said.

“No.” Oliver flung out his arm and looked at his watch. “Morgan might be in there for a while. You’d better get going. You’ll be late for work. You can speak to them later.” Wearily, he added, “We’ll never see the end of them, now.”

It was the way he’d flung out his arm. All at once I realized with whom Oliver Cupsand had been sitting at Once Upon a Moose my first day in town. It was Radiance. He’d given her money.

Casually, I followed him inside. He had the cold cigar in his mouth and he kept twisting it around with his teeth. “Oliver,” I began, “it just came to me. I saw you at Once Upon a Moose when I first came to town. That very day. You were sitting with Radiance. It was during that cold snap and you were both wearing coats.” I paused. “You were giving her money.”

“For God’s sake, I was giving her her paycheck!”

“Oh.” I stood there while he gathered a series of papers from his desk. But then I thought, no, he wasn’t giving her a paycheck because there was something secretive and clandestine about his movement, the shifty look in his eye that had caused me to look back at their table. And it was cash he’d given her. I didn’t move. I stayed behind him and was about to say something when, “All right,” he admitted, whirling around in irritation, “I did give her money. But it wasn’t what you think.” He lowered his voice. “I always give Radiance money. I feel responsible for her, if you must know. Protective. It’s nothing to do with that sort of love. I’m in love with Annabel. I haven’t slept with another woman since she left me. I … just can’t.” He broke down. “I love her so much! I still love her—even after she did this to me! I have no pride. I’d take her back. Even now, if she were here, I’d take her back!” He wriggled his hands in a spasm in front of his face and cried with despair and longing, “Her beautiful Titian red hair!”

It was then the suspicion first came to me: She’s dead. Annabel is dead. He’s probably making up those letters. They probably don’t even exist! I left him to himself. There was nothing else I could say. I went up behind Jenny Rose and pulled her into the pantry and we squashed ourselves onto the cushioned bank. I whispered, “Wait till you hear this. The priest at St. Greta’s here in Sea Cliff, guess where his old parish was?”

“Well, don’t keep me hanging!” she whispered back roughly.

“St. Margaret Mary down in Broad Channel. The same one where the priest was hit on the head the day before you rescued Radiance. In Broad Channel. Remember?”

“Shit!”

“Yeah. Now get this. I went over to Daniel’s house and found the statue. The Our Lady statue.”

She gaped at me. “Where is it?”

“Outside in my bicycle basket.”

“What’ll we do? Give it to the cops?”

“If we do, it’ll sit on some evidence shelf for months, maybe years. I’m going to go down there and give it to that priest. Then we’ll tell the cops.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You stay here with Wendell. Put the statue in my car, the door’s open. I’ll make up some excuse. Now what was his name, the priest? Oh, yes, I remember; it’s Father Steger.”

I gave Jenny Rose the key to the cottage and told her to take the bike. Wendell would love to ride on the back and it would distract him.

She hesitated with the key in her open palm. “Patsy Mooney had a fancy little key on a chain around her neck. I think it’s the key that winds the clock.”

“Why?”

“It was red.”

“Well, it won’t do her any good where she is now.”

“No, but if it’s gone—maybe someone killed her for it.

I slipped out into the yard and took out my cell phone, dialed 411, and got the number for the rectory at Margaret Mary. No secretary answered when I called there, it was such a tiny parish, but the answer machine tape that picked up was the German-accented voice of an old priest. He gave another number in case of emergency. I called it but it went right to voicemail. I took a chance and left one, saying I had information concerning a missing statue and then I left my number. I realized I’d forgotten to leave my name and started to call back and then I gave it up. I leaned wearily against the fieldstone fence. Enough already. We were in a real pickle here and I was going to have to swallow my pride and ask Johnny, my ex-husband, for help. I punched in his number. There was no answer and it rang right into the message box like when he’s off gambling, so I tried the precinct. Johnny is retired, but you’ll often as not find him skulking around in his old precinct. “Nah, I ain’t seen Benedetto around,” I was told. But he hesitated before he said it—like he knew something I didn’t, so I got worried.

I called my son, Anthony. He answered the phone with a preemptive, “Ma, I’m in lab.”

“I’m sorry, Anthony, I just want to know where Daddy is. I can’t reach him and it’s kind of important.”

There was a moment of silence. Then he said, “You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“He took Portia away to get engaged.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t know?”

I was speechless and sank down onto a large rock. There was this fieldstone wall covered with lapis blue flowers to the left of me. I couldn’t think of the flower’s name. Really blue, they were.

His voice softened. “They went to the Riviera Maya, Ma. I can’t believe nobody told you.”

My mind whirled. Exactly who would it be left to tell me such a thing?

“Ma? You okay? You want me to come home?”

It was his concerned voice and the realization that he’d leave school to see to me that finally clicked me back into reality. Lobelia. That was the name of the blue flower. Indigo blue and now locked in my mind for always representing my ex-husband’s new love. “I am … I’m fine. I just …” I pulled myself up. “… didn’t know.”

After I assured Anthony I was all right—I wasn’t, but what good would it do to upset him yet again about his father—I didn’t know what to do. So I went back in and told Mr. Piet I had to talk to the detective in charge, but he was still interviewing Morgan. I tried to eavesdrop to find out how long it was going to take and overheard them dishing about someone’s sailboat. From the tone of their voices they seemed unconcerned. I heard them laugh. God! I had to think. I lied and announced I had to go to Queens. Oliver wanted to come with me and for a moment I was tempted, imagining us together tooling top down in his theatrical red convertible—a girl is, after all, human—but I put him off. Instead I took my car and went back to the Great White.

When I got there, I peered through the screen. Jake was asleep and dreaming, running conscientiously after some bad dog, his front and rear rights digging at the air. The kitten was curled up asleep, right on top of him like a hat bobbing along on a bumpy train. I went for my key and realized I’d given it to Jenny Rose, then opened the door anyway because I hadn’t locked it. I went in and my cell phone rang, waking them both. I walked back outside with Jake leaping beside me and answered the phone. It was Father Steger. I sat down on a milk crate beside the sundial.

“I just got your message,” he said excitedly in a thick accent. “I was blowing down the boiler.” His breathing was labored.

I said right away, “Yeah, look, Father, I found your statue.”

You could practically see him close his eyes in relief. “Thank God!”

“I got these two blue stones, too. I’m pretty sure they’re the eyes.” I walked around the yard, savoring his delight. “I can’t come today, but I’ll drive over tomorrow, okay?” He didn’t seem unnecessarily curious as to how I’d got them. I guess in his line of work you hear no end of stories.

“What can I do to reward you?” he asked, not too eagerly, afraid I was going to ask for money because that was one thing he didn’t have. I knew the type. The soles of his shoes would be worn down to the leather and he wouldn’t have had a haircut in a while. He’d be sprinkled with dandruff and dotted with canned soup stains. That’s the thing. Just because of the bad apples you read so much about, everyone neglects the idea of fine priests. And yet on and on they go, don’t they, never complaining, just visiting the sick and giving out Communion and Last Rites, despite the bad rap. You’d really think they’d let these poor fellows have wives.

“Nah, don’t thank me,” I said, then changed the subject, “Say, Father, you didn’t see the guy who hit you, did you?”

“No. He got me from behind. But I fell on his arm. I know that.”

“So what else did he take?”

“Some rosaries,” he began. I waited. “Several rosaries,” he went on. “You wouldn’t believe what they charge now for the crystal ones. People are very touchy about their rosaries. I expected to see someone come back for that nice lavender one. From Fatima, I believe. Pity, that was.”

“Nothing else taken that day?”

“Nothing of value, no.”

Because he hesitated, I went on, “But was anything else missing?”

“Just this and that. It’s the statue my parishioners want back.”

“What do you mean exactly, ‘this and that’?”

“Well. There was some cash. He took that. Forty-two dollars. And he took our old lost-and-found box full of stuff parishioners left. Old things.” He was rambling on, “Eyeglasses. Watches. Rosaries. Some jewelry … nothing expensive.”

My ears perked up. “Jewelry?”

“Well, mostly glasses—they all looked about the same. Magnifiers, mostly. There was a pair with red frames, I remember. You know. Cheaters. Those you find in the pharmacy. Prescriptions people would have come looking for. But I told all this already to the police.”

All these questions were making him suspicious. So I told him I’d be down tomorrow and I let him go. The dog jumped up to sniff the package that looked like it might be from the butcher. I put the statue down on the outside wooden table and unfolded the thing. I stood her up. I took the gems from the bag in my pocket and with calm fingers snapped them easily into place where they belonged. One fell right out so I went in and got the Krazy Glue from the fridge, came out, and fastened them both in good. They seemed to move like living eyes. Together, Jake and I beheld the statue. She was complete again, and none the worse for wear. She looked good there. Then out of the blue I started remembering things. Like Morgan collecting antique watches, and his wounded wrist the day Radiance had nearly drowned. I got out my phone and called Father Steger back, and when he answered, I shouted, “Hello, Father Steger, it’s me again, Claire Breslinsky, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Never mind.” He sighed, resigned.

“Father, in the box of stuff that went missing, could there have been a very valuable watch, in there?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. My parishioners are not the fancy ones, you know.”

“I know, but sometimes antique watches look like gaudy, cheap things unless you’re looking for them. Or even one of the plain ones that might seem just old …”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said decisively.

“Hmm.” I sat there for a minute both relieved and disappointed and gazed unthinking into the blue water shimmering in the distance behind the statue.

He offered, “Mind you, I’ll miss that box.”

I patted Jake absently.

“That was a lovely old box. Bronze, it was. Heavy.”

“How? Bronze?”

“Well, it just had a nice glow about it. The lid was a sort of dial. Ya, a moon dial, Father von Ritasdorf had told me it was. He was German, too, you know, from Schwenningen in the Black Forest. Had all sorts of gizmos in his room when he died. Ya, I’ll miss that box.”

My ears began to ring. “A really good box?” I egged him on.

“Let me see, what did he call it? A lunar something …” Father muttered. “Ach, yes, a lunar volvelle it was, some gadget that is said to allow one to tell time by the moonlight. It sat on the top of the box like a decoration, if you can believe it, such a nice thing.”

Morgan’s very words came back to me and my heart sank. Moon dials, he’d murmured, I’m mad for them.

“Very old,” Father was saying. “Ah, well. We’ll all be gone one day.”

“Yes, Father.” I looked around worriedly. I’d been alone, but now I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched. It was a creepy feeling, and I took the statue and the dog and carried the phone into the house and locked the door. I said, “Say, Father? There’s one thing you could do for me … would you bless the house?”

“Sorry?”

“I mean this house where I am.”

“Over the phone?”

“Well. It’s just a little house.”

I was waiting for him to object, but then I realized the silence meant he was praying and so I was silent, too. I held the phone up and closed my eyes. When he was finished, he said so.

“Gee, thanks, Father. Maybe you’ll come out here when you have some time,” I suggested. “Your old friend Father Schmidt lives out here at St. Greta’s. You could see him, too.”

“Oh, Schmidty, yes,” he remembered dismissively. “Still got that floozy cooking for him?”

Could he possibly mean Mrs. Lassiter? “Er … I’m not sure.” I frowned. “And, Father, thanks.”

“Well, thank you,” he said. “May God be with you.”

But it wasn’t only God who was with me because I really did hear a noise at the side of the house. And then I remembered Daniel. No doubt he’d seen me at his house. He knew it was me who’d taken his doll. A chill went up my spine. He wouldn’t come looking for it, would he? I hid the statue in the button closet and went to the door. No one was there. “Want to go for a ride?” I asked Jake. He gangled to attention. He’d found his own spot here in Sea Cliff right away, Jake had, and he was very cozy, having made a cave for himself under Noola’s old hassock with a view out the screen door so he could squeeze his eyes at squirrels. “Have a drink before we go,” I told him. And what do you know, he went and slopped up the rest of the water in his water dish. You can have your pedigree dogs. Mutts are the ticket.

I took Jake and we got in my car and drove east along the coast road where the traffic was sparse, and then after a while there was no traffic at all. My head spun. As much as my suspicions kept insisting Morgan must have something to do with it, I longed for this not to be so. And of course I had no inkling of proof. It was all just some dreaded hunch. Motive he would have had. But murder? The sun was high and I stayed in sight of water as long as I could, treating myself to the lush glimpses of prosperity the North Shore offered, turning off onto a charming lane where the sun broke through thick canopies of green. There’s something mollifying about wealth: the rolling hills and white corrals like you’d see in Kentucky, private drives up to ghastly miniature French châteaus and Normandy Tudors. I found myself suddenly before a farm with a vineyard and pies for sale. No way I could pass this up. And there was no man in the car to stop me! I pulled over, let Jake run around awhile then went in. There were actual peaches like from childhood, small, fuzzy things hot from sunshine. They looked like they really would taste like fresh Georgia peaches. There were homegrown tomatoes, big and tiny ones all basketed together and—I was helpless now—hand-embroidered dishtowels. In all these things, I lost myself. I forgot about Daniel and Sea Cliff and Morgan and Jenny Rose and even Enoch. I was a young girl again, in a barn with tubs of fresh-cut unshucked corn and blackberry jams, in red-and-white-checkered, pinking-sheared hats.

After spending lots of money and leaving myself with little till the end of the week, I felt no guilt whatsoever. I rather relished my booty; for what is a woman’s life without these precious fanciful necessities? I climbed back into my Cruiser with Jake, driving into the sudden, uneasy realization that it was far too early for peaches, tomatoes, or even corn and that everything I’d just fallen for had been carted off some bruising, farting Bronx Terminal market truck. As the road gleaned eastward, my mind—that evidently had kept on ticking while I had shopped, which is the marvel of shopping—had loosened and freed itself and told me to head for one more place. I’d seek out Teddy. I had to talk to someone who’d level with me. He worked at some restaurant with the same bug name as the town, didn’t he? What was the name? I’d lost my way by now so I pulled into a garden center in Oyster Bay and it came to me of its own accord. Locust Valley. “How would I get to Locust Valley?” I asked the pleasant, sun-wrinkled woman who seemed about my own age.

“You can’t get there from here,” she warned me. “You’ll have to go back.”

“How far back?”

“All the way until you can’t go any more.”

“Oh, I don’t want to,” I complained. “I want to keep going this way.”

She gave me a curious look. “All right, easy, girl.” She laughed. “I’ve seen this before. It’s that combination of fresh paint and antiques. You’ve hit the gold coast and it’s gotten to you.” We both laughed. “You can let the dog out here if you like,” she told me. “There’s no one here.” Gratefully, I let Jake stretch his legs up and down the rows of plants and seedlings. After she gave Jake a fresh bowl of water, she drew out a conglomeration of lefts and rights to follow while I succumbed to pots of well-started hollyhocks and foxglove and trailing geraniums. What? They’re very hard to find. I lowered my backseat, loaded it up, and Jake and I climbed back in, on our way to being broke but immersed in the heady perfumes of fruits and flowers, curiously aware of being alive and well. And hungry. The road curled this way and that and it was well past lunchtime when I got to Locust Valley, a catch-your-breath-it’s-so-pretty town. And the Inn! It was like a scene from a Bing Crosby movie, all charm and wonderland, hunched under a thicket of snowberry. I parked the car any old where in the shade, let Jake out for a quick walk, fed him a quarter of the apple pie, and told him to go to sleep. The restaurant door was wide open, airing out the place, and I walked into the cool dark. There was a bar on one side and the restaurant on the other. Midway between lunch and supper, the place was empty but for a crooked, ravaged old woman in exquisite pearls, who leaned, soused, from a stool at the bar. I saw Teddy right away. He was at work already, standing wiping glasses and chatting with the woman.

“Hi.” I smiled and raised my arm to him.

His face fell. He put the glass down and came out from behind the bar. “What happened?”

“No, nothing, Teddy,” I rushed to assure him, “I just wanted to talk to you. I was driving around out here and I remembered Paige said you worked here and I thought, let me stop in and say hello.”

He visibly relaxed. “I thought something else had happened.”

We gave each other a commiserating look, and suddenly I was ashamed of my shopping spree. What was wrong with me, splurging on niceties while Patsy Mooney lay murdered? I was glad I’d parked across the road so he wouldn’t see my car piled high with frivolous bounty.

He led me over to a table and we sat down.

“It’s some beautiful place,” I remarked.

“Hangout of the wealthy,” he quipped. “It’s like a clubhouse for them. They’re in and out like fashion. Have you eaten?”

I made a dummy face that said if I had I could surely go again.

He winked. “I’ll be right back.” He hopped away into the kitchen and I noticed he was limping. When he came back in, he carried a tray of delicate bits of wild Alaskan salmon strewn over fancy salad and three fresh slices of light, mouthwatering bread.

“That looks wonderful! Teddy,” I said. “Why are you limping?”

“Uch. Football. Old injury. Every time I carry something heavy it acts up.” He poured me a glass of red wine. “Those beer deliveries kill me.”

“Mmm.” I took a sip. “What is it?”

“Cakebread, 2013.”

“Yikes. Delicious. Listen, my budget—”

He put his hand over my purse. “Don’t even think about it, Claire. You’re my guest.”

“Oh, come on, Teddy,” I protested, digging into the salad regardless. “I don’t want you to have to pay for me.”

“My pleasure.” Teddy looked at me with that admiring yet respectful gaze we women of a certain age so treasure. “Anyway,” he whispered, leaning close, “it’s been opened. Last night’s happy remains.”

“Teddy.” I put my hand over his. “I’m sorry my niece is so, well, I’m sorry she—”

“Doesn’t care for me? Never mind.”

I regarded him thoughtfully. He was young. He’d recover.

He refilled the dent in my glass. From the end of the bar the swank lady suddenly lurched erect and chirped, “Singing bell-bottom trousers and coats of navy blue; He’ll climb the rigging like his daddy used to do!”

Teddy and I exchanged looks. “Duty calls,” he said and hobbled down the bar to where she slumped, chin tucked in pigeonlike, contents of her Hermès purse sprawled across the bar in front of her. With the precision of a contestant in a game of pickup sticks, she managed to extricate a cigarette from the stuff. I heard Teddy try to convince her to let him call her a cab, but she wasn’t having any of it. In an uncommon show of impatience, Teddy gathered up her things and literally threw them into her purse, then lit her cigarette with her gold Dunhill lighter. As bad luck would have it, the boss happened to walk in just then and he hauled Teddy off to the office to reprimand him. I hoped he wasn’t going to fire him.

Feeling myself watched, I looked up and was surprised to see Glinty in the mirror. He gave me quite a start, sitting there on the other side of the room. Glinty! What on earth was he doing out here? Realizing I’d recognized him, he came toward me with a face that looked as though he’d been busted. He didn’t actually shake my hand or greet me, no, he just loomed in my vicinity to convey, I suppose, some sort of acknowledgment without actual greeting. “Here alone?” he asked, eyeing me skeptically.

“Yes. Jenny Rose is waiting for Wendell to get out of school, I think.”

He continued to hover.

At a loss, I rambled on to no one, the way you do when confronted with the socially inept. “I never knew anyone with as many jobs as Teddy,” I marveled. “He works so hard. You know, when things like this happen, with poor Patsy Mooney, it makes you wonder about, well, important things …” I hesitated. “I don’t know why Oliver doesn’t help Teddy out. Like, you’d think he’d just give Teddy some money. Especially when he knows he wants to be a teacher.”

Glinty sat down. “Oliver doesn’t give him any because he doesn’t have any. Anyway, Teddy will never be a teacher. He dropped his classes months ago. He didn’t mention it? Doesn’t surprise me; it suits his purposes to be thought of as a student.”

“Really? Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” How embarrassed he must have been not to mention it. My heart went out to him. I murmured, “Teaching is a wonderful vocation.”

“You know what Teddy says about that? ‘Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.’”

I pressed my lips together disapprovingly. “That doesn’t sound like something Teddy would say.”

“Ask him.”

“I will.” I smirked, looking around for Teddy. “And if he did say that, it was most likely to defend him against your scornful attitude. Not everyone makes it through college.” My first impression of Glinty had been so right. He was a horrible person, selling out his friend like that. I said, “I think it’s admirable just to have tried to get through school in this day and age.”

He began, to my horror, to pick from my plate. “Don’t look at me,” he said with a shrug. “We all know I haven’t spent a day in a classroom since I was fourteen.” He wiped his narrow hands down his pants thighs to clean them and his face relaxed into his everyday snarl. He said in his hard-to-understand, thick accent, “But don’t you think it must be a little tiresome always being admirable? Did you not notice how everyone out here on the North Shore cries about how miserable life is? But where are they all?” He laughed. “Out sailing over to Shelter Island. I like that.” He looked away. “And by the way, Oliver really doesn’t have any more money. If he had, Teddy’d get it one way or another.”

I sat back. “Well, if his money’s tied up, he could always sell any one of his paintings. They’re worth a lot.”

“Those paintings belonged to Noola, you know.”

“Really?” I looked up, surprised.

“Yes.” He spat a piece of spoiled fish into my napkin and tossed it under the table. “Oliver needs money himself.”

Appalled, I made a scoffing noise. “Tch. He has all the money in the world, if he wants it. He just has to cash something in.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Of course he does. He’s a financial adviser. God, this salmon is delicious. I’m assuming he’ll pay for Patsy’s funeral, won’t he?”

He barked a laugh. “I don’t think you understand. He wouldn’t be able to keep that house open till next winter if Morgan didn’t keep laying out money.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Morgan doesn’t have any money.”

“Morgan? Morgan’s worth millions.”

I shook my head. “You’ve got it all wrong. Morgan works in the boatyard, painting boats and things.” Why was I telling him this?

“Morgan doesn’t have to work on the boats. He owns the boats. He’s got the Gnomon, the For Sail, the Corinthian …”

“What? Stop it. Don’t pretend that Morgan’s rich.”

“Of course he is. Why do you think Paige is so desperate to marry him?”

“But … but it’s the other way around.”

“No.” Glinty laughed, delighted. “You’ve got it all wrong. Morgan feels indebted. Responsible. They all grew up together. Paige and Oliver looked after his mom all the while he was in Scotland with me.”

I stopped eating and stared at him, stymied.

“And then later when we were in Bosnia.”

“But … But … Look at all Oliver’s fancy vintage cars.”

“Vintage? Those old pieces of junk? Those cars are from when times were good. They’re held together with spit and rubber bands. Wouldn’t make it into Glen Head without Mr. Piet’s mechanical ability. He’s always got one of them up on the hydraulic lift. Calls it his ‘Emergency Room.’”

“But then why does Mr. Piet stay there at all?”

Glinty shrugged. “Radiance is nearby. He likes to keep an eye on her. As you’re discovering, it’s not the worst place in the world to live. He practically keeps the lot of us fed with all the fish he catches. Fixes half the village’s cars and lorries with that hydraulic lift that was put in years ago and him the only one knows how to use it. He’s probably in the best financial shape of all of us, Mr. Piet is. No room or board. No vices.” He gave me an arch look. “Of course he was busted for carrying reefer in from Guadeloupe, years ago. But he did his time. Now, he just keeps socking away any money he makes. I’m sure he has a tidy pile himself.”

“And you mean Paige is not … She has no money either?”

“Poor as a church mouse. Why do you think she works as a real estate agent? For fun? Prestige? It’s damned hard work. Once in a while she has a windfall—that keeps them going for a while—but never near enough to run a house like Twillyweed. Can you imagine the taxes? And then of course she pulls a small salary from her fund-raising, that’s all.”

If this was true … “But, but … they serve all those fabulous wines,” I protested.

Glinty gave a harsh laugh. “Remains of the good old days. The only reason there’s any of that left is Oliver prefers malt whisky. You must have noticed he drinks like a fish.”

“But how could this happen?”

“Come on. You really didn’t know?”

“Wow. No, I did not. But the paintings …”

“All belong to Morgan,” he finished for me. “Now that Noola’s gone, they belong to him. Noola never wanted to move from the Great White. She loved it there in that wee cottage, which I was hoping to live in when I heard she’d died.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “But never mind about that. She had Oliver keep the paintings at Twillyweed because she knew they’d be safe and appreciated there. They’re all insured.”

“But where did she get them?”

“She bought them. Collected them, over the years.”

“Hang on a minute while I digest this.”

He went on, “Two generations ago the Cupsands were one of the most prosperous families in the Northeast. You want to know the straw that really broke the camel’s back?”

“Of course.”

“Oliver’s gambling. It’s in his blood. Whenever things start to go right, the minute he gets his hands on a little money, he drives down to Atlantic City or the track and pisses it away. And he loves the ponies.”

“Oh, I know that game,” I broke in. “My ex-husband is the same way!” I heard my voice rise and sat back self-consciously. The wine had gone to my head. Suddenly I was glad Johnny and Portia were getting married. She could have him.

“Annabel couldn’t take his gambling, see?”

“But how could she have left Wendell?”

“She didn’t leave Wendell. She left Oliver.” For a moment he looked at me blankly. Then he said, “I keep thinking she’ll come back for Wendell.”

I shook myself. “I can’t get over it. So Morgan is rich. I can’t believe it. I had him set in my mind as a … as a—”

“Hard luck case? That’s pretty funny.”

“But he acts so subservient.”

“Morgan? Nah, he feels bad for them. He’s very kind, Morgan is. He’s only one of the most eligible bachelors on the North Shore. No relatives now but the father back home in Invergowrie. Another nut, he is. Lives like a Spartan on marmalade and sheep’s cheese and molasses bread. Spends his time puttering on clocks and making lures for fishhooks and boiling up his own marmalade. Won’t take a penny from Morgan.”

I sat there with my mouth open. “Whereas, Oliver …”

“Oliver’s all right. Nobody like him. Top-notch sailor.”

My mind was racing. If Morgan was rich, he wouldn’t have to hit an old priest on the head to get what he wanted, he’d simply buy it. I stared, stupefied, at this slinky, cocky fellow my niece was so taken with and I got the feeling he was enjoying this, categorizing everyone for me, the newcomer.

He went on, “All right, he’s a little disappointing … acting like he’s a financial adviser when he can’t keep hold of any loot himself, but he’s not a bad person. He’s just broke. Living on past glory. I suppose he could always teach sailing at the club if things get any worse.” He gave me a sort of leer. “You know, in the old days he was what you’d call a catch.”

The old days. Ten years ago? I had to laugh. Someone like Glinty was just getting started. He had the whole world in front of him. For him, ten years was almost half a lifetime.

I remembered something. “What about Oliver’s apartment in the city? That must be worth plenty.”

“Phh. That’s not his. That’s his fraternity brother’s bachelor pad. Loans it to him. You know these good old boys.”

“God! This is too much.” I looked at him sitting there, whittling one finger with another. “Glinty, why did you tell me all this?”

He looked around with a hunched-over, furtive look and shrugged. “I don’t like the air in the village right now. Dicey—with this murder and all. Better you should know.”

A party of five came into the restaurant, and an attractive young woman in heels minced out with menus to seat them. Glinty sneaked a look over his shoulder and stood. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t mention to Teddy I was here.”

I shot him a puzzled look. “But … didn’t you come here to see him?”

“Uh-uh. I was following you.” He stepped away before I could reply and disappeared down the hallway. I went back to my food. By the time Teddy came lumbering back in, the place was filling up. He looked refreshed, as though he’d just washed his hands and face. He winked at me and got right over to some beefeaters in Brooks Brothers uniforms at the bar. I’d finished eating. Reluctantly, I stood. It was time to go. I thanked Teddy for the meal and walked outside into the humid air.

The sky was dark purple. I got in my car. Frowning, I leaned over and gave Jake a halfhearted stroke. In the distance there was thunder. I switched the radio on. Miles Davis, “Take Five.” I looked in the mirror. Morgan was rich! This was good, right? If that was the case, what reason would he have to kill anyone? He wouldn’t have had to, would he? This was assuming someone other than her husband had killed Patsy Mooney. Something someone had said kept that idea in my head. What was it? Mrs. Lassiter. I remembered her saying she thought he’d have found someone else to torture by now. Meaning, I supposed, it had been quite a while since Patsy Mooney and he had been together. But no, that couldn’t be right. He was seen in town, in Sea Cliff, just yesterday. No. It was him. The ex-husband is always the one. The cops weren’t stupid. There was no need to worry. They’d catch him.

I took out my cell phone and called Detective Harms at the station house. He answered in a pleasant, no-nonsense way. I got right to the point, “I’ve found something I believe is pertinent to the Patsy Mooney case and was wondering if we could get together for a talk?”

“Sure. Who is this?”

“Oh. Hi. This is Claire Breslinsky. I’m staying at Morgan Donovan’s house, the Great White? My niece—”

“Look, Miss Breslinsky, I’m on the other line. Why don’t you come in tomorrow morning and I’ll have someone take down your statement. How’s that?”

“Good. Good. Ten o’clock?”

“See you then.”

It began to rain in a fretful, weary way. Plunk, plunk. And then I thought, If Morgan is so rich, what would he want with me? I put my wipers on, turned off the lane, and headed down the regular parkway to Sea Cliff in traffic.

Jenny Rose

That night, when the widening moon crept up into the sky, Jenny Rose sang Wendell to sleep as she straightened his room. She hadn’t kept Patsy’s death from him, but told him there’d been an accident. She told him quickly, as soon as she’d got him alone and realized Oliver hadn’t told him a thing. She couldn’t bear that sort of thing, dealing with a problem by not addressing it. It was despicable. It had been done to her as a child and she wasn’t having it. No, sir. Patsy had died, she explained without fuss. That was why all the people were in the house. She’d had a terrible accident, she said. He’d taken it at face value, wide eyed and serious, and hadn’t questioned her, she supposed, because no one ever bothered to explain anything to him. But then, later, when he lay there cuddling his favorite sailboat, he regarded her trustingly and said, “So, Jenny Rose, I won’t have to eat my potatoes?”

She stopped tidying and walked over to him, sinking onto the floor beside the bed.

“Because Patsy says I never can leave the table until I finish up my potatoes. And now I don’t have to?”

“That’s right, sport.” She smiled gently. “No potatoes unless you want them.”

“And you’re not going away from Twillyweed tonight?”

She gave him a fierce hug. “I’ll never leave you unless it’s all right with you!”

This seemed to mollify him. She sighed with relief. They’d gotten over the hump. The most important thing was she’d gained the little fellow’s trust. She felt a kind of pride. Yes, for the first time in a while, hell, her whole life, she felt as though she were making a difference. “What song will it be, now, tonight? ‘The Summer Wind’?”

“No.” He made a satisfied wiggle into position under the covers. “‘You Are My Sunshine.’”

She sketched him while she sang the same absorbing verses over and over until he dropped off—she’d captured most of him in shadow, just a telling edge of him in light, and, pleased with what she’d done, she rolled the drawing up into a scroll. There was something about pain and sorrow that helped art, leaked the important stuff into your work, made it poignant. It was too bad, but there it was, true. When she was sure Wendell was deep asleep, she crept, shivering, past the yellow-taped basement door and up to her room in the turret. She opened the drawing and put it on the nightstand already splattered with paint, weighting the edges down with Patsy Mooney’s left-behind seashells. Nothing would be the same without Patsy Mooney, she mulled. For the moment, Mr. Piet looked after them, and Jenny Rose had to admit he managed things very well. There would have to be a wake and a funeral when they released the body. She sucked in her breath. The poor old soul. She hadn’t deserved to die that way. Glumly, she walked the series of windows around the turret and lowered all the slatted rattan shades she’d earlier raised up for her precious light, knotting them shut by their cords, one by one. Patsy Mooney had kept them down all the time. “Begonias don’t like too much light,” she’d explained. Or had she known even then that he was after her? She remembered Patsy’s darty little eyes as she’d assured her about the basement apartment, No one will get you here. Had she known then he was that close to finding her? Suddenly Jenny Rose stopped, hearing something. Was someone there? “Hello?” She cocked her head. But who would be coming up at this hour? Wendell? She checked that the monitor was on. So sensitive it was she could hear the soft drone of his snores. No, it wasn’t anything, she was just nervous. Anyone would be. She opened her closet door and inspected her few clothes. There was one robe she’d had since she had been in the south of Turkey. She’d never worn it, saving it for a special occasion. It was an antique, gold-threaded wedding garment, a sort of coat. She’d bargained for it in the bazaar, drinking mint tea with shopkeepers who themselves wore long medieval robes as they’d sat around a smoking lantern. She stroked the course gold-woven thread and the slippery corroded lining, stained a bit with rust. She held it to her chest and twirled around the attic floor to no music—then stopped. She had heard something. Someone. A chill ran up her spine. But wait—maybe it was Wendell, upset from Patsy’s death! She unlatched her door, flung it open, and stood at the top, peering down the whitewashed winding staircase. There was the smell of motor oil—and something green. From behind, a hand slipped into the waist of her shirt and another covered her mouth to stifle the beginnings of her scream.

It was Glinty. Couldn’t he ever make a noise like a normal person? Her head fell back onto his shoulder and he rasped, “Jenny Rose. Don’t you remember? ’Twas good, was it not?”

Not knowing if she was all right or not, she nodded her head yes. He let go his grip and maneuvered her into the room. He latched the lock.

“How did you get in?”

“Ach, that was easy. Any thief could get into this mad system of wobbly windows.”

She rubbed her neck where it always got kinked. “So it’s a thief you are now?”

“No. I didn’t say that.” He leaned his gangly body into hers and she could smell the pot on his breath. His eyes, rich with umbrage, burned into hers. “I’ll not have you call me a thief.”

Reassured by his taking insult, she lowered her voice seductively, “What would you have me call you then?”

He laughed. Then he grew serious. He pulled her forgotten pair of underwear from his pocket and said, “The thing is … I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She snatched the undergarment and shied away backward. “Look, I know you must think I’m this easy slut but, well, actually I was an easy slut, wasn’t I? But—”

“Shut up.” He tilted his head and caught her mouth with his and sealed it off with the tip of his tongue. Locked together, they tangoed backward to her bed and fell onto it.

The light winked in the east above Glen Cove when Glinty finally moved to untangle himself. They were both still half awake. He licked the kink in her neck where it always bothered her and Jenny Rose groaned with pleasure. Magically, the kink had disappeared. She turned onto her back. “I’ll be missing you when you sail off,” she told him, half sweetly, half reproachfully.

He looked away. “I’ll not be going anywhere.”

“Will you not? Scotland won’t call to you when this murder business is over? Or when you’ve made your fortune?”

“I hate Scotland,” Glinty confided. “It’s the midges, mostly. They’ll eat you alive.” He wiped his brow with the inside of his arm. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. I’ll not go back. I’ve no one there. No. It’s America I love.” His eyes twinkled. “Land of the free.”

She shot him a look. Was he being sarcastic?

He turned serious. “You feel the way I do, don’t you? About us? Because I’ve got to know …”

“I do,” she admitted, surrendering, touching her heart with the tips of her fingers.

He ground his body into hers in sheer delight. “Now. Give me something,” he whispered.

“What?” she blinked.

“A token. Something with the smell of you.”

She smiled, a little love drunk, and burrowed into the pillow. “Take whatever pleases you.”

He stood up and climbed into his jeans. Holding her eye, he lifted the Turkish wedding robe.

“Not that,” she said with a pout.

“You said anything.” He raised a brow.

“Anything else.”

He opened her top drawer and came out with a silky black-and-yellow bra. “This?”

“It doesn’t smell of me, dodo. It’s clean.”

He moved toward her and clenched her arm behind her back, then looped the strap through his finger and traced it all across and around her limp body, behind her back and up between her legs then under his nose. “Now it does,” he said with a growl. He let her go and she collapsed into a heap. “I’ll call you later,” he promised.

She watched as his slim, fluid body moved in the half-light. He was cruelly pale, his hairs black and in a fine marking down his narrow front and back. She wondered idly how she would get him to pose for her without insulting him. He finished dressing then stopped at the door and he opened the latch. “Oh,” he said, like it just came to him, “and when they ask you where you were at the time of the murder, just tell them you were with me.” He smiled at her tenderly. “Tell them I come to you in the night. That way they won’t have you as a suspect.”

And as she heard the door latch click and he slipped with no sound down the winding stairs, her hand returned unconsciously to the kink in her neck. He might be her alibi—but so would she be his.

Claire

The unfamiliar ticking of the seven wall clocks I’d wound back to business woke me absurdly early the next day. I remembered Patsy Mooney and said a quick prayer for her immortal soul, then one that they’d catch her husband quickly. Whether he did it or not, it was best to know the truth. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slipped into a cool white blouse and jeans. Jake sat ready at the door, impatiently moving from cheek to cheek.

“All right, I’m coming.” I laughed, looking around the tidy room. All was fresh and clean, and the flimsy white curtains rippled out horizontally. I don’t think I’d ever liked a place so much. I grabbed a pale-pink cardigan I’d picked up at a garage sale and was crazy about. It was amazing to be able to go for walks on a beach I hadn’t had to drive to. We took our time and luxuriated in the fresh breeze, then strolled over to the docks where there seemed to be a lot going on. Sailors are early risers and the dock was busy with folks scrubbing their decks and mending sails. My heart leaped a bit at the sight of Morgan Donovan sailing up to the dock.

“Ahoy,” he greeted me. Then, pushing his cap back, “Where’d you find him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Come aboard!”

I crouched on the deck to be at his level while petting Jake, “I can’t. Have to go to the station house this morning.” I shrugged. “Time for my interrogation.”

“I’ll take you.”

But I was shy now. He was rich. It was different. “I thought I’d walk.”

“I’ll take you by boat.”

That stopped me. “To the station house?”

“Sure.”

“But it’s too early.”

“We’ll go the long way. Bring the dog. Here. Take my hand.”

Without thinking, I took it. It was as though we latched on to each other. I lowered myself on board, not caring who saw, and he helped me into a life jacket. I held my breath at the nearness. Getting Jake on was another story. He wouldn’t come until he pretty much figured we’d leave him if he didn’t hop aboard. Morgan and I laughed when he finally flounced, all fours, onto the glistening deck and slid to a safe spot near the mainsail where he huddled for the duration. Morgan went about untying knots, casting ropes, guiding us away from the dock. When we took off, I was surprised at how fast we moved. I leaned myself into the wind the way he did and we scooted away, the force of the wind taking hold and the mainsail filling. In one movement, he secured and coiled the halyard and we skimmed the bright water past a fleet of other boats. Terrified and thrilled, I held on for dear life. Morgan, a cigar butt in the corner of his mouth, eased against the rudder and lay back, at ease. I thought I’d never seen him so like himself, so … what was it? Happy. Before you knew it we were out far. It was beautiful. He lowered the sails and let the boat drift. I turned and faced him. He leaned across me and took hold of the tiller and tied it. There’s nothing like the clean, sweet smell of a man. I felt like nuzzling my cheek against the reddish fur of his arm. But I wouldn’t. Of course I wouldn’t. “This is heaven,” I said. “What’s that over there?”

“Connecticut. One day when you have more time I’ll sail you over.”

“I’d love that.”

“Tell you what … I’ve got some leftover chicken below.” He jumped up. “You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“And some wine? You like wine, I think.”

“Too early for me.” I laughed. “Haven’t even had breakfast! I’ll make tea.” I went below, filled the kettle, and set about lighting the kerosene stove. He went back to the tiller. Jake lay basking in the sun and I thought, Hmm, this is good; anywhere we go we can take him. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I couldn’t help noticing the wines Morgan had in his little stowaway rack. I pulled one out. A Silvio Nardi, Brunello di Montalcino, Italia 2005. Impressive. I reached for the teapot and mugs shackled up on the shelf. Wobbling and careful not to knock anything over, I took them topside on a tray and centered it on the cabin trunk. I raised the pot to put the tea bags in and it rattled. I lifted the lid to wipe it out and at that moment I saw the frozen look on Morgan’s face. My first thought was, he’s hidden something in there. A surprise? I looked down. It was a key. A red key.

It took some seconds for my mind to struggle through this revelation, but only one to know it.

I kept looking down at the key, then out at the sea. He’d let his guard down. For me. But of course he remembered the teapot, seeing me with it. The moment I saw it, I knew. I looked to him. He saw it, too. He realized his mistake but didn’t miss a beat. Disappointment must have collapsed my face. I remember I must have said something, something about the tea, maybe. We stood there together for some seconds in the sunshine, hovering between pretense and knowing. Then I tipped it over and the key fell into my hand. It was cold and hard. I clenched it and I felt him wince, his plans caved in.

It was damned and we both knew this. We would always know it. Once you knew, you couldn’t go back and not know. He checked both ways peripherally, as though to be sure no one sailed near. What if there was no stopping him, no conscience and no honor, just the cunning draw toward what worked best for him? My mind raced. He must have strangled Patsy Mooney to get that key. And a chill lit up like wings, growing from my back to my shoulders. He started toward me and I went rigid with fear. Jake, sensing my terror, leveled off an objection from the depths of his throat. Morgan hesitated and in that moment I watched him reject this idea, change his mind, go on to the next plan. As smoothly as a man in a dance, he moved backward and, still holding my eyes—regret more than anger in his eyes—he left me there and went below. I tucked the key in my pocket. It was only a short while, but it felt eternal. And I knew he was coming back because what I knew threatened his existence. White fear gripped me and blanked my vision. And then, doing what he wouldn’t think I would think to do, I flung myself without a backward glance under the short rope and overboard into the fast-moving depths. Right behind me, Jake splattered in.

The boat sped away. The strong current pulled us. Both shores were far away, irretrievably far. I gasped for breath and struggled out of my shoes. My clothes pulled me down and my eyes stung with brine. To my horror I saw the Gnomon tilt, then veer and turn. Oh, no. Fear clutched me and I reached for Jake, who paddled toward me, but the current was too strong in the other direction. I watched him get carried away, paddling madly, his eyes strained and wild and frantic like a horse in a blood race, and I knew despair. I heard someone call out from somewhere and I saw Morgan at the helm, decisive, leveling off, aiming the boat toward me. He was talking into a walkie-talkie. Desperately I tried to think of a way to get clear, but I knew there was none. I dove under in desperation, my eyes open.

He swept past me and I came up gasping for air. The Gnomon turned at breakneck speed to come again, the wind in her sails, but a yawl off course appeared like a ghost and loomed up with tremendous suddenness and I swam toward it. There were two men on board. They were three sheets to the wind, but they were men. Then the Gnomon pulled alongside me and Morgan was leaning over the side and reaching out his arm and shouting at me. I mean really shouting. “What the bloody hell are you doing!” he yelled, heaving a line toward me, veins of fury standing out on his forehead. “Are you daft? You stupid woman! What’s wrong with you?”

It was his tone. He wasn’t acting like a red-handed murderer at all. He was acting like my father when we kids thought we were smart and almost killed ourselves climbing up on the roof and jumping into the raked-up leaves. Had I been wrong? I was wrong, wasn’t I, I realized, sputtering. Those men had seen me. He wouldn’t kill me with onlookers, anyway. Arms reached out from the other boat, but I let him hoist me up onto the Gnomon. I was so relieved to be out of the cold water. They fished Jake out with a shark hawler and held on to him until they pulled alongside. Then he leaped across. You couldn’t have stopped him. He crouched beside me, brackish, panting, I could hear his addled breath. My arm went around him and I clung to him.

“You’re out of your mind!” Morgan continued ranting while he went to fetch two warm blankets and put them around us.

The two men on the other boat waved us away with doubtful expressions.

“That’s the last time I take a lass out on the boat. That’s it!”

I was beginning to feel a little stupid. But had he not tried to hit me with the Gnomon? Now I was mad. I shouted, “I thought you were trying to hit me with the boat!”

He yelled back, “I fucking hell was not! I was trying to come get you, you daft female! Jesus Christ! What happened? Why the bloody hell did you jump overboard? Did you dive in after the dog?” He lowered his voice. “Why would you think I’d hit you with the boat?”

I reached into my pocket and came up with the key. We looked at each other. Then he said, “Are you hurt?”

“No! It’s the key. The key that was around Patsy Mooney’s neck!”

“Well, what’s it doing here?”

“That’s what I want to know! It was in your teapot, as if you didn’t know!”

He drew back. “I didn’t.”

“The hell you didn’t! Why did you give me that look?”

“What look?”

“When I opened the teapot.”

“I thought you found a bloody mouse. It wouldn’t be the first time. They hole up in there.”

I didn’t buy it. “Come on!”

“You come on! I ask you out on my boat and the next thing I know it’s man overboard. What do you think; it’s a joke? You could have been killed! Or worse! There are worse things than being killed!” He slumped forward. “Jesus. You’ll be giving me a heart attack!”

He did look pale. I moved forward. “You mean you didn’t know anything about the key?”

He shook his head. “No. What do you think? If I did, you imagine I’d have sent you to it?”

That made sense. I began to shiver uncontrollably. “Come on.” He dropped anchor and hauled me downstairs.

“I just thought you’d forgot about it,” I explained as he rubbed my head with a rough towel.

He gaped at me. “Ach, I see. I murder Patsy Mooney for a key and then I leave it in a wee teapot for you to find and then I kill you, too.” He raised his eyes. “Brilliant.”

I hung my head. “Yes. I see what you mean. Come here, Jake.” I made him come and sit beside me by the heater. “But … but …” I was shivering so hard I could hardly speak. I pulled myself together. “If it wasn’t you … who would have put it there?”

Morgan shrugged. “Anyone could have come on board. She’s never locked down. And with the race, the docks are crawling with strangers.”

“Someone was trying to frame you and I come along and fall for it.” I bit my lip, befuddled. “I’m sorry. I really am. I was paranoid and I panicked. You’ve been nothing but good to me and I seem to be nothing but trouble.”

He made a sound of disgust and turned from me, saying, “What will you do with the key?”

“Give it to the police.”

He sailed us back to port in a brooding silence.