Bel a Books, Inc.

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Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First Edition

Editor: Cindy Cresap Cover designer: KIARO Creative Ltd

ISBN-10: 1-59493-081-3 ISBN-13: 978-1-59493-081-2

To Bunny with special love, and a toast to our future meeting on that little village green near the cozy little pub!

And thanks to my editor, Cindy Cresap, who almost makes it all seem easy.

About the Author

Jessica Thomas is a native of Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she attended Girlsâ€™ Preparatory School. She later graduated cum laude from Bard Col ege, Annandale-on-Hudson, New York, with a bachelorâ€™s degree in literature.

After an early retirement, Miss Thomas spend a bit of time doing some rather dul freelance assignments and ghostwriting two total y depressing self-help books, always swearing someday that she would write something that was just plain fun.

When her friend, Marian Pressler â€œgaveâ€ her Alex and Fargo, Jessica took them immediately to heart and ran to her keyboard.

Miss Thomas makes her home in Connecticut with her almost-cocker spaniel, Woofer. Her hobbies include gardening, reading, and animal protection activities.

Chapter 1

Nobody who lived in Provincetown would ever forget that summer.

That summer. The weird, angering, frightening summer when we were allegedly invaded by an alligator and deï€nitely invaded by a vicious-tempered journalist. Most of us thought the alligator less threatening.

Not the wet summer when the rains wouldnâ€™t leave, and the tourists wouldnâ€™t stay.

It didnâ€™t take visitors long that year to ï€gure out they could sit around, damp and chil y, watching little stop-and-go rivers on their windowpanes at home . . . a lot cheaper than they could do it at a motel in Ptown.

That summer. The crazy, fearsome summer when the actors came to town and brought laughter and romance and murder with themâ€”murder that would seem to have been committed by one of our most beloved citizens.

Not the hot, dry summer when the rains wouldnâ€™t come. When the air was so sticky you felt you could wipe it off your skin, and the rain teased us every afternoon, sending in the high, rol ing cumulus clouds, dark and heavy with unspil ed water,

heat lightning signaling from inside them like a candle ï€‚ickering behind a curtain. But without a drop of rainfal . The summer when wafts of hot air sent smal dust devils cantering slowly up Bradford Street, gritty and weary, as if theyâ€™d just ridden in

from Laredo.

Neither overly wet nor dry, that summer came to us with a disarming smile and wearing springâ€™s clothing. The tulips and daffodils and hyacinths gave us just the right sugary look, and we were almost ready. We touched up the paint and starched

the curtains. We washed the windows and spread our wares. Owners of shops and restaurants rubbed their hands in anticipation. Most old ring-up cash registers had been replaced with quiet, computerized models, but to those who punched in the

sales ï€gures, the caril ons of tourist expenditures stil rang in their ears with a resonance equal to the bel s of Notre Dame.

The tourists were here. They had come to us again. Al hail.

Almost everyone who lived in Provincetown was in some way dependent on the tourist. The restaurateurs, of course, plus those who provided lodging, sold souvenirs or sold clothing. I think there must be factories al over China whose workers

produce nothing but T-shirts for Ptown. But there were other dependents. There were the grocery stores and the art gal eries, the nightclubs and the whale-watching boats, the clinic doctors and the vets who patched up the unlucky and the

pharmacists who ï€l ed their prescriptions.

The dependents included, to a degree, my Aunt Mae, with her own little â€œseasonâ€ every year. When my Uncle Frank died, Aunt Mae got interested in raising herbs, mainly as a time ï€l er. But she became an expert at her hobby and had now

converted her garage into a smal shop where she sold live herbs in little pots and dried ones in little jars to an amazing number of people. She had actual y published two smal books on the subject and sold enough to keep them in print.

Even the bank, where my lover Cindy was the in-house certiï€ed ï€nancial advisor, processed mil ions in travelersâ€™ checks and enjoyed a great volume increase in their commercial accounts. Unfortunately, they also had the wearisome job of trying

to help those feckless few who always managed to lose their wal ets and/or checkbooks and came into the bank crying help!

And of course, thereâ€™s me. Iâ€™m Alexandra Peres. I was named after my great-grandmother, who was herself named after the strikingly beautiful, doomed Tsarina of Al the Russias. Aware that I donâ€™t ï€t the ï€rst part of the Tsarinaâ€™s description and

hopeful I donâ€™t ï€t the second, I prefer to be cal ed Alex. My work, too, picks up between April and October.

Why? Because tourist spots are like candy stores to children for those who like to make money while posing as vacationers. Most of them are typical accidentsâ€”real or imaginedâ€”that could actual y happen: like slipping on wet tile. Some are

more creative, and sometimes not too smart. One man sued the B&B where he was staying because the porch steps col apsed under him. Indeed they did, and when he fel , he was stil holding the saw he had used to cut through the supports. Of

course, genuine accidents do happen, and several insurance companies keep me on retainer to sort out the possible from the simply frivolous.

Sometimes I also check out other types of insurance fraud. And I do background investigations on potential employees for local businesses. I look for runaway kids thought to be in the area. And, God help me, I am occasional y broke enough to

check out a spouse whose other half believes â€œSomething is going on and I damn wel want to know what it is!â€

Fortunately, fol owing errant spouses is becoming a less frequent endeavor thanks to my learning how to use a camera because of it. I now take a lot of nature photos just for fun and am told I have a good eye for it. Certainly I have a love of it. Of

late, my photos have been sel ing wel at several gal eries in Ptown and Wel ï€‚eet, at very good prices and in surprising quantity. So my ï€nances are considerably more stable than they were a couple of years ago.

This greatly pleases my partner, who has a penchant for expensive rawhides. My partner is Fargo, and to clarify the above sentence, Fargo is a ninety-pound Lab with a lustrous black coat, a personality al his own and a heart beyond measure.

Heâ€™s my pal, my clown, my protector, my confessor, and Iâ€™m happy to talk about him and his many attributes at any time.

Thereâ€™s one smal character defect I may lightly skip over. When Fargo is faced with, shal we say, a stressful situation, like a ï€recracker going off nearby, or someone approaching us threateningly, he has felt since puppyhood that he can best

protect me if he is in my arms. When he was a puppy it was adorable. Since he is grown, ninety pounds of Fargo ï€‚ying through the air and landing on my chest is much more likely to render me more hors de combat than my presumed assailant

and leads to embarrassment al around.

So now, when I think this protective move is imminent, I do a little dance step to the side and grab his col ar to let him know I am al right. I say sternly, â€œEasy, Fargo, not now, not now!â€ He has no idea what it means, but I hope it sounds to humans

as if I am commanding him not to attack, and we take it from there. Look, he has never complained about the cold nights we have spent shivering in the car surveil ing a house. He doesnâ€™t mention that my omelets have been known to defy a steak

knife, and he has never told me that a particular blouse makes my face look green. He loves me. Al right, heâ€™s a creampuff. I donâ€™t sweat the smal stuff.

So, as innocently as that summer began, and bizarrely as it ended, Provincetown was her usual early-season self: charming, sparkling, breezy, energized and just a tiny bit greedy. We watched the parade of cars and buses come over the hil

like an invasion of benign and colorful insects. We watched the excursion and ferry boats sail into the harbor with their self-satisï€ed oom-pah pahs. We heard the whine of airplanes approaching our runway. Provincetown was ready.

The world was our codï€sh.

Chapter 2

We were about to have that conversation again.

You see, when Cindy ï€rst took the job with Fishermenâ€™s Bank, she rented a great little cottage from my Aunt Mae. Four rooms, two of them pretty good sized, plus a smal deck overlooking a smal pond. She loved it.

I already lived in my house that Iâ€™d owned for several years. Five rooms, al good sized, bath and a half and a detached garage, plus a largeâ€”for Ptownâ€”backyard.

I loved it.

Shortly after her arrival, Cindy and I began dating. Before long we began dating exclusively, then next we were dating seriously. Subsequently we started using words and phrases like relationship, which we both disliked, and we must have

something going here. Final y, we gave up, declared ourselves in love and wanting a lasting, monogamous afï€liation.

We breathed a sigh of relief and were very happy. Then slowly, we began to realize that we were one couple with two abodes only a mile apart. Occasional y, I had an overnight business trip, and Cindy would stay at the cottage. Or Cindy would

have a seminar somewhere or a weekend parental visit down to Connecticut, and I would be alone at the house. Sporadical y, when we were both in town, we simply spent the night apart for no special reason. Usual y, we spent weekends at the

cottage. Somehow it seemed like a relaxing, faraway break. As time went on, however, the maintenance of the two places began to seem somewhat extravagant, and our friends began making veiled comments, and we began to talk of living

together .

In the words of the immortal poet, this scared me to death. Iâ€™d been badly burned in some past relationships, and had been leery of becoming involved again at al . I was glad I had. I loved Cindy. I liked her and, as far as I knew, wanted to be with

her forever. But living together was something else.

There was, of course, the question of where to put things. Like Cindyâ€™s computer. The logical place was my ofï€ce, but my computer was already there, along with a desk and ï€le cabinet and a large table where I matted and put simple wood

frames around my photographs. It was not a neat room. Cindy was neat. There were other spatial problems, although most of them could be worked out with a little ingenuity. Actual y, â€œthingsâ€ were not my real problem, anyway.

My problem was I was afraid I would slowly disappear, that we would become one amorphous mass, no longer each a clear individual structure. I was afraid I would look in my psycheâ€™s mirror one morning and see a foggy, shapeless blob. Oh, my

head or a foot might poke out once in a while, but basical y, Cindy and I would be one colorless splotch. I would be, I was certain, sexual y happy, intel ectual y chal enged, entertained, loved and cared for, perhaps even healthier. But slowly I would no

longer be Alex as I knew me. I would be alexandcindy. And then I would have to run away. Even though I loved her very much.

Now this may not make sense to you. In a way, I hope it doesnâ€™t.

But it was a real and present fear for me, and I am sure Cindy must have sensed it. So when we spoke of living together, we verbal y trod successful y on eggshel s that never broke, because neither of us ever said anything heavy.

Tonight, I guess I felt singularly close to her, and perhaps very safe, for I was just beginning to ï€nd the courage to let these little terrors of mine be articulated, when the phone rang.

I wanted to scream, â€œHow dare you ring now?â€ and rip it from the wal , but of course one never does. One picks it up and says politely, â€œHel o . . . this is she . . . oh, yes, Bil . . .â€

Bil Meyer of the Chambered Nautilus Bed and Breakfast Inn. He and his wife Martha owned and ran it. It was a lovely old building in the Victorian style, with six or seven rentable rooms and baths, al nicely decorated. The downstairs sitting room

was ï€l ed with genuine antiques plus a baby grand piano which Bil often played in the early evening, alternating light classics, show tunes, a little understated jazz, while the guests enjoyed tea or sherry if they wished. Both owners were thoroughly

charming, and not just to their guests.

Their liability insurance was held by Plymouth Rock Security, which retained me to investigate claims in the Provincetown area. Natural y, I had nothing to do with the settlement procedures of serious injuries or serious frauds. Sometimes,

however, troubled waters could be quickly calmed by a few wel -spent dol ars, or frivolous claims could die aborning with the delicate mention of the penalties of fraud.

I ï€gured Bil had one or the other of these problems at hand.

â€œWhat can I do for you, Wil iam?â€

â€œAlex, weâ€™ve got the craziest thing Iâ€™ve ever heard of here. One of our female guestsâ€”lovely lady, known her for years, a real treasureâ€”climbed up a tree in the front yard and fel out of it, stark naked, screaming there was a six-foot al igator

chasing her. There were two other guests coming up the walkway at the time, and theyâ€”â€

â€œBil , did you say she was naked and being chased by an al igator?â€ I looked at Cindy and entertained a momentâ€™s concern that her eyebrows had disappeared forever into her hairline.

â€œThatâ€™s what she said . . . stil says. But I canâ€™t ï€nd the damn thing! Iâ€™ve since gone over every inch of the house and shined a ï€‚ashlight around the yard. They al ran for the house, when she tumbled out of the tree. Mr. Joyner fel up the steps and

sprained his ankle. Alex, can you get over here now?â€

â€œOn my way. And, Bil , stay in the house. Just to make sure.â€ I hung up. Cindy and I looked at each other, then smiled, giggled and ï€nal y roared. I ran for the ofï€ce where I took four crisp one-hundred dol ar bil s out of the safe where I keep ten of

them, for insurance business only. Then I hit the bedroom, peeling off my T-shirt and replacing it with a clean sleeveless mock turtleneck top and light cotton blazer. I ï€gured the jeans would do. I kicked off the sneakers and slipped into my boat

shoes. â€œIâ€™m off!â€ I gave Cindy a hug, then held her away from me and stopped laughing. â€œHold this thought: I love you.â€

â€œI love you, too,â€ she answered softly, and then smiled. â€œBe careful of that gator.â€

As I backed quickly out of the driveway, I was guiltily grateful that Bil and Martha had an al igator on the loose. A certain conversation would have to wait until another time. Again.

After parking on the street, I walked slowly up the path toward the inn and shined my big ï€‚ashlight into the limbs of the mimosa tree. To the best of my knowledge al igators didnâ€™t climb trees, but something else might have. I saw nothing but a

drooping broken branch, the delicate leaves already folding in prayerful farewel . I ï€‚icked the light around the ï€‚owers and shrubs, again with no result, and climbed to the porch. Bil came out to meet me.

â€œThank God youâ€™re here! What an unbelievable mess! Gale Withers stil swears it was a great big al igator! By the way, sheâ€™s got a nasty looking scrape from the tree on one thigh. Can she sue? Nobody told her to climb the damn tree.â€

I wondered if he preferred she had lost a leg to the al igator. â€œStay out here a minute, Bil , and give me a little background. Take a deep breath. Nobody needs immediate medical attention, do they?â€

â€œNo.â€ He ï€‚ashed a ghost of a grin. â€œUnless you count Martha and me. Okay. Gale Withers and her husband have been customers for a number of years. Always pleasant, no trouble, no noisiness, some drinks, but no problem. When Gale got here

today and Martha was getting her settled in her room, they were chatting, and Martha found out Galeâ€™s husband has left her for a newer model. He served divorce papers on her a few days back, on their wedding anniversary, if you can believe such

sensitivity. Her two kidsâ€”in their early twenties, I thinkâ€”insisted she get away for a few days and get her head together before she tries to deal with any of this. I guess she was real y shocked and broken up.â€

I tried to guess who wouldnâ€™t be shocked and distressed, and had no luck.

Bil held his hands out, palm up, in explanation. â€œOf course, the Chambered Nautilus, al of Ptown, for that matter, holds a great many memories for her. I could almost wish she had picked another spot, if that doesnâ€™t sound too unkind. Oh, by the

way, according to Martha, Gale was knocking back the sherry pretty hard earlier.â€ He shrugged. â€œThatâ€™s about it.â€

I nodded. The poor woman was probably reliving happier days and wondering what kind of truck had hit her. â€œDo you know if she went out for dinner or just settled for the sherry?â€ I asked.

â€œYes, she did go for dinner. She asked me to book a table for her at the Speedwel .â€ It was an upscale restaurant in town, named for the second ship in the Puritansâ€™ little armada, which failed to live up to its name by arriving several weeks behind

the Mayï€‚ower. â€œUnfortunately, if I recal correctly, the restaurant was a favorite of Galeâ€™s and Tomâ€™s in the past. That choice canâ€™t have cheered her up, either.â€ He managed a wry smile.

â€œOkay,â€ I said. â€œLetâ€™s go in.â€

We entered the sitting room, which at that moment held four people. Bil â€™s wife, Martha, sat a little apart in a wingback chair. A stocky forty-ish man lay on the couch with his left ankle on a pil ow and sporting an icepack. A woman about the same

age sat in a chair next to him, and a nice looking female in her late fortiesâ€” Mrs. Withers, I presumedâ€”now quite primly covered in a high necked robe and bedroom slippers, was half reclined on a settee. In addition to whatever damage sheâ€™d

done to her thigh, I noted a couple of scratches on her arms and one on her face.

Martha jumped up and came to me to bestow a tight hug, which I found not the least unpleasant. â€œAlex. Are we glad to see you!â€ she whispered. â€œThis is unreal.â€

â€œHave no fear,â€ I breathed back. â€œThe cavalry is here.â€

I went into my act. â€œMrs. Withers, Mr. and Mrs. Joyner, sorry to meet you at such an upsetting time. Iâ€™m Alex Peres. I represent Plymouth Rock Security insurance. Martha and Bil are clients of ours, and we want to get you al settled down and

comfortable as soon as possible.â€

I looked at Mrs. Withers and Mr. Joyner. â€œDo either of you need a doctor this minute, or can you give me just a little time to go over the eveningâ€™s events?â€

Both nodded and gave what I took to be afï€rmative grunts, so I continued. If there real y had been some kind of animal, we needed to get the thing off the streets.

â€œNow, Mrs. Withers, could you please start at the beginning for me?â€

â€œYes. Itâ€™s al very simple. My room is in back on this ï€‚oor, around the corner of the front porch, where the side porch turns back. I returned from dinner. My room was, uh, warm, so I turned on the fan. I made myself a highbal and decided to go on

the porch and have it and wait for the room to cool. Uh, wel , you see, I had, uh, disrobed in order to cool off more quickly, so I, wel , I climbed out the window onto the little side porch, where I knew no one could see me. I was sitting in one of the

chairs, having my drink, enjoying the breeze, when I heard this kind of scratching noise. I looked up, and this giant al igatorâ€”at least six feetâ€”was coming toward me on the porch! It was terrifying. He was grunting, and his mouth kept opening. I

vaulted the rail, ran across the yard and climbed the tree.â€

With gargantuan effort, I kept my face completely neutral. â€œAnd then what happened?â€

â€œI heard him scratching around the base of the tree and was sure he was climbing it. But there was nothing more I could do, so I just hung on. Then I heard the Joyners coming up the walk and was afraid he would get them, too. I screamed

something at them. At that point, I was too far out on the limb. I heard it crack. I fel and then we al ran inside.â€

â€œI see. That al seems straightforward.â€ I hoped my eyes werenâ€™t as round as I thought they were. I turned to the Joyners. â€œIs the last part of that account basical y what you recal also?â€

Mrs. Joyner nodded. Mr. Joyner added, â€œYeah, that about covers it. I managed to trip, running up the stairs, and as I was trying to get up, I may have heard a noise over by the fence, but Iâ€™m not sure.â€

â€œWel ,â€ I said cheerful y, â€œThatâ€™s al quite clear.â€ Sure it was.

â€œHereâ€™s what weâ€™l do. Right now, Bil and Martha wil get you over to the clinic. Weâ€™l get that ankle X-rayed and taped and get something to soothe those scratches. Make sure neither of you is in any pain. Of course, this is al taken care of by

Plymouth Rock. Mrs. Joyner, feel free to come along if you wish. Now, while Bil helps Mr. Joyner to the car, perhaps, Martha, youâ€™l give me a minute.â€

When the sitting room cleared I turned to Martha Meyer. â€œWel , luv, we may have dodged a bul et. Nobody is screaming lawsuit. Nor should they. I assume you did not stock the front yard with al igators. Nobody told Withers to climb naked out a

window or up a tree, and the front steps have no loose boards. So I real y donâ€™t see liability suits for you unless we ï€nd al igator scales on the back steps. Of course, the night is young.â€

She took my hands. â€œYouâ€™re a good friend, Alex. Maybe I can ï€nal y stop thinking Iâ€™m going to throw up. Joyner did say something about your being remarkably prompt. I think he was impressed.â€ She stil looked worried but no longer verging on

frantic. She looked younger than her years, and quite desirable, and once again I wondered if she were absolutely sure she was straight.

I brought myself back to why I was there and freed my hands.

â€œGood. The faster we work, the better. Get them in and out of the clinic. Ask the doctor privately if he can think of some reason to get some blood out of Withers and quietly run an alcohol level, but donâ€™t push it. Then I suggest the fol owing menu.â€

I lit a cigarette and saw Martha cringe. â€œCome in the kitchen. We canâ€™t smel up this room.â€

â€œOkay,â€ I continued in the large kitchen. â€œOffer to put them al up in a motel or one of your second story rooms tonight if theyâ€™re uneasy.â€

â€œThe Joyners are already on the second ï€‚oor, but he may not want the climb. We do have one empty room upstairs that Gale could have.â€

â€œGot you. Wel , see what they say. Then tel them however many nights they have been here are no charge. It real y is important they donâ€™t feel like they paid anything to get hurt and scared. Tel them of course you would love to have them stay their

ful reservation as your guest, but the Joyners may not want to limp around, and Withers may be dicey. So you offer them a long weekend free in late October. You may have empty rooms by then anyway.â€

I ï€‚icked ashes in the sink, and Martha tried not to look pained. She nodded slowly as she turned on the tap. â€œYes, itâ€™s a good idea and a lot cheaper than a lawsuit. Weâ€™l do it that way.â€

â€œGood. Iâ€™m going over to the Speedwel and see if I can ï€nd out how much La Withers had to drink, just in case we need that information later if she gets difï€cult. Iâ€™l meet you al back here, and you can tel me what theyâ€™ve decided. Then I wil ï€‚ash

a couple of large bil s and say how sorry I am their evening was ruined, and tomorrow why donâ€™t they al have a nice dinner, courtesy of Plymouth Rock. Then I get them to sign the release. Thatâ€™s the tricky part.â€

Outside, Martha walked over to their station wagon, and I began the four-block walk to the Speedwel . It was faster than trying to drive it. I felt strangely relieved to be in a brightly lit area, even though I real y didnâ€™t think Ptown boasted any

al igators, not the four-legged type, anyway. Arriving at the Speedwel , I asked for the manager and was routed to a very important-looking woman, who showed some teeth and asked if she could help me with something, and real y didnâ€™t seem to

mean any of it.

I smiled insincerely back, introduced myself and explained there had been a minor accident at the Chambered Nautilus, and I wondered if she would check her credit card dupes, just to conï€rm that a Gale Withers had indeed dined there tonight.

She sighed at the enormity of it al , but ï€nal y turned and walked toward the waitressesâ€™ station.

When she pul ed out the slip, I took it gently but quickly from her hand and looked at the order stapled to it. From what I could make out, Gale Withers had had three martinis, scrod and something, a glass of Pinot Blanc, fol owed by what looked

liked a Cointreau and coffee. Wel , of course Gale had seen an al igator! Who the hel wouldnâ€™t, after two or three sherries, three martinis, a glass of wine and a liqueur, plus a highbal ? I was only surprised she didnâ€™t invite him in for a nightcap.

I asked the manager if she could make me a copy of the credit card slip. Her answer was about what I expected. â€œOh, Iâ€™m sorry, but, no. In a restaurant of this caliber, our customers do expect privacy, you know.â€

â€œYes, maâ€™am, and I have no intention of making this public. I am a private insurance investigator, investigating an accident. While you make me a copy of that and I speak brieï€‚y to Mrs. Withersâ€™s waitress, not a soul wil know whatâ€™s going on. Or in

twenty minutes there wil be two uniformed police ofï€cers here, and they wil not speak quietly, and they may even wonder loudly and ofï€cial y why your establishment continued sel ing liquor to an obviously intoxicated woman who later injured herself

and caused injury to another person. Your cal .â€

She grabbed the paper from my hand and turned toward a door marked â€œPrivate.â€ Over her shoulder she snapped, â€œHer waitress was Shel ey, the blond girl whoâ€™s now serving the front table.â€

I waylaid Shel ey en route to the kitchen. She did remember Mrs. Withers, not by name but as the lady who had â€œreal y put it away.â€ She recal ed that the lady had, â€œLooked so sad, you know? She didnâ€™t eat hardly any of her meal. I asked her was

anything wrong with it, and she said no, she just wasnâ€™t hungry, and then she wiped her eyes with the napkin, you know? I felt sort of sorry for her, but I didnâ€™t think I should say anything. I hope sheâ€™s al right. She seemed pretty sloshed.â€

â€œWhy didnâ€™t you have the bartender cut her off?â€ I asked.

â€œWhat? And have her get mad and cause a scene and Iâ€™m the one who gets ï€red? I didnâ€™t feel that sorry for her.â€

I could see her point. The manager returned with my photocopy. I thanked her sweetly and left. I didnâ€™t bother to tel her that the cops would probably be there tomorrow anyway, asking if anyone had seen an al igator.

Back at the inn, while I waited for the wounded to return, I gave the area a more detailed look. There were some scratches on the porch ï€‚oor, which could, I supposed, have come from an al igator. Or luggage, or golf shoes, or a toy. The plants

where Gale had made her leap were crushed, as they would be. The lawn at the foot of the tree was not disturbed any more than normal from someone trying to climb the tree and then fal ing out of it. At the back of the property was a hogwire fence,

with a short length broken and pushed up, as if something had crawled under it. Big dog? Smal kid? Big coon? Smal al igator? Tonight? Two months ago?

Off to my left, I heard a plant rustle. I quickly aimed the light in that direction and saw a hydrangea bush move slightly. My mouth went dry. Could I make it to the house before whatever made it to me? I took a careful step back. The last thing I

wanted to do was fal . Out of the bush popped Martha and Bil â€™s sleek black ex-tom cat . . . come to say hel o.

â€œMew.â€

â€œHel o, Lexus, you scared me to death.â€ Lexus sat on my foot, in case I hadnâ€™t realized I was supposed to pet him. I complied and then scooped him up. â€œI donâ€™t think you better be outside tonight, chubby. You might have more company than you

bargained for.â€

As I carried him up the steps, his weight was making me pant. â€œI dunno, maybe I ought to let the gator chase you around the block a few times. Itâ€™s that or join a health club, fel a.â€

I set the cat down in the kitchen and closed the various doors. I gave him some water and me a cigarette. Surely I wasnâ€™t over ï€ve for the day, my daily al owance. If I exceeded that al owance, I gave myself a harsh scolding.

The group arrived home, casualties bandaged and salved, al ready for bed. Mrs. Withers opted for the upstairs room, the Joyners took her vacated one on the ground ï€‚oor. Apparently al igators werenâ€™t an issue for them. Everybody would leave

tomorrow morning and return for a weekend in the fal . Not as a threesome, I judged. I dispensed Plymouth Rockâ€™s largess, got my releases and the three guests toddled off to rest and recover.

Bil made us a very welcome drink, and I broke the news that while I waited for them I had also cal ed police headquarters with news of the event. â€œI felt there wasnâ€™t a choice, guys. There is one chance in a mil ion Withers is right. There is one

chance in a thousand she is wrong about the al igator, but saw something else. We canâ€™t take the risk that something lethal is wandering about.â€

â€œYou canâ€™t believe her!â€ Martha exclaimed.

â€œI believe she thinks she is tel ing the truth.â€ I took a sip of my drink and yearned for a cigarette. â€œBut she was certainly drunk and had very little dinner. Add that to her mental stress at the moment, probably little sleep the last few nights, plus a tiring

drive from her home to here. She probably thinks everything in her life is an al igator right now. I think she fel asleep and had one of those terribly realistic dreams you canâ€™t seem to get out of, and she thinks it real y happened.â€

â€œOh, God, and now the cops wil come at midnight and wake everybody up,â€ Bil moaned, mustache aquiver.

â€œI donâ€™t think theyâ€™l be on your property tonight unless something else happens,â€ I reassured him. â€œI spoke with Sonny.â€

Detective Lieutenant Edward J. â€œSonnyâ€ Peres is my brother, and sometimes he gives me credit for having a brain. I told him Iâ€™d covered the inn property and what I had seen, and not seen. He agreed that anything that might have been there was

now gone. But he would have his minions on the alert overnight and speak with Withers and the Joyners in the morning.

â€œThanks again, Alex.â€ Martha patted my hand. â€œIâ€™m sorry al this had to happen.â€

â€œOh, donâ€™t be. Cindy and I were about to be reduced to watching the Red Sox stomp al over Texas,â€ I lied happily. â€œAnyway, itâ€™l give everybody in town something to do. I anticipate three hundred and six al igator sightings by the weekend.â€

â€œOh, God,â€ Bil groaned again. Humor was not always his strong point.

I downed my drink. â€œGo to bed. You have to feed people in the morning.â€

As I drove home, I admit my head was on a swivel, looking for an al igator.

But alas, I saw none.

I closed the car door quietly and met a silent Fargo at the back door. We went out for last patrol, and Fargo didnâ€™t ï€‚ush anything, either. Inside, most of the lights were off and Cindy had fal en asleep, eyebrows back in place. As I climbed into bed,

she stirred and asked, â€œDid you catch it?â€

â€œYes,â€ I replied. â€œItâ€™s sleeping overnight in your car.â€

â€œOh, isnâ€™t that sweet!â€ Cindy smiled. She turned over and snuggled down and I turned out the light.

Chapter 3

The Joyners and Gale Withers al got an early start for home Wednesday morning, which was fortunate, as the media arrived around nine. There were a couple of cable TV stations with nothing better to cover, plus some radio and press

reporters, al looking for the naked lady who had fal en from a tree, escaping ravishment by a giant al igator.

Martha and Bil Meyer appeared on their porch, tight-lipped and unhappy, trying not to accuse Gale Withers of being either a lunatic, a liar or a drunk, and so managing to sound rather lunatic themselves. Bil wrapped it up nicely, I thought. â€œWeâ€™ve

known Mrs. Withers for years, and if she says she saw an al igator, Iâ€™m sure she did, although, of course, we know there wasnâ€™t one. Naked? Yes, she was naked. Havenâ€™t you ever gotten hot and taken off your clothes?â€

Police Chief Franks was also unfortunately uneasy around cameras and microphones, and stubbornly refused to use a typed statement. His ad lib remarks did little to conï€rm the very real intel igence and common sense he had. â€œYes, we are

investigating the uh, possibility there was an uh, al igator, although we donâ€™t have al igators in Provincetown. They donâ€™t like our uh, cold climate, although of course it is warm now. We are looking into every uh, pond and making sure everyone there

is uh, safe. And we are certainly taking the sighting of Mrs. Withers seriously. No further comment.â€

Various passersby squealed their delighted fear into the cameras and mikes or laughed it off or announced with tough NRA grins that they were ready with loaded guns to take care of the scaly bastard, which must have thril ed my brother. A

bunch of trigger-happy fools, heavily armed in a town crowded with tourists was the perfect recipe for acid reï€‚ux.

I clicked off the noon news and turned my mind to the deck attached to the cottage my Aunt Mae rented to Cindy. A couple of ï€‚oorboards were rotting out, and one of the railings was wobbly. If anyone had accidental y leaned hard against it, it

could have been dangerous. Although slightly beyond my own carpentering expertise, I did not think the job was a large or complicated one.

The complications were with Cindy and Aunt Mae. As soon as Aunt Mae noticed it, she would have it repaired. This would upset Cindy, who would feel that since she was paying quite a low rent for a year-round cottage, and since she was the

one who most often enjoyed the use of the deck, she should pay for the repair. If Cindy noticed it ï€rst and had it repaired, Aunt Mae would be upset that Cindy had paid for repairs on property Aunt Mae owned. In either event, each would take it as a

serious failure in their stewardship.

They were quite fond of each other, and I wanted no rift, however smal , to come between them. The simple answer would be for me to have it repaired and present it to them as a fait accompli. They could both unite in being upset with me, but

probably not for long.

I knew that Aunt Mae would be away Thursday and Friday at an herb growersâ€™ show and convention down in Stonington, Connecticut. Cindy would be gone those same two days to a ï€nancial advisorsâ€™ seminar in Boston. So-o-o, al that

remained was to ï€nd a handyman who could complete the repairs during that period. I thought I knew the person.

I saddled up Fargo and we went in search of Harmon. Harmon is a town character who beachcombs and sel s driftwood and other artistic detritus that washes ashoreâ€”lobster pot markers, shel -encrusted old bottles, broken oars, etc.â€”to gift

shops and arts and crafts stores.

But if heâ€™d been looking for odds and ends, he would have been on the beach at or before dawn, not at this hour. Harmon also sometimes ï€l s in as an extra hand on a ï€shing boat to bring in an additional bit of income. If that were so, you could

easily spot his old rattletrap pickup, once red and now a delicate faded pink, parked on the wharf awaiting his return, so we checked the wharf . . . to no avail. He might be engaged in handyman work anywhere in town. I drove around the most

logical spots, but struck out there, too.

Since it was near the noon hour, however, I ï€gured the odds might be pretty good that Harmon could be found dining at the Wharf Rat Bar.

He and other not-ful y-employed men-about-town made the Rat their personal club and â€œownedâ€ the big round front table. There, they discussed ad nauseum the quotas on ï€sh, the shortages of ï€sh, the foreign trespassers upon ï€sh and the cost

of fuel for the boats to go looking for ï€sh. Joe, the bartender, had dubbed them the â€œThe Blues Brothers,â€ and Harmon had added the subject of drugs to their repertoire.

He was convinced our smal town was the drug capital of the world and that giant international deals were consummated hourly on every corner, by a multitude of unlikely people. His list of suspects had included a visiting movie producer, a born again preacher, a retired botany professor, an undertakersâ€™ supply salesman and a Swedish hairdresser. Harmon protected us against them al , and drove my brother crazy with â€œreports.â€ Harmon, according to Sonny, had reported thirty-six of the

last three drug sales in Provincetown.

So I parked, and Fargo and I walked down the al ey to the Rat, where I secured him to a large anchor outside, with his choice of sun or shade, and entered the building.

It was ï€l ed with tourists, apparently enjoying both the fare and the dÃ©cor, the unmatched chairs, bare tables, uneven ï€‚oors and the determined sea going atmosphere. Fishing nets hung along every wal , festooned with ancient boat hooks and

oars, dried starï€sh and lobster pot markers, smal kedge anchors and dried seaweed. In one corner stood an old shipâ€™s telegraph, harvested from a long-dead ferry. Its indicator was frozen on Dead slow astern , which real y said it al for the Wharf

Rat Bar.

Joe, the owner and bartender, waved and pointed toward an empty barstool. â€œHi, Alex. Thereâ€™s no tables right now, thisâ€™l have to do. But I got a nice cold Bud, been sittinâ€™ on ice for you al morning.â€

â€œIâ€™l take it with pleasure.â€

Joe uncapped the beer and poured it into a frosted glass. I did not think tourists received these niceties.

â€œBoy, this is nice and cold! Itâ€™s getting hot outside.â€ I turned on the stool and checked the front table. As expected, Harmon and friends were there. Harmon was halfway through a hamburger, and I elected to let him ï€nish before bothering him. I

tuned in to their conversation in time to hear Harmon pontiï€cate on a new and different, yet not entirely dissimilar subject.

â€œOf course the al igator is real. How do I know, you ask? Wel , now, you guys know I ainâ€™t no stranger to the criminal mind.â€ He leaned back in his chair, hands hooked in his overal s bib, and took on a professorial mien. â€œSonny Peres can tel you,

Iâ€™ve worked on many a case with him. This ainâ€™t real y so different. Same old trouble of a fal inâ€™ out among thieves. Why only this morning, Sonny said to me, â€˜Harmon, I canâ€™t tell you what al your help means to me.â€™â€ His listeners looked impressed. I

suppressed a giggle.

â€œEarly this morning,â€ he continued, â€œright square in the middle of Pearl Street, I found an important message and took it di-rect to Sonny, so he could get right on it. It were hand-printed on a piece of light cardboard and had two holes punched in

the top, like a string had been put through it at sometime or other . . . so you could maybe hang it on a doorknob or the like. It said, â€˜Your stuff is at my place. If you want it, come and get it.â€™ And it were signed, â€˜Al.â€™â€

I was lost. So, it seemed, were the round table denizens. But not Harmon. He translated for us.

â€œYou see, with al my experience, I tumbled to it right off. Some drug dealer up here owed a big bunch of money to a big Florida distributor and was trying to buy stil more from him, without no cash up front. So the distributor, he planned a little

surprise for the dealer. The message meant the drugs are here in town, if you want â€™em, come on to our regâ€™lar meeting place. And â€˜Alâ€™ stood for al igator, but the dealer, he didnâ€™t know that. He had no idea his distributor had brought that four-legged

thing right up from Florida with him.â€

Harmon took a swig of beer. â€œSo when the dealer walked in on the supposed roundyview, there would be the gator, ready to kil him. These big distributors, you donâ€™t fool with them. But the al igator, he got out somehow and chased that lady

instead. I tel you, Sonny was impressed!â€

I could imagine that he was. Harmon had never been right yet about a drug dealer. The law of averages said that at some point, one of his outrageous guesses would be correct. Could this be it? I caught his eye and cal ed out, â€œWhen you ï€nish

eating, could I see you a minute?â€ He nodded.

Sometime later I caught the sharp aroma of raw onions and beer and realized that Harmon had joined me. I told him of the problems with the deck, and he agreed it sounded like a job he could easily ï€nish in two days or less. We agreed he

would go to the cottage around nine tomorrow morning and look it over, then go get what lumber and paint he needed and come back and start work. â€œIf thereâ€™s any problem,â€ I said, â€œCal me. Otherwise Iâ€™l see you tomorrow afternoon.â€

â€œYeah, sure, Alex. Okay.â€

I knew heâ€™d be there and do a good job. I bought him a beer and prepared to leave, when I realized I didnâ€™t have enough cash to pay my bil . It was no problem. Joe was always happy to run a tab, but it reminded me Iâ€™d best stop by the bank.

I col ected Fargo and we mushed slowly through the summer trafï€c. Entering the bank, I looked around and spotted Cindy in the middle of the main ï€‚oor. Neither Cindy nor I are inclined toward public shows of affection, even around close friends

or relatives, so you can understand my surprise at ï€nding my love locked in tight embrace with Mildred Morris. Mildred was a large-boned, athletic woman, ever cheerful, as if she had just leaped the net and cried, â€œWel played, wel played!â€ She

was a crackerjack accountant and handled the books of several smal businesses in town, including mine. I think there had once been a Mr. Morris, but Iâ€™m not sure. Mildred was friendly, but she was private.

As Cindy patted Mildredâ€™s back in a baby-burping fashion, I realized with surprise Mildred was crying against Cindyâ€™s shoulder, and now felt somewhat less intrusive in joining the already-joined pair.

â€œCan I be of help?â€

Cindy shot me a relieved look and replied, â€œMildred has lost her cat, Hercules, and has reason to fear he . . . he may not return.â€

â€œAh. Wel , thatâ€™s terrible. Why are we afraid Hercules is . . . permanently missing?â€ I had known Hercules a large part of my life. He was a giant, muscular tomcat, white with a gray saddle, and extremely pugnacious. He hated al dogs, most cats

and a fair number of humans. And only the bravest didnâ€™t make way for his passage. He must be at least eighteen years old by now, but he had not mel owed with age. The only thing I could think of that might have managed to kil him was a semi or

a nuke. Or maybe he was sick and had gone away to die, as animals sometimes wil . I did hope he hadnâ€™t suffered. He had a certain nobility.

By now Mildred had straightened away from Cindy, blown her nose and hiccupped. â€œOh, Alex, Iâ€™m sorry to cause such a scene. Cindy, dear, Iâ€™ve ruined your blouse and made a fool of myself in the middle of your bank. But you see, Hercules was

al I had . . . everything to me.â€

This brought forth a new freshet of tears, and she col apsed again onto Cindyâ€™s now sodden shoulder. By this time, I too, was patting her back and muttering, â€œThere, there.â€

Fargo wasnâ€™t al I hadâ€”not by a long chalkâ€”but just the thought of losing him gave me a sharp pain in the stomach and a tightening of the chest I hoped was not a coronary. â€œMildred, Iâ€™m so sorry. Is there anything we can do to help you ï€nd him,

uh . . . whatever the uh, outcome?â€

She ï€nal y got herself under some control. â€œThank you, I donâ€™t think so. Iâ€™ve looked al over. Last night I let him out, and I thought I might have heard him cry out once, but I wasnâ€™t sure. He didnâ€™t come in al night, but thatâ€™s not unusual.â€ No, it wouldnâ€™t

have been. There have been many kittens in this town that bore his distinctive gray saddle as an heraldic symbol of his nightly excursions.

â€œThis morning,â€ she continued, â€œI looked for him again, but thereâ€™s no sign. He never misses his breakfast.â€

â€œWel , letâ€™s hope for the best,â€ I said weakly. Mildred col ected herself and went on her way. Cindy was talking to me, but I wasnâ€™t listening. In my mind, I was seeing a pitiful old tom dangling from the jaws of a drooling al igator.

â€œAre you hearing a word I said?â€ Cindy asked.

â€œOh, uh, no. Iâ€™m sorry, I was thinking of poor Mildred. Whom wil she talk to over breakfast tomorrow?â€

Cindyâ€™s voice changed from annoyed to concerned. â€œLord, Alex, is it that bad? Has she real y got no one?â€

â€œI kind of think so. She lives alone. I donâ€™t think she dates. I donâ€™t know of any family here in town.â€

â€œWel , weâ€™l have to come up with something. Thatâ€™s too sad for words! Give me a day or so. What I asked you was, can you have me at the airport at seven thirty tomorrow morning? Choate El is is having Cassie ï€‚y us over for the seminar.â€

Choate El is was the bank CEO and Cindyâ€™s boss. Cassie was my best buddy and president of Outer Cape Charter. She was also its pilot, secretary, reservation clerk and mechanic. If she ever cal ed and said she needed me to ï€‚y â€™round the

world with her, Iâ€™d grab my toothbrush and run.

â€œSure, I can do that.â€ I must have looked wistful.

â€œMaybe you could ride over and back, so you and Cassie could play war games on the way home.â€

Now how did she know we sometimes did that? This woman consistently amazed me. â€œThanks,â€ I replied with total cool, â€œBut I have some stuff to catch up with in the morning. Oh, you might want to check your blouse, your shoulder is covered with

makeup.â€ There, that would ï€x her.

She looked down. â€œOh, my God, Iâ€™l have to go and try to wash it off. Dammit! Iâ€™l see you at the house for dinner, right?â€

â€œRight.â€ I angled off toward a tel er to get some cash.

It was an evening of sixes and sevens.

Cindy swore sheâ€™d told me to pick up something to make for dinner. I swore she hadnâ€™t. I offered to go get something. She said she didnâ€™t feel like cooking. I suggested we order take-out. She said it was fattening. Final y, I made my famous ham

and cheese omelets and a salad. The omelets were a little brown on the bottom, but I thought they tasted ï€ne. In fact, I surreptitiously ï€nished hers when I cleared the table. I wasnâ€™t very ful . I guess she was.

I said Iâ€™d clean up, while Cindy packed. As she dragged a suitcase from the closet, Fargo began to pace and keen. He hates suitcases, knowing ful wel they mean someone he loves is going away, and heâ€™s probably not going with them. There

was no shutting him up. I retired to the kitchen and picked up one of the scandal sheets Cindy consistently brings home and swears she never reads.

It was the usual intel ectual y chal enging stuff. Several famous women were pregnant, apparently by al the wrong men. A Mississippi man had spontaneously combusted at a tent revival while speaking in tongues, and neither ï€remen nor doctors

could explain the phenomenon. A woman in Germany had gotten locked in a restaurant freezer for two days, but survived. Doctors could not explain that, either. A dog in China had given birth to a litter consisting of four puppies and two piglets. I

always wondered why these incidents always seemed to be in faraway countries, or perhaps Mississippi or West Virginia.

One feature caught my attention because of the photos. Dress and hairstyles indicated they had been taken a number of years ago. They showed a woman, standing in a courtroom as a jury foreman read out the verdict. She was stunning,

obviously tal , and slender, with a regal y long neck and wel -deï€ned features, dark hair slightly waved . . . and a total y blank expression. There were also insets, apparently school photos, of two children, a rather plain girl of perhaps eleven, and an

absolutely beautiful little boy about seven.

The headline read: Woodchopper Killer Dies After 30 Years in Mass. Mental Hospital. The story, if you took away most of the adjectives, said that the woman discovered, or thought she discovered, her husband had been sexual y abusing her

son and possibly her daughter. The wife was in the backyard feeding her husbandâ€™s various body parts into the woodchopper, when the two kids returned home from a neighborâ€™s birthday party. They natural y fol owed the noise into the backyard,

and rapidly went running back up the street, screaming hysterical y.

Interestingly, the woman had not pled insanity, but instead had insisted on pleading self-defense, in that she was defending her two children, who were too young to defend themselves. It didnâ€™t work. They found her insane anyway, and gave her a

life sentence at a state mental facility. Thirty years. My God, it must have seemed like an eternity!

By now Fargo had moved his own little anxiety attack to the kitchen, resting his head on my leg and emitting soft whimpers. I stroked his back. â€œOkay, okay.â€ I raised my voice. â€œHoney, Iâ€™m going to take him outside for a minute before he has a

nervous breakdown.â€

â€œOr gives me one,â€ came sharply back.

By the time we returned Cindy was in the kitchen, having poured herself a glass of wine and made me a bourbon highbal . Quickly, she pushed the scandal sheet aside. â€œI donâ€™t know why I buy those things, I never read them.â€

â€œI know.â€ I sipped my drink. â€œWhat did you think of the guy down south who spontaneously combusted?â€

â€œIt grossed me out! Oops, you caught me.â€ She gave me that smile that always makes me just a little short of breath.

I grinned back. â€œFeeling better?â€

â€œI think youâ€™ve caught me there, too. I canâ€™t seem to help it. I just get a little batty whenever one of us has to travel. Itâ€™s so strange.â€ She reached for a cigarette, something she does about once a month. She would smoke only that one. I donâ€™t know

how she does it.

â€œAre you worried about an accident, or a bomb or something?â€ I asked.

â€œOh, to a degree, sure, but thatâ€™s not it. And itâ€™s not that I think either one of us is going to stray, although sometimes it sounds that way.â€ She moved her wineglass around in a little circle.

â€œWhatâ€™s left?â€ I wasnâ€™t fol owing too wel here.

â€œIâ€™m afraid when I come home, or you come home, one of us wil be completely changed. One of us wonâ€™t be the same at al . . . completely different. Our attitudes, feelings, needs . . . everything wil have changed. One of us wil be a stranger.â€ Her

eyes began to ï€l .

â€œSweetheart! Please donâ€™t cry.â€ I straightened in alarm. â€œYou know I donâ€™t do wel when you cry!â€ In fact I was frantic at the ï€rst tear. â€œWe arenâ€™t going to change! Never! Iâ€™m Alex. What you see is what you got. It may not be great, but itâ€™s me . . . and

always wil be. And you could never be less than what you are. Never!â€ I reached across the table for her hand, but it was not enough. I went around the table to hold her, and she rose to meet me. I held her painful y tight. I could not lose her.

She took a shaky breath. â€œYou donâ€™t think Iâ€™m nuts? Maybe I need a shrink.â€

â€œMaybe you just need a drink, and since itâ€™s out in the open and youâ€™ve talked about it, it wonâ€™t bother you so much. If it does, you can always see a shrink if you want. Or if you want to talk to me, love, Iâ€™m here. Iâ€™m always here. I love you, batty or

not.â€ I looked at her, and she nodded, and with one accord we drifted toward the bedroom.

And we talked, and we touched and then we slowly reached that ultima Thule that comes so rarely and so perfectly, when al things disappear into unbearable and absolute pleasure.

Chapter 4

Cindy looked very attractive and professional in her â€œBostonâ€ clothes. I noted that both Choate El is and Cassie gave her an appreciative once-over as we walked toward the plane. It made me feel like I was escorting a movie star. We gave each

other a light, and decorous cheek-to-cheek hug, and she climbed into the cabin with a gal ant assist from Cassie.

â€œSafe trip,â€ I said to no one in particular.

I watched as Cassie ï€red up the starboard engine and then the port and taxied to the runwayâ€™s end. The smal plane hurtled back toward me along the runway and cleared the ground just as it passed in front of me. Gaining altitude, Cassie waved

and began a slow turn back over the bay to aim them toward Bostonâ€™s Logan Airport.

Sighing, I walked to my car. â€œFargo, why were we not born rich? Or at least rich enough to ï€‚y a plane like that al over the place?â€ He shrugged and sat down in the passengerâ€™s seat, ready to leave. I think he considered airplanes strange noisy

cars that were best avoided.

I decided to stop by on the way home and see what Mom was up to on this nice morning.

I found her lopping branches off an old forsythia that bloomed magniï€cently every spring and then grew wild every summer.

She straightened up and eyed the shrub warily. â€œOne of these days itâ€™s going to reach out and get me. Hel o, my darlings.â€ She kissed me as she petted Fargo. â€œAnd how are we this morning?â€

â€œWel , we just saw Cindy and Choate El is off to Boston on Cassieâ€™s magic carpet.â€

She gave me a motherâ€™s look. â€œSo you are on your own for a few days.â€

â€œYeah.â€ I started picking up forsythia clippings and shoving them in the plastic bag nearby. I thought about my conversation last night with Cindy. I was delighted sheâ€™d â€œconfessedâ€ and thought it boded wel for anytime one of us had to be away in

the future. I thought about my own chimera and wondered if I could muster up the courage ever to discuss it. The thought of that conversation was real y beginning to bug me.

Mom stopped work, laid the clippers on the wal and then sat down beside them.

â€œYou seem a bit quiet this morning, Alex. Everything al right?â€

â€œOh, absolutely, thanks. Yes, Iâ€™m ï€ne. I was just thinking. Apparently, Cindyâ€™s had this little bugbear that has been chasing her around. Last night she told me about it. She felt greatly relieved afterward and was glad to realize what it was. Just

sil iness, real y, but something that got bigger and bigger in her mind. It wasnâ€™t real y a problem, you know, but I think weâ€™l both be easier, now itâ€™s in the open. She had this nutty hang-up anytime either of us traveled.â€

Mom patted the wal beside her, inviting me to sit down.

â€œAnd you have a little bugbear chasing you around, but you canâ€™t talk about it?â€

My mother knew her child.

â€œWel , yes.â€ I told her of my fear that I would disappear as an individual if Cindy and I lived together. In the bright morning sun, it sounded a hel uva lot sil ier than Cindyâ€™s problem, which I had treated rather lightly.

Mom was silent a moment and then said, â€œI donâ€™t know that Iâ€™m the right person to talk to. I know that for years I felt I had gone from being my parentsâ€™ daughter, to being my husbandâ€™s wife and then my childrenâ€™s mother. My marriage was not a

glowing success, as you know and frankly, I never real y felt like â€˜Jeanne the Personâ€™ until after your fatherâ€™s death.â€

Nothing about my father had been a glowing success in my mind, either. He drank heavily but not happily. He was scathingly sarcastic. He was dissatisï€ed with his job as a supermarket manager, but not enough to do anything about it, and

maybe he was depressed. God knows it had not been a joyous house in his lifetime.

When I was twelve and Sonny fourteen, Provincetown got the edge of a violent, fast-moving hurricane. If that was the edge, I would hate to have seen the middle. To this day I can remember the terror and helplessness I felt. Mom, Sonny and I

spent the night glued to the radio, at least in some way attached to other people. Daddy Dearest spent it glued to the Scotch bottle. The next morning was drizzly and windy, but the worst, the trusty radio told us, was over.

A neighborâ€™s tree had been a casualty, bringing wires down with it and partial y blocking our driveway. After watching the wires for some time, our cold, hungover father pronounced the wires dead and went to pul them and the limb away from the

drive so he could go to work. Standing in a puddle, he lifted the branch, did a nightmarish, seemingly endless little tap dance and fel dead on the asphalt, some thirty thousand volts having gone through his body.

I looked at my mother. â€œDid you ever miss him?â€ I hadnâ€™t.

â€œOh, generical y, yes. Of course I was stunned and appal ed at his death. But feeling as if I had lost half myself? No. I vowed I would bring you and Sonny up to be your own personalities, and I managed to do that, although you each scared me half

to death on occasion.â€

She smiled and continued. â€œI donâ€™t think your fear is entirely without reason. I seem to recal that one or two of your lady friends were a bit suffocating, and one so narcissistic, I was afraid she might destroy you. But, fortunately Cindy is none of the

above. And you know, many people live out their lives together quite contentedly. I doubt you wil ever lose yourself, Alex, but you could lose Cindy if you donâ€™t discuss this. Maybe you need to continue living apart for a whileâ€”or foreverâ€”but you

need to be doing whatever you do consciously and by design, not by default.â€

I loved my mom.

Then I went to ï€nd my brother. I was worried.

I found him in his ofï€ce, also worried.

â€œWhat do you think about that Withers woman?â€ he asked abruptly. â€œIs she crazy? Alcoholic? What?â€

â€œI think she told the truth as she saw it, and original y I thought it was that she was upset, tired and drunk and just had a realistic dream she thought actual y happened. Now, Iâ€™m wondering.â€ I told him about Hercules.

â€œOh, hel . Mildred has a house out near Harmon, doesnâ€™t she?â€ He got up and ï€l ed his coffee mug from the carafe behind his desk. I noticed his hand was slightly shaky. Obviously this was not his ï€rst cup. â€œWant some?â€

â€œNo. Yes, Mildred lives out that way. Why?â€

â€œEarlier this morning I stopped by Aunt Maeâ€™s to drop off some big bags of potting soil I picked up yesterday for her. I knew she was at that convention thing, but some high school girl is keeping the shop open for her, so I knew the garage would

be unlocked. I saw Harmonâ€™s truck at the cottage and walked over. He had apparently brought over some lumber and paint for some project, but when I found him, he was sitting on the deck, holding Wel s in his arms and crying like a baby.â€

I jumped up in alarm. â€œWhatâ€™s wrong with Wel s? Did you get her to a vet?â€

Wel s was Cindyâ€™s adorable young black cat, sweet and affectionate, complete with tuxedo front and a white chin that looked like a dab of whipped cream. Cindy would be heartbroken if anything were seriously wrong with her.

Sonny held up both hands. â€œNothing is wrong with Wel s. I think she was just comforting Harmon for the loss of his rabbits.â€

A few years back, somewhere in his wanderings, Harmon had found a pair of baby bunnies, obviously orphaned. Heâ€™d brought them home and managed to raise them into healthy pets. They were actual y kitty litter trained, and lived in the house

in cold weather. Now, they were outdoors in a large, grassy pen, complete with a cozy doghouse in case of rain.

â€œWhat happened to them?â€ I changed my mind and helped myself to coffee. This pet thing was turning into a nightmare.

â€œHarmon got home late last night. Something had broken into the pen, and they were gone. He looked al overâ€”no rabbits. Poor bastard, he kept mopping his face with this grimy handkerchief and sobbing, â€˜Theyâ€™re al I had, al I had.â€™ He damn

near had me sobbing with him.â€ He sipped his coffee.

â€œMy God, the poor man! Sonny, what the hel is going on here? This al makes no sense. We arenâ€™t al igator country.â€ I swal owed some coffee and no longer had any doubts why Sonnyâ€™s hands were shaking. A jail inmate forced to drink it would

swear his civil rights had been violated . . . and win.

Sonny shrugged. â€œI donâ€™t know. First the trouble was more or less downtown, now maybe itâ€™s out near the ponds. Al we need is this thing to grab a kid.â€

â€œBut no one has seen the al igator! Is he real y there? Could it be a super big coon? Maybe heâ€™s rabid or something?â€ I lit cigarette four, and Sonny motioned for the pack.

â€œThatâ€™s a great comfort. Now which do we want most, a six-foot al igator or a giant rabid coon?â€

â€œI try. Say, Sonny, what did you think of that cardboard â€˜messageâ€™ of Harmonâ€™s, signed by â€˜Al?â€™â€

Sonny laughed. â€œI think some guy named Al broke up with his girlfriend and wants her to get her stuff the hel out of his apartment. What did you think?â€

â€œI thought maybe some kid named Al was keeping a bunch of stuff for a buddy, and Alâ€™s mother told him to clean up his room or sheâ€™d bring in a backhoe, so Al wrote a note to his pal.â€

â€œAnother good possibility. Believe me, I did not cal the DEA. However, I did spend a long time on the phone just now to a fel ow down at Mystic Marine Aquarium. Very helpful. He said if the gator is here, someone had to have brought him. No

way could he have wandered al the way up here. Secondly, like al cold-blooded animals, the gator doesnâ€™t need to eat a lot frequently. He can live on water birds and smal animals for a long time, depending on how big he is and how good the

hunting is. Thirdly, heâ€™s probably been as scared as the rest of us, and if he ï€nds a friendly waterhole, heâ€™l lie low. At least for a while. Maybe nab the occasional Canada goose or smal dog or cat. But eventual y . . .â€

â€œYouâ€™l have to tel everyone to watch their pets and children.â€ I stubbed out my cigarette. â€œSonny, you must!â€

Sonny shook his head. â€œWrong. Alex, I canâ€™t issue some frightening, horror-ï€l ed warning al over town, based on the disappearance of a couple of pets and the dream or delusion of a drunken woman who may also be emotional y disturbed.

Every fool in town who owns a gun is already sitting on the front porch waiting for a gator to strol by.â€ He mimed raising a riï€‚e to his shoulder and ï€ring.

He stood up and turned to the window. â€œHercules was older than God. He probably is lying peaceful y under a bush somewhere. A dog or coon got the rabbits. Period. I do not,â€ he continued slowly, â€œplan to be the person who single-handedly

bankrupts Cape Cod this summer. There wouldnâ€™t be a tourist left any closer to the Cape than Taunton. We have beefed up al our night shifts. Al our squad cars are carrying thirty-thirty riï€‚es and making extra runs by al the ponds we can see from

the roads. Everyone has extra-big ï€‚ashlights, and if any foot patrol person is carrying a forty-ï€ve in their holster, Iâ€™m pretending not to notice it. Everyone is looking, looking, looking. Theyâ€™l shoot if they have to. Itâ€™s al I can do, Alex. The Chief agrees.â€

His shoulders sagged.

I felt sorry for him. â€œYouâ€™re probably right,â€ was al I could think to say in farewel .

Reaching Nachoâ€™s desk, I picked up Fargoâ€™s leash to lead him away from the gourmet deli in her ï€le cabinet. Nacho was busy on the computer, but turned her head to say, â€œHe had three potato chips, two smal pretzels and a cup of water.â€

â€œThanks.â€ I led Fargo slowly away, head, ears and tail down, a dog obviously in dire need of sustenance. â€œListen, Barrymore, you had breakfast at home and a nice little snack with Nacho. Cut the starvation act.â€ He trudged on, an abused animal

if ever I had seen one.

We made it to a park bench without my having to carry him. I sat down. He ï€‚opped. â€œListen, Fargo, itâ€™s think time. It seems to me, weâ€™ve been hearing a bunch of sobs and moans and people saying, â€˜They were al I had,â€™ or â€˜He was everything to

me.â€™

â€œNow to me, that means they needed these animals a lot, but even more, it sounds like the animals needed them to care for them. As it stands, these people are stuck with nothing that needs them. And thatâ€™s an awful feeling. Agreed?â€ He

whufï€‚ed what might have been reluctant agreement.

â€œSo what needs a lot of care? A baby, right?â€ No reply. I continued. â€œNow Harmon would love a puppy.â€ Fargo looked up and gave a half wag. Sometimes I stil cal ed him my good puppy. â€œBut a puppy wouldnâ€™t be right for Harmon. He needs

something he can leave overnight when he goes out on one of the ï€shing boats or beachcombing after a storm. And Mildred is a cat person.â€ The word â€œcatâ€ got to him. He sat up and looked around alertly, ready for play, a chase, even supervised

socializing, whatever worked.

â€œNo, Fargo, Iâ€™m thinking in terms of kittens.â€ He was stil looking. â€œLetâ€™s go. You wonâ€™t like where weâ€™re going, but you can stay in the car.â€

As we turned into the vetâ€™s driveway, Fargo curled up in a tight bal , getting smal er and smal er as I parked. I opened my door. â€œI wonâ€™t be long, you stay.â€ He closed the one eye he had cracked open.

Entering the vetâ€™s I saw that Victor was chatting casual y with his ofï€ce manager and a kennel boy. Good, I wouldnâ€™t have to wait.

â€œHey, Alex, whatâ€™s up? Whereâ€™s Fargo?â€

â€œIn the car, heâ€™s ï€ne.â€ I explained the purpose of my visit.

â€œYouâ€™re a good sport, Alex. Thatâ€™s a great idea. Letâ€™s see whoâ€™s got some kittens.â€ He walked around into the waiting room, where a large bul etin board took up most of one wal . He looked over a number of the notices pinned there, then

removed one.

â€œHere we go, Alice Pennington. She takes very good care of her animals. She felt Melody deserved to have one litter and wil have her spayed as soon as the kittens are placed. I believe Melody produced seven beauties. Let me cal Alice and

see whoâ€™s left.â€

Four were leftâ€”three females and a male. I departed the vetâ€™s with two of those cardboard carriers, several samples of kitten food, and two booklets on the care of kittens, with a note penned on the front: Be sure the kittens visit a veterinarian

by Sept. 1, for booster shots and to arrange neutering.

Alice Pennington was glad to see me. The kittens were now almost nine weeks old and ful of energy. I picked out a sweet little tiger female and the gray and white male for Harmon. I ï€gured a gray and white male might have been too

reminiscent of Hercules for Mildred. For her I chose a sweet-faced calico, thinking a gentle female might also be better than Hercules in the affection department.

Alice gave a little moue, fol owed by some very unappealing baby talk. â€œPoor little tabby-kit is going to be left al alone and by her lonesome, isnâ€™t her? Oh-hh. Poor babykins. Poor little orphan kitty-pooh. And, you know, Alex, itâ€™s real y easier

having two. They entertain each other.â€

I knew I was being sweet-talked, but what the hel ? I popped poor little tabby-kit into the carrier. I proffered Alice a twenty-dol ar bil , which she made one weak gesture of declining, but then reached for, returning to normal-speak.

â€œThanks, itâ€™l help with Melodyâ€™s spaying bil .â€

Chapter 5

Driving toward Mildredâ€™s house, I thought of names for kittens, while Fargo kept turning toward the backseat and whufï€‚ing. Since Mildred had named her old cat Hercules, I ï€gured maybe she was into Greek mythology. Wel , okay. We could do

that. The little calico looked to be sunny-tempered, so we could cal her Eos, the dawn goddess. And the tabby hadnâ€™t seemed the least bit pitiful to me. In fact, she had seemed quite sassy, so she became Eris, goddess of discord.

Parked in Mildredâ€™s driveway, I printed a stick-up note on the pad I kept in the compartment: â€œWe are homeless and helpless. Wonâ€™t you please take care of us? We know we wil be happy with you. Love, Calico Eos and Tabby Eris.â€ Making sure

the little plastic bowl of food in the carrier was ful , I ï€l ed the other smal container with water from the jug I keep in the car for Fargo, and set the carrier on the porch in the shade. One down.

Making the short trip to Harmonâ€™s place, I repeated my actions. I didnâ€™t real y think Harmon would be interested in Greeks of long ago, so I signed his note: â€œTom and Geraldine.â€ Mission accomplished.

It was late afternoon and I ï€gured we had labored long enough for one day. We headed home for a game of tag with the hose, the thril of picking one of my very own tomatoes, a big bowl of fresh cold water and a can of icy Budweiser. Cigarette

number six, I feared, but I was in too good a mood to be very accusatory about it.

We continued the pleasant evening by ordering our favorite pizzaâ€”sausage with extra cheese. I made myself a salad and ï€l ed Fargoâ€™s bowl with dry food, which he ignored, knowing ful wel pizza was en route.

Retiring to the living room, I clicked on the tel y. One of the cable stations was featuring a Bio-Drama of the Woodchopper Woman whose photo I had seen in Cindyâ€™s scandal sheet the other day. The thing that amazed me about such Bio Dramas was not how bad they were, but how they existed at al . How on earth did the stations manage to col ect so many pictures, so many relatives and neighbors and cops to be interviewed, in so short a time? Surely, they couldnâ€™t keep ï€les and

ï€lm clips on everyone who ever went to jail or a mental facility! It was truly incredible. Of course we were going to watch it while we ate. Cindy would never know.

It boiled down pretty much to what had been in the paper. According to neighbors, Virginia Leonard was the average American housewife, thought to be happily married, a good housekeeper and good mother, if somewhat overprotective of her

two children. Her husband Jeff worked for an auditing ï€rm and traveled frequently, but seemed to enjoy his wife and kids whenever he was home.

â€œAnd then one afternoon, it al changed for the Leonards,â€ the commentator intoned ominously.

A neighbor joined him on camera. â€œIt had been a pleasant summer day,â€ she said. â€œA little girl over on Fourteenth Street was having a birthday party. My two kids were going and so were Elaine and Bobby Leonard.â€ The screen ï€‚ashed photos of

the plain young girl and the beautiful little boy.

â€œI would have let my kids walk over to the party,â€ the neighbor continued, â€œBut Virginia cal ed and suggested she would take al four, if I would pick them up. That was typical. Virginia hated her kids to be anywhere without adult supervision. So

thatâ€™s what we did. She took â€™em and I picked them up after the party. I dropped them at the end of their driveway.â€

Her voice began to quaver.

â€œIâ€™l never forgive myself. I dropped them off at their driveway, and those kids just walked up that driveway and right around the house to see their mother cutting up their father in the woodchopper. But I didnâ€™t know. How could I have known? I had

just backed the car out and turned toward home, and then I heard them screaming al the way down the block. I backed up at about ninety miles an hour. I donâ€™t know how I did it. They were in the road holding each other and screaming. I jumped out

and got my arms around them, asking them what on earth was wrong? They couldnâ€™t even tel me, they just fel against me, sobbing.â€

The screen now featured a picture of Virginia and Jeff Leonard in happier daysâ€”a slender young woman, slightly tal er than her husband, who was a stocky young man with light brown wavy hair and an easy grin. She held a baby. He clasped the

hand of a little girl.

Another neighbor next joined the interview. â€œI lived right across the street. A little earlier in the day I had been busy, and my then two-year-old Petey somehow unlatched the screen and got out of the house. He was always quite a little terror.â€ She

smiled, remembering, as if it had been some sign of greatness to come.

â€œWhen I realized it, I ran out just in time to see Jeff Leonard pul in his driveway, jump out of his car and run out into the street to pick up Petey. Jeff was laughing as he scooped Petey up. â€˜Now, Cowboy, where do you think youâ€™re going? Youâ€™re

going right home to mama, thatâ€™s where! No more adventures for you today, pal.â€™â€

The woman took a drink of water. â€œHe set Petey down in our yard, patted his bottom and said, â€˜Now get along home, Cowboy, before you get hurt.â€™ I ran down and got Petey and thanked Jeff. I had Petey in my arms and he leaned over and gave

Jeff a kiss on the cheek. Jeff tousled his head and left. I cal ed out an apology and he turned and laughed again. â€˜Al kids get loose sometimes, no matter how hard you watch. I guess they have guardian angels.â€™â€

She sniffed. â€œThat was the last time I saw him alive. He was the one that needed an angel . Then later, Virginia tried to say Jeff was abusing Petey! Right there on the street with me watching. Poor woman was crazed, of course.â€

Fargo and I were doing pretty wel . I was watching the screen and eating pizza and salad, with the occasional sip of beer. Fargo was eating the crusts and counting the pieces left in the box. The drama returned after brief commercialsâ€”about six

minutes worth.

Our next guest was a retired woman police ofï€cer who had worked on the case. â€œWorst damn case I ever got assigned to,â€ she began. â€œI had nightmares for years to come. When my partner and I got there, a man from a nearby house was

already standing at the end of the driveway, stopping neighbors from going into the Leonardsâ€™ backyard. When the kids had started yel ing, he had come over and helped the neighbor woman herd them into her car again, and then he had run to the

back of the Leonardsâ€™ house to see what was wrong. What he saw was Mrs. Leonard with a butcher knife and a hatchet, dismembering her husband on the picnic table and feeding the smal er parts into a woodchopper.â€

The ex-cop made an automatic gesture toward her shirt pocket for cigarettes, remembered where she was and settled for water. â€œWhen Virginia Leonard saw the neighbor, she screamed something like, â€˜Go away! I must save the children from

this monster!â€™ The man saw the knife and hatchet and didnâ€™t argue. He ran back out front, hol ering for someone to cal 911, and waving people off . . . and barï€ng al over the place.â€ That earned her a sour look from the commentator.

The ex-ofï€cer continued, with a faraway look, as if she were seeing it al again. â€œWe were the ï€rst police car there. We talked her into turning off the chopper and tel ing us what was going on . . . as if we couldnâ€™t see. She told us very calmly that

her husband had often sexual y abused their son and daughter. That he had admitted it and agreed to seek help. Then, just minutes before, she had seen him openly abuse the little two-year-old across the street and laugh about it with the mother,

who must be abusive also.â€

â€œThat had apparently put Mrs. Leonard over the top,â€ the cop continued. â€œWhen her husband came into the kitchen his wife stabbed him six times with a butcher knife and dragged him into the backyard.â€

A social services worker appeared next. â€œIt took us til the next day to calm the children sufï€ciently even to talk to them. And to this day, Iâ€™m not sure what part of that whole sad story is true. The daughter Elaine said that the mother was always

â€˜nervousâ€™ and wanted to know where they were and what they were doing every minute. Elaine added that up until the last few months, things had been a lot more fun when Daddy was home. He helped with homework, took the kids to basebal

games, swimming, hiking, etc. Sometimes al four would go to a movie or, occasional y a theme park.â€ The woman stopped, put on her glasses and consulted some notes.

â€œLately, things had been a mess, Elaine said, and blamed her brother Bobby. He didnâ€™t want to go anywhere without Daddy, or didnâ€™t want Mom and Sis to go along at al . He complained that Elaine and Mom didnâ€™t want Daddy to love him

anymore. Then he told her that Daddy loved him best, man-to-man, now that Elaine was getting big and grown-up like Mom. Wel , you can imagine what a can of worms that opened up, especial y when Elaine ï€‚atly and consistently denied her father

had ever touched either her or, she was sure, Bobby, improperly.â€

More commercials. No more pizza, and ï€nal y, the end of the Leonard saga.

The psychiatrist Jeff Leonard had agreed to see was never found and was thought to be a ï€gment of Virginiaâ€™s imagination. Elaine quietly stuck to her story. Bobby stuck hysterical y but vaguely to his and was thought to be lying. Medical

examinations showed no signs of abuse to either child. One shrink added that Bobby had perhaps somehow seen his parents having sex and thought his father was hurting his mother, especial y if she had been making moaning sounds at the time.

He was simply a very sensitive child. Yeah, Iâ€™d bet. The kid looked beautiful but shifty to me. I ï€gured him for just wanting everyoneâ€™s attention.

Virginiaâ€™s insistence that Jeffâ€™s pat on Peteyâ€™s bottom was sexual y abusive didnâ€™t help her case. Neither did her plea that she had kil ed Jeff in self-defense, acting for her children who could not protect themselves. She was sent to a facility for

the criminal y insane, for life, such as it must have been. Solemn little Elaine and adorable blond, wavy locks Bobby were adoptedâ€”separatelyâ€”in another state, and changed their names accordingly. Their whereabouts, the commentator smirked,

were careful y guarded, letting us al know he could have found them if he wished.

Later, I let Fargo out for last cal , and when he came in I patted his bottom. â€œI guess weâ€™l have to start watching that,â€ I told him.

He yawned and slurped some water onto the ï€‚oor.

Friday morning I had snuck Fargo out for an early beach run and was back, sitting in the kitchen with a mug of my special Costa Rican coffee, when the phone rang. It was my mom.

After our hel os, she announced, â€œIâ€™m at work. Mildred Morris was just here to drop off the monthly accounts. She looks ten years younger than she did yesterday.â€

â€œThatâ€™s nice to hear, wish I could say the same.â€ Pause. Pause. â€œEr, is there some reason I need this information?â€

â€œYesterday afternoon she found two adorable kittens left on her doorstep. A note said their names were Eos and Eris.â€

â€œWhat strange names!â€ I grinned at my mug.

â€œNot if you once knew a little girl who was crazy about Greek mythology,â€ she said. â€œI just wanted to let you know, I know you did it. Youâ€™re a softie and I love you. Bye.â€ She hung up.

Cross Mildred off the worry list. One down, one to go. The phone rang again. This time it was Cindy.

â€œHi, darling! Tried you earlier, but the line was busy.â€

â€œYes, it was Mom.â€

â€œEverything okay?â€

â€œOh, sure. She cal ed to tel me someone left two cute kittens on Mildred Morrisâ€™s doorstep, and Mildred is recovering rapidly from Herculesâ€™ sad disappearance.â€ I sipped the coffee, getting cool but stil great.

â€œAnd I suppose you had nothing to do with that.â€ I could tel she was smiling.

â€œAbsolutely not.â€

â€œAlex, are you lying?â€

â€œAbsolutely.â€

â€œI thought so. You can be quite nice on occasion. Itâ€™s why I put up with al the other times.â€

â€œAl what other times?â€

â€œI have to get downstairs. I just wanted to let you know, weâ€™l be back around six or so. Choate says he wil drop me off, so you donâ€™t have to worry about fetching me from the airport.â€

â€œI always ï€nd you fetching.â€

â€œIâ€™m glad. I gotta run. I love you, cat woman. Bye.â€

â€œMe too. Bye.â€

My two phone conversations gave me inspiration to do a few things around the house. How had it gotten into a mess in just one day? Fargo had tracked up the kitchen. I had duplicated him in the bathroom. The empty pizza box and a dirty

ashtray plus an empty beer can decorated the coffee table. Jeez! The couch pil ows were squashed. Oh, Lord, give me strength. He did, I guess, until around noon, when I said the hel with it.

I wondered how Harmon was coming along with the deck and if he would be ï€nished by tonight when Aunt Mae returned. I hoped she would have no reason to go down to the cottage, and assumed Cindy and I would be here overnight.

I took for granted that Harmon would be lunching at the Wharf Rat Bar. Maybe I should go down and ask about his progress. That was the only reason I was going. I certainly would have preferred to stay home and have a nice cucumber sandwich

and some of Cindyâ€™s skim milk for lunch, but I real y needed to know about the deck and should pay him if it were ï€nished.

Leaving His Nibs ensconced in the shade with a bowl of water, I went inside and found a seat at the bar. Sure enough, Harmon had joined his confreres for luncheon and was, as usual, dominating the conversation.

â€œWel , oâ€™course I ainâ€™t no expert on cats. But they was so little and helpless . . . what you gonna do? I brought â€™em in and quick-like read that little paper that came with â€™em, tel ing you what to do with them, and we was off to a ï€ne start.â€

I began to relax and ordered lunch before I tuned back in. â€œNow that little cutie, Geraldine, she just curled up in my arm and looked around like a little . . . a little princess . . . and then fel right asleep. But that Tom.â€ He sighed deeply. â€œI tel you, heâ€™s

forever runninâ€™ up my pants leg and jumping from my lap to the table and slidinâ€™ al over the ï€‚oor.â€ He shook his head heavily. â€œHe donâ€™t give a man a minuteâ€™s rest.â€

I turned to my sandwich and iced tea with a free conscience. Harmon was in love.

Shortly after six, Cindy barged through the kitchen door, dropping her suitcase, kicking off her high heels, and fending off Fargoâ€™s exuberant greeting. I got up to kiss her hel o, and she gave me a peck and pushed me away. â€œDonâ€™t touch me! Iâ€™m

sweaty and awful. Boston was an oven. The plane and Choateâ€™s car were worse after being parked in the sun for hours. I hate these damn shoes. Iâ€™ve always hated these damn shoes. I think Iâ€™l burn them. Donâ€™t even speak to me. Just pour me

something cold while I shower before I die.â€

It was just Cindy letting down after two days of being terribly gorgeous and professional. I could wait. â€œWhat do you want to drink? A tal Scotch?â€

â€œNo.â€ She was struggling to get out of her dress, but I knew better than to help. â€œIâ€™d just belt it down and be a nasty drunk, along with everything else. Iced tea is ï€ne.â€ She sidled out of the kitchen, dress stil over her head. I guessed she knew

where she was going.

I poured two iced teas from the pitcher we kept in the fridge and added ice and lemon. Then I took her suitcase in and put it on the bed. The shower was running, and Cindy was swearing like a sailor at something.

Fargo looked at me with concern. â€œDonâ€™t worry, itâ€™s not terminal. Come on.â€

We returned to the kitchen and took the iced tea glasses outdoors. Ten minutes later Cindy padded barefoot across the grass, dark curls stil damp, dressed in shorts and one of my too-big T-shirtsâ€”looking about sixteen. She sank into my lap.

â€œHel o, darling, did you miss me? I donâ€™t know why you would.â€

I kissed her and proved that I had. She sipped her tea and stood, pul ing my hand to bring me up with her. â€œI donâ€™t know why you came al the way out here, just to turn around and go back inside . . . at least I think the neighbors would prefer we go

back inside, donâ€™t you?â€

â€œWe must always be thoughtful of the neighbors,â€ I agreed and walked quickly toward the door.

Chapter 6

Fargo was a bright dog who understood many things. Being barred from the beach in summertime was not one of them. Frankly, I agreed with him. As long as we went early, left early and were diligent about poopybags, I saw no reason to

deprive us of our early morning visits. Fortunately, as Sonnyâ€™s sister, I knew that any patrols passing the beach at this hour of sunup would careful y look the other way. I didnâ€™t ride Sonnyâ€™s coattails in other ways and felt no guilt about letting Fargo get

his exercise and fun, tourists notwithstanding.

Before we left, I sat down on the edge of the bed, gently patting Cindyâ€™s cheek, risking a fast pop with a pil ow. â€œWeâ€™re off for a lap around Race Point, honey. Want to join us?â€

She snuggled deeper under the light summer quilt. â€œUh-uh, but Iâ€™l be up and running when you get back. I have a lot to do.â€

That was the answer I had hoped for. I wanted her up early and over to the cottage. Harmon had told me yesterday, heâ€™d ï€nished the repairs and the painting. I wanted to see itâ€”wanted her and Aunt Mae to see it.

We returned from the beach to be met at the backdoor by a whirlwind. â€œHose him off if heâ€™s sandy. What did you two do to this house? Here, these go in the car to go to the cleaners. Hereâ€™s a grocery list you can do at the same time. Actual y, two

of them, one list is for the cottage. I hope itâ€™s right. I can never remember whatâ€™s where. Whatâ€™s that bag?â€

â€œThat bag, my dear, holds our breakfastâ€”delicious, nutritious Portuguese fried bread.â€

â€œNutritious? It should be branded with a skul and crossbones. Wel , it is delicious. Come on, coffeeâ€™s made.â€

â€œThank you, kind lady. For a moment here, I was afraid we were out to beat the four-minute mile.â€

We sat down to coffee and the stil -warm bread. I broke mine in two and began to savor it, while Cindy nipped a tiny piece of her own. â€œSorry to be in such a rush, darling. I just want to get everything done so I can relax this afternoon. You

remember weâ€™re going to Lainey and Cassieâ€™s for drinks and dinner, to inaugurate their new dining room furniture.â€

â€œOh, yes, sure,â€ I lied. Then I remembered. â€œAnd Peter and the Wolf wil be there, too.â€

â€œRight.â€

â€œI hope to God it works out better than the last time this six-some was together for an evening.â€

Last fal , the six of us, augmented by Sonny and Trish, had gotten together here for dinner and it had been disastrous. Lainey and Cassie had started an argument that damn near got to the plate-tossing stage. Wolf and Sonny had got drunk.

Sonny and Trish had a tiff over who was to drive home. Wolf and Peter had had a blazing argument over an Amelia Earhart movie, of al things. And Cindy had gotten mad at me because Iâ€™d had just enough to drink to think it was al quite funny.

â€œI hope so, too,â€ Cindy replied with a sour look. â€œAt least Sonny wonâ€™t be leading the charge to the bar.â€

â€œMaybe Peter and Wolf wil bring some nice, sweet old movie like Fatal Attraction or Whoâ€™s Afraid of Virginia Woolf . Theyâ€™re always good for a real hoedown.â€

â€œOh, no. Donâ€™t even think it.â€ She cocked an ear toward the laundry room. â€œThat laundry should be almost ï€nished. Iâ€™l get it in the dryer and then go over to the cottage. I want to check on Wel s. I know the girl who watches the shop for Aunt Mae

has fed her, but that seems sort of . . . cold. She must be wondering where I am.â€

â€œSonny was over there on some errand.â€ I ï€nished my bread and stole a smal piece of Cindyâ€™s. â€œSaid Wel s was ï€ne. But Iâ€™l wait and fol ow you over before I do errands, just to make sure everything is okay.â€

â€œThatâ€™s very thoughtful of you, darling, and if you touch that bread again, Iâ€™l break your wrist. More coffee?â€

Aunt Mae must having been watching out the window. The minute our cars pul ed in, she came briskly across the lawn, wearing an accusatory little half smile and shaking her ï€nger. â€œNow, Cynthia, just what have you gone and done?â€

Cindyâ€™s eyebrows went up. â€œHi, Aunt Mae. I donâ€™t know what you mean.â€

â€œOf course you do. And it real y is my responsibility. Now just tel me what it cost and Iâ€™l write you a check right now.â€ She patted the pocket of the green canvas apron she had already donned for her day in the herb shop.

By now we had turned the corner of the house, and the deck was before us. Harmon had done a good job. It looked sturdy and straight, and was painted a deep Wedgwood blue that looked great against the gray of the cottage.

â€œAunt Mae, I didnâ€™t do this, or have it done. I meant to. We enjoy it so much, and you are so generous about the rent, I was going to have it done, but I just hadnâ€™t gotten around to it.â€

â€œThen who did it?â€ Aunt Mae asked.

Then they both looked at me. â€œA-a-a-lex!â€

I bowed. â€œGuilty. I love ya both, ladies, and I didnâ€™t want you or anyone else getting hurt on it. My smal gift. My great pleasure.â€ I bowed again.

At ï€rst there were lots of statements to the effect that it wasnâ€™t in the least my responsibility, and lots of arms waving checkbooks. But then I got lots of hugs and kisses, and several choruses of, â€œYou real y shouldnâ€™t have.â€ Wel s ran down from Aunt

Maeâ€™s house and leaped for Cindyâ€™s arms. Fargo ran around and barked. It was a Hal mark moment.

I soon escaped and went on my appointed rounds.

For years, Lainey and Cassieâ€™s so-cal ed dining room had been â€œfurnishedâ€ with a dilapidated old kitchen table with four unmatched chairs and two sagging bookcases. But now al was changed. It was a lovely room, with soft green carpeting

and a smal apple wood breakfront as its focal points. A shining dining room table and six chairs with pink, lavender and beige needlepoint upholstery, plus a buffet of rich pecan wood ï€nished off the room. A bouquet of fresh tal pink coneï€‚owers on

the buffet added a nice touch of drama.

Cindy, Wolf, Peter and I had offered numerous compliments on the room, and had sat down to a dinner that kept us making admiring comments. On a warm summer night, Lainey had chosen a cold dinner menu that was both delicious to eat and

lovely to look at. It was a meal to die for. And it probably tasted al the better for its lovely surroundings.

Conversation had been desultory. I noticed we stayed on safe subjects: the disappearing al igatorâ€”interest was dying fast on that subject, the joys and disappointments of gardening, a break up that had surprised no one and, of course, the

weather.

Cassie and Lainey had a real y great, funny surprise for dessert. We were al led into the kitchen and told to make the ice cream sundae or banana split of our dreams from the great array of ingredients spread before us. Suddenly, we were like

a bunch of kids, nudging and laughing, saying, â€œOh, that looks good, give me some of that,â€ â€œStop shoving!â€ and, â€œDonâ€™t be a pig, save me some of that.â€

I watched Cindy help herself to a smal scoop of lemon ice doused with what must have been at least a teaspoon of chocolate sauce. Lainey, I saw, had dished up a bit of chocolate ice cream and a dab of raspberry topping. I wonâ€™t try to describe

what al the rest of us had, I just noted that our plates were ï€l ed dangerously close to the rims.

Coffee was a welcome closer, and we took it out onto the porch, so that those of us who wanted a cigarette could horrify Lainey in some degree of peace. Peter deftly got the conversation off Laineyâ€™s lecture.

â€œI guess youâ€™ve heard the news? Paul Carlucci is coming to town and bringing his whole troupe!â€

â€œWhoâ€™s Paul Caruso?â€

â€œHeâ€™s bringing the cavalry? They stil have a cavalry?â€

â€œOr singing monkeys?â€

â€œThe opera singer? I thought he died back in the nineteen-twenties.â€

â€œIs he that guy who hunted crocodiles on TV? I thought he died, too.â€

Peter dropped his head and spread his hands in mock despair. â€œLadies, ladies, you are so provincial!â€

â€œOf course we are.â€ Cassie waved a hand to include the area around us. â€œWe live in Provincetown.â€

I laughed. â€œVery good, Cassie.â€

Peter sulked. Wolf continued. â€œItâ€™s Paul Carlucci, not Enrico Caruso. And itâ€™s his t-r-o-u-p-e, a group of actors, a troupe of players, and theyâ€™re coming to town! This town! Itâ€™s quite a deal. Theyâ€™l be performing at the amphitheater, and if it goes

wel , it wil become one of those yearly festivals that draws hundreds of people. He could put Provincetown on the map.â€

â€œWeâ€™re already on the map,â€ Lainey snipped. â€œAnd if we get many more people out here, weâ€™re going to sink.â€

â€œLainey, Lainey, this is Broadway writ large!â€ Peter cried. â€œRight here in our own backyards!â€

â€œIf I wanted Broadway in my backyard Iâ€™d live in New York.â€

I sensed a little tiff brewing and hoped to avoid it. â€œWhoâ€™s this Carlucci guy and what does he do?â€

Wolf looked at me grateful y. â€œHeâ€™s a writer/director in New York. Heâ€™s done several off Broadway plays that everyone thought had great, great potential, but somehow he just hadnâ€™t clicked big-time. Wel , he was being interviewed on some talk

show a couple of years ago, and the emceeâ€”an idiot, natural yâ€”asked Carlucci if he thought Shakespeare was now outdated. Carlucci answered, â€˜A great play knows no calendar.â€™

â€œWel , he realized heâ€™d gotten off a real y good, quotable line, so he took it and ran with it. He swore, then and there, he could take any great playâ€”Shakespearean or otherâ€”and make it work today.â€

â€œNot so.â€ I lifted my cup for a reï€l as Cassie walked around with the coffee carafe. â€œShakespeare works because of the way he shows human strengths and weaknesses that never real y change, no matter when you live. You know, an otherwise

great person fails and fal s because of too much jealousy or ambition or greed. The one fault ï€nal y gets an otherwise great person. Shakespeare doesnâ€™t much deal with social issues per se.â€

Cindy was nodding agreement. â€œSheâ€™s right. Look at George Bernard Shaw. His plays were wonderful y written, clever and timely, but you just about never see one produced now, because the issues arenâ€™t exactly ours today. Unless youâ€™re real y

into the Shavian politics of the time, youâ€™re lost with old GBS.â€

Cassie emerged with brandies, which she passed around, and Peter broke the tension with a ï€‚owery little toast to the new dining room.

Wolf wasnâ€™t going to give up easily, however. â€œAl right,â€ he muttered. â€œBut Carlucci has proven his point. Heâ€™s done three plays and heâ€™s made them work. First he took Ibsenâ€™s A Dollâ€™s House andâ€”â€

â€œOh, hel ,â€ Cindy laughed. â€œYouâ€™ve hit on the one possible exception. A Dollâ€™s House, to womankindâ€™s great misfortune, is stil timely, as are one or two of his other plays. In fact, did you know that â€˜womenâ€™s liberationâ€™ in Chinese is actual y the word

nora-ism?â€

â€œYouâ€™re kidding!â€ Cassie held a mug toward Peter for more coffee. â€œI didnâ€™t know the Chinese had a word for womenâ€™s lib.â€

â€œWel , they had to borrow it, but I am dead serious.â€

â€œAha!â€ Wolf crowed. â€œBut in Carlucciâ€™s version it wasnâ€™t Nora who was made to feel less and less a necessary part of the marriage, less a real person. It was the poor husband! Carlucci changed the setting to the present and had Nora slowly

take over every decision the poor man made. She even took over his business and left him stuck at home with the kids and housework. Final y, in desperation, he left the two kids and scarpered without even a note.â€

â€œI love your phrase, Wolf.â€ Cassie had a glint in her eye. â€œIf the husband was stuck at home with the kids and housework, what about al the women who are home with them everyday? Should they also scarper?â€ Somehow I felt we were working

up to another evening of endangered crockery.

â€œWas the play a success?â€ I asked.

â€œDeï€nitely.â€ Peter took up the baton. â€œRan nearly a year, great reviews. And then our genius Carlucci came out with the biggie! Remember Somerset Maughamâ€™s Rain, where the lady of rather il repute slowly but surely seduces the young

missionary on a south sea island during the monsoons?â€

A couple of us nodded vaguely. A short story, I thought, and maybe a movie.

â€œWel , our wunderkind renamed it Snow and modernized the setting to a B&B in Vermont during a blizzard, with a young priest and a black drag queen, whom the priest thought was real y a woman until Act Three! She looked just like Queen

Latifah. It was fabulous! We saw it in Boston. It has become an absolute cult piece with gay men.â€

â€œI can imagine,â€ Cindy said dryly. â€œBut didnâ€™t Carlucci have a ï€‚op just last winter?â€

â€œWel ,â€ Wolf admitted, â€œHe produced The Second Mrs. Tanqueray by Sir Arthur Wing Pinero . . . cal ed it The Tanqueray Tragedy . In the original, around 1910, I think, this rich guy divorces his wife of many years and marries a young thing. He

insists his social clique accept her, and he is powerful enough to get compliance, at least on the surface. But behind his back they make her life hel . She ï€nal y commits suicide.â€ He got up and went to pour another brandy.

â€œWho cares?â€ Cassie asked. â€œPeople donâ€™t place that kind of importance on divorce or social acceptance today. They just make new friends. Today, Tanqueray is just good gin.â€

â€œYou have a point. So, Carlucci updated the play and made the sweet young girl a sweet young lad.â€ Peter sighed reminiscently. â€œIt was deemed a great succes dâ€™arte, a most moving piece.â€

â€œAn artistic success?â€ I teased. â€œIsnâ€™t that French for box ofï€ce failure?â€

â€œWorse than that,â€ Cindy recal ed. â€œI remember reading one review that said, while the poor laddie offed himself in Act Three, the audience, unfortunately, had already done the same thing in Act Two.â€ That got her a roar from the lesbian

contingent and scowls from Peter and the Wolf. â€œWhoâ€™s Carlucciâ€™s next victim, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms ?â€ My lady was on a rol .

â€œHamlet.â€ Wolf almost spat. â€œAnd it wil be earthshaking, I can tel you. Itâ€™s set in a smal town down in Georgia, where the old King Hamlet lived. He owned a bunch of discount stores throughout the south. His cousin and wife want to sel out to a

big national chain. They kil the old man, but young Hamlet isnâ€™t sure exactly who kil ed him, isnâ€™t sure they should sel , feelsâ€”like his fatherâ€” it would be unfair to the employees. Hamlet and Horatio are gay lovers, of course. Take it from there. Canâ€™t

you just feel the tension! Oh, and itâ€™s a musical. Canâ€™t you just see it?â€

â€œHamlet is a musical, set in the rural south, about discount stores. Who is Ophelia, Miss Georgia Peach of 2007? I canâ€™t wait. â€˜To be or not to be,â€™ set to rockabil y.â€ Cindy stood and looked at me. â€œTake me home to Tara, darlinâ€™, I canâ€™t stand no

more classic tragedy tonight, yâ€™al .â€

We made our farewel s and went home to an ecstatic Fargo. I let him out for last patrol and turned to ask Cindy if she wanted a drink or some coffee. Usual y, when we got home from any party or such, we dissected the evening over one of the

two, and had fun al over again. This time Cindy shook her head. â€œI think I already had too many brandies or something. I feel numb.â€

â€œThat may have been the subject matter, not the brandies,â€ I suggested.

â€œPoor Ibsen. Poor Maugham. Poor Shakespeare. Poor Pinero. Nobodyâ€™s done Pinero since 1930. Hel , no one has thought of Pinero since 1930. And Rainâ€”I guess Wolf said they cal ed it Snowâ€”with a drag queen. I shal take to my bed with

a case of the vapors. Good night, my love, and ï€‚ights of angels sing thee to thy rest.â€ She put her arms out, mimicking an airplane and giggled as she made a little misstep turning into the hal .

She stopped and gave the doorjamb an owlish look. â€œDamn door always was in the wrong place.â€

She continued toward the bedroom, singing a little song I devoutly hoped she would forget by morning:

The last camel died at noon,

Humming an old Cole Porter tune.

And while the trail was steep and sandy,

We all enjoyed the Napoleon brandy.

Alas, my ladylove was looped.

Chapter 7

I hate it when the phone rings in the middle of the night. I can never ï€nd it before the second ring, and by then Iâ€™ve had time to imagine that everyone I care for is either dead, injured or in a Turkish prison.

Tonight was no exception. It was ten to three, and when I ï€nal y got the phone to my ear, I couldnâ€™t quite understand what the person on the other end of the line was saying.

â€œHel o? What? Whoâ€™s this?â€

â€œStreak, darlinâ€™, donâ€™t be mean! Itâ€™s Bootsie! And Iâ€™m in town!â€

â€œI am not â€˜Streakâ€™ and I donâ€™t know any Bootsie. You have the wrong number and probably the wrong town, and why the hel are you cal ing anybody at three in the morning to say youâ€™re here? Good-bye.â€

Fargo picked that moment to jump onto the bed and land on my stomach. So I added a loud â€œOoof!â€ to my farewel s.

â€œWhat did you say, honey-babe?â€

â€œI said oof. My dog just . . . Christ, why am I having this conversation?â€

I heard Cindy give a smothered giggle as Fargo snuggled cozily between us.

â€œStreak, now be nice. I came just to see you, and this is the number you gave me, so it must be you!â€

â€œI am trying to be nice. My name is Mergatroyd Mountbatten. And I do not know, nor wish to know you. Streakâ€™s number is 4879773. Good-bye.â€ I hung up.

â€œWhose number was that?â€ Cindy asked.

â€œCaptain Andersâ€™s private line.â€ Anders was outstanding proof that not even Ptown could have cops that were universal y smart and dedicated. He was dumb and obnoxious. He had gotten the job through the political clout of a former chief. The

clout was now long gone, but how did you get rid of Anders? He never did anything dishonest. He rarely did anything at al . Fortunately, retirement was only a few years away.

â€œHopeful y,â€ I added, â€œMrs. Anders wil answer.â€

â€œYou real y are dangerous when somebody wakes you up.â€ Cindy laughed. â€œGo back to sleep, Streak, darlinâ€™.â€

â€œOh, God.â€

We al sort of settled down and were quiet. Fargo was the ï€rst to begin to snore lightly. A short time later, Cindyâ€™s breathing became rhythmic and deep.

And I began to think those calm and happy thoughts that come to us al in the middle hours of the night. What the hel was wrong with Cindyâ€™s car? The mechanic had ï€xed it twice, but it stil made that funny noise. The garage door opener moaned

piteously with every use. I supposed Iâ€™d better get a new one before the damn thing stuck halfway. What had caused my back tooth to give a twang when the ice cream hit it earlier last night? God, I hated dentists! And mine had a bil ing system that

made our defense budget look like Scrooge personiï€ed.

Then Fargo began to whimper and twitch his legs in his sleep. Automatical y, I reached out and stroked his head. â€œItâ€™s al right, sweetheart. Itâ€™s al right. I wonâ€™t let it get you. Go back to sleep. Youâ€™re safe in bed.â€

Cindy heaved a disgruntled sigh. â€œWhy do you always wake him up? My brother says when they whine and paddle their feet like that, theyâ€™re having a wonderful dream about chasing rabbits, or maybe squirrels or a cat.â€

â€œI have heard that,â€ I replied loftily, â€œBut no dog has ever been able to reassure me that it doesnâ€™t mean a ï€ve-hundred pound rabbit wasnâ€™t chasing them. Therefore, I go to their rescue.â€

â€œOh. How thoughtful.â€

They both went to sleep again. I lay staring at the window. When I realized I could see things outside, I gave up and got up. After dressing quietly, I made a pot of tea and thought about getting my camera and going out. But it wasnâ€™t much fun

alone. Before I could decide, two rather frazzled beauties joined me and al was normal.

After tea for two and a biscuit for one, we went to the beach.

As the dog ran ahead of us and we walked down to sea level, I was once again reminded of why I loved this place. A few miles offshore, a gray fog bank squatted on the horizon like a grumpy toad, and above it, cirrus clouds reï€‚ected the radiant

orange-pink glow from a sun not quite risen above them. The ocean was almost calm, with no breakers out to sea, and only wavelets reaching the shore, rippling almost apologetical y along the low-tide line. Even the breeze seemed shy, just

touching your cheek and then fading, as if not wishing to intrude upon your thoughts.

Far down the beach, another dog appearedâ€”maybe one of the Coasties had it with him overnight and felt secure in letting it run this early in the morning. It was a Dalmatian, I thought, lean and graceful. The two dogs spotted each other and

began to run right toward each other, like knights in a tilting match. They covered the ground at amazing speed.

â€œAre they going to kil each other?â€ Cindyâ€™s voice held alarm. She grabbed my arm and pointed.

â€œI hope surely one of them wil give way. God, they must have a closing speed of ï€fty miles an hour!â€ I was getting a little concerned about a col ision myself, and couldnâ€™t decide whether it would be better to bel ow at Fargo to come back, or not

distract him.

Before I could decide, both dogs had slithered to a stop, scattering great clods of wet sand around them. Then began the sniffing ritual, fol owed by their backing off, facing each other and bowing with front legs low and extended, rear end and tail

up in the air . . . the universal animal symbol of, â€œWant to play?â€ Yes, indeed! Fargo ran in a wide circle, the Dalmatian in hot pursuit. Then Fargo crashed into the water, leaping through the shal ows and beginning that strong swim, which always

makes me worry slightly that his next stop might be the Azores.

The Dalmatian fol owed him into shal ow water and stopped, unsure whether she wanted to continue or not. She nibbled daintily at the water and shook her head in distaste. She took a few more tentative steps and stopped when a smal wave

splashed across her chest. Retiring to the edge, she barked and Fargo turned. I could almost see his shrug as he swam back to shore to rejoin his more timid companion.

They trotted over to us to say hel o. The female Dalmatian was a friendly beauty, and I pul ed out a couple of smal biscuits for each of them. At that point a young woman appeared down where the animal had begun her run. She was waving and

blowing a shril whistle. The Dalmatian looked up, gently accepted the treat and turned for home. Fargo fol owed her a few steps, and I cal ed him back. The three of us walked over to a half-sunken tree stump and sat down. Fargo stared down the

beach.

â€œDo you suppose he needs a playmate?â€ I said.

Cindy gave me a look over the top of her dark glasses. â€œDonâ€™t even think about it. Letâ€™s go home and go to bed. You must be delirious.â€

I was in that sort of out-of-body state where you are so tired you are past tired and too wired to be sleepy. â€œAha!â€ I leered. â€œThe lady is propositioning me!â€

â€œNo, the lady has every intention of going to bed to sleep, perchance to dream.â€

â€œOh, Shakespeare. Right, the players are coming with their polyester-suited Hamlet. I can hear him singing that soliloquy now.â€ I picked up a stick and began a rap beat on the tree trunk. Cindy wasnâ€™t the only one who could compose a song.

To be or not to be is the question, yessiree,

To off olâ€™ Claudius or leave him be?

Anâ€™ do I stab Polonius behind that drape?

Or watch sweet Ophelia wrap herself in crepe?

Of course thereâ€™s always darling mother

To poison her or smother . . .

Cindy gave me a withering look and stood. â€œCome on, Fargo.â€ She began to walk up the beach. â€œLet yoâ€™ mama sit there and suffer slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You and I wil stop and buy the papers, not to mention a few pastries, and

then weâ€™l have a lovely nap. Letâ€™s go, boy. Anyway, I donâ€™t like the looks of the al igator under that log.â€

I knew they wouldnâ€™t go far. Theyâ€™d stop and look back and wait.

She broke into a jog, Fargo trotting happily by her side.

â€œHey! Hold up! Wait for me!â€

Chapter 8

Earlier in the summer a tourist had dozed off while driving his car through Provincetownâ€™s snail-paced trafï€c. One could hardly blame him, but my friend Marcia Robbyâ€”also understandablyâ€” was not pleased to ï€nd his ancient and large

Oldsmobile sitting in the front room of her antique shop. It had been my pleasure, as wel as my job, to expedite repairs and to ï€nd her a place to live while repairs were made. I picked Green Mansions. I ï€gured that Peter and the Wolf, combined

with their Victorian dÃ©cor, would make a good blend. And I had been right, she loved it there.

Marcia made out wel with the repairs, with a lovely big bow window replacing the three smal ones that had been knocked out, and an inviting new walkway with neat landscaping leading up to the door. The interior was much brighter and

seemed more spacious. She had presented Peter and the Wolf with a giant, kitschy Victorian lamp as a thank-you for their hospitality, and they were delighted. And she had given me a lovely smal round table, which now sat under our dining room

windows, providing an intimate little dining table when Cindy and I felt privately formal.

I was using it at the moment to ï€l out some forms for a couple of insurance cases I had just closed. They were both straightforward and basical y dul , which suited me ï€ne.

One was at an older B&B, where a young woman claimed to have tripped on a frayed rug and taken a header down the stairs, managing to break both her leg and her wrist. She was, unfortunately for the insured and insurer, quite right. I took

photos, sent them in with a report and warned the owners to make repairs in a hurry before someone else took to the air.

The other one was more fun, for me, anyway. A man in his forties had been walking up the driveway of a house advertising homemade fudge for sale. He claimed to have fal en over a tricycle that was blocking the driveway, and that he hadnâ€™t

seen. He claimed a painful y sprained back. I told the owners over the phone to make sure no one moved the tricycle until I could get down there to take photos. The way I saw it, the bright red trike was parked mostly on the lawn with one lone back

wheel on the driveway, not even knocked over and leaving room to drive a smal truck easily around it. And it was broad daylight.

I caught up with the victim coming out of X-ray at the hospital, clad only in one of those little hospital gowns, which he was trying simultaneously to pul down in the front and hold together in the rear. Wel , donâ€™t we al ? I cannot imagine anyone

being a hero in these circumstances. I ï€‚ashed my private investigatorâ€™s license, my thumb careful y concealing the word private and gave him the bad news.

The insurance company would pay for whatever medical care he had received up to this minute . . . period. If he elected not to sign a release but to pursue the matter, the company would probably go after him for al medical and legal costs, plus

my fee. When I showed him the Polaroids of the tricycleâ€™s location, he signed.

I went back to give the good news to the owners, and they gave me a smal box of fudge in return. That night, when Cindy asked me where the candy came from, I told her Iâ€™d taken it from a baby.

This morning I sat idly adding items to a grocery list Cindy had given me at breakfast, and realized that suddenly it was almost the beginning of August, past the halfway mark in our Season, and stil Cindy and I had not had that conversation. My

talk with Mom about it had come back to me sharply only last night.

During dinner, Cindy had mentioned that the bathroom and the kitchen were strongly in need of painting, but somehow she had sounded tentative, as if she werenâ€™t sure she should bring it up. Like maybe she ï€gured it was my house and she had

no right to be tel ing me about the dÃ©cor?

I felt awful. Had I made her feel she wasnâ€™t a ful -time partner? What the hel was the matter with me that Iâ€™d rather go chasing al igators and the fraudulently injured than have a plain and simple talk with the woman I loved? Sometimes I real y

worried that I had a blank spot in my emotions somewhere.

My ï€rst instinct, upon hearing her comments, had been to reply that I thought the rooms did not especial y need painting. Thankful y, I had not made that statement! I looked around the kitchen and agreed it was a bit shabby, and that Iâ€™d noticed a

little peeling in one corner of the bathroom. Yes, we should run over to Jakeâ€™s Hardware on Saturday and get some paint chips. Then weâ€™d get Harmon in to do the work whenever he was free.

She had seemed very pleased and said she loved looking at paint chips. But I knew I had simply applied a Band-Aid to the wound. I had to get my act together. I poured more coffee and sat back down to rehearse my little speech. I was going to

give it tonight, for sure!

A tap on the back screen door interrupted my rehearsal. It was Carla Brownlee, our next-door neighbor, a pleasant woman in her early ï€fties.

â€œCarla! Come in. How about a coffee?â€

â€œThat sounds good and, here, your favorite cookiesâ€”oatmeal Scotties.â€ She placed a covered paper plate on the table.

â€œAre they ever my favorite! Thanks, I needed that.â€ I put the mug in front of her, remembered she took milk and actual y poured some into a little pitcher, placing it neatly near her, along with the sugar bowl, napkin and spoon. Mom and Cindy would

be proud. â€œSo, Carla, whatâ€™s new in the â€™hood?â€

â€œWel .â€ She hesitated slightly. â€œGood news for Bob and me. You and Cindy may not agree.â€

â€œMy God, you havenâ€™t gone and sold your place, have you?â€ My stomach gave a lurch. The Brownlees had been good, friendlyâ€” but not too friendlyâ€”neighbors for years. Who knew what their replacements might be like? Like reaching for a life

preserver, I grabbed a cookie.

â€œNo, no, not even a thought of that,â€ she quickly assured me. â€œBut we have rented itâ€”the whole houseâ€”from next Thursday through Labor Day.â€

â€œHow did you ever manage that?â€ The Brownlees rented six rooms to tourists and provided a lush Continental breakfast to start their days. The house was luxuriously furnished and boasted elegant table settings and accoutrements. Bob

Brownlee had a museum-quality col ection of seventeenth and eighteenth century snuffboxes which he kept displayed in a locked glass cabinet. Al in al , the place was lovely.

Carla set down her mug. â€œWel , you know the realtor, El en Hal ?â€ I nodded. She and her partner were friends of ours. â€œEl en cal ed me last week. It seems some big Broadway producer is going to do a Shakespearean play out at the amphitheater

over Labor Day weekend. Theyâ€™ve been rehearsing in New York, but wil start rehearsing up here soon, of course, and they need rooms for the actors and the rest of their people. El en mentioned lighting technicians, and sound people, wardrobe

folks . . . al sorts of people I never real y thought of whenever I saw a play. Theyâ€™re renting out several houses in town.â€

She sipped her coffee and continued. â€œIt canâ€™t be easy. I know we had a tough time canceling our regulars and ï€nding other places they could stay.â€

I lit cigarette number two for the day, hard on the heels of number one. Iâ€™d have to watch it to stay within my quota of ï€ve . . . wel , I would try.

â€œI hope to God we get the actors and not the band.â€ I lifted my head skyward.

â€œGood grief, is there real y a band? Wel , yes, I suppose there would be, since itâ€™s a musical.â€ Carla laughed. â€œFear not, my dear, you are getting the leading actors, the stars! Shakespearean actors! Surely, Shakespearean actors wil be wel

behaved. And the director himself wil be in our own ground ï€‚oor bed-sitter.â€ She said â€œdirectorâ€ as if she were saying â€œemperor,â€ and then sobered. â€œAlex, I real y do hope they donâ€™t bother you and Cindy.â€

â€œIâ€™m sure it wil be perfectly ï€ne. But seriously, Carla, things like Bobâ€™s snuffboxes . . .â€

â€œ . . . are in the bank. The rest of the silver and china and crystal are safely locked in a closet in the basement. Our tenants wil be left with everything expendable. I think itâ€™s a win-win, Alex.â€

I wondered if she considered the grand piano, the carpets and the appliances expendable? Perhaps I was remembering the tale a friend from Connecticut told us about the amount of damage Liz Taylor and some husband or other once wreaked

on a lovely summer rental by the beach on Blue Hil in Westport. He said the ownerâ€™s wife went into a nervous col apse on viewing it when they returned home. And there were only two of them!

Carla ï€nished her coffee and continued. â€œWeâ€™re making about as much as we would if we rented daily, at ful capacity, with none of the stress. El ie and Betts, our regular maids, wil continue taking care of things, only we donâ€™t have to pay them!

And Thursday bright and early, Bob and I are off to spend the rest of the summer at my sisterâ€™s place out on the Michigan peninsula. Now, Alex, if you have any problems at al about the tenants, cal El en. Sheâ€™s handling everything about the rental.

Tel Cindy bye for us.â€ She stood, smiling, arms outstretched.

I got up and gave her a hug. I wished them wel and hoped theyâ€™d gotten a sizeable damage deposit. Little did I guess that no damage deposit existed that would cover the events the players would bring to town.

63

Cindy and I did not have that conversation that night. We were too busy wondering what our new neighbors would be like. Neither Cindy nor I were sure that â€œShakespearean actorâ€ automatical y translated into â€œdesirable neighbor.â€ And even if it

did, we werenâ€™t too sure that people one thought of as Shakespearean actors would be doing a modern Hamlet musical set in rural Georgia.

Thursday morning, Cindy left for work with great regret. I had strict instructions to cal her the minute the players arrived, with ful descriptions of what they looked and sounded like and what they were wearing. Did she think they would be in

Elizabethan attire? She had hinted strongly that I should spend the day weeding the ï€‚ower bed along our driveway, so that I would just happen to be out front and could casual y make them welcome when they drove up. Would they say things like,

â€œFie, my good fel ow, park-est not in front of yon ï€replug?â€

I ï€nal y got her out of the houseâ€”lateâ€”and had just decided on another coffee, when the phone rang. It was my mother. She knew both Cindy and I had busy schedules, so if we were inviting the travel-weary actors over for drinks and nibbles this

evening, she would be happy to make up some canapÃ©s and bring them by. I told her I thought it might be just a little premature to strike up friendships so early in their stay, and we parted rather stifï€‚y.

Moments later Aunt Mae took her shot at it. She believed that little pots of herbs always made such thoughtful welcome gifts. If I would like her to select some especial y unusual ones and later bring them by, she would be more than wil ing to do

so. Just let her know how many were needed. I told her I didnâ€™t know which, if any, of the actors might be into cooking, but if I heard of any interest in herbs, Iâ€™d let her know. Her good-bye seemed just a little cool, also.

I gave a drooping Fargo his breakfast. He ignored it and sat by the back door, head down, a picture of despair. He had somehow deduced he would not be running errands with me. â€œAngel Dog,â€ I explained, â€œItâ€™s too hot to leave you in the car

when Iâ€™m going into stores. Parking lots are like ovens. You would melt.â€

Ready to go out the door, I offered him a farewel biscuit. He sniffed it and looked away, so I put it beside his dish. As I went out the door, he staggered weakly toward his bed, overcome with terminal depression. I knew damn wel he would scarf

down the biscuit the minute I was out of the driveway. I knew he also had food, fresh water, a rawhide, a cool kitchen, and Iâ€™d be back in two or three hours, so I real y felt no guilt. Much.

Stil alive upon my return, Fargo circled the yard in apparent restored health, checking for two- or four-legged intruders, rol ing in the grass, taking a playful nip of a tomato plant, just to tease me.

I made several trips carrying the groceries, the cleaning and the wine into the house and nobly stowed them away. I put the grass trimmer line in the garage, and noted Iâ€™d forgotten to buy mulch. Then, back inside the house, I sat down beside the

answering machine, to calm its nervous twitters.

Cassie just thought I might want to advise the actors she was always ready, should they need a fast trip anywhere. Cindy wondered if anything was going on yet. Bil y Whitmire reminded me he had tuned Carla Brownleeâ€™s piano back in June, but

if any of the actors felt it needed some smal adjustments, heâ€™d be happy to run over. Free of charge, natural y. Mildred Morris wasnâ€™t sure the cast would have brought any ofï€ce personnel along, so if they needed help in keeping track of local

expenses, ï€ling invoices or anything like that, she could come by almost any time and would be happy to help out. Cindy wondered crossly where on earth I was.

I ignored the other cal s and cal ed Cindy to report al quiet at the front lines.

I popped a Bud and went out to join Fargo. He had forgotten his earlier pout and trotted over, ready for an ear-fondle.

I complied, and now it was I who sighed. â€œFargo, my love, our thespian troupe ainâ€™t even in town yet, and already theyâ€™re driving me crazy. What the hel wil it be like once they get here?â€

He rol ed onto his back, my signal to provide a tummy scritch. Projection is never a problem with dogs.

Chapter 9

My plans for Friday morning had been to mount a bunch of photos and put them in their frames, ready to go to the various shops and gal eries that carried them and needed replacements for those they had sold. Actual y, I spent most of the

morning on the phone.

Vance cal ed. He and Dan just wondered if we were al right. We had been with themâ€”and in perfectly good healthâ€”last weekend at the Poly/Cotton Club, but I thanked him for his concern, and no, no actors had yet arrived.

Lainey cal ed, just wanting to make sure the blister on Cindyâ€™s heel had healed properly. It had, nearly two weeks ago. No, no actors in sight.

Even Mary Sloan cal ed. She and Ann hadnâ€™t run into us in ages and were just wondering how we were. And had we met anyone famous yet?

Peter and the Wolf cal ed, just to say â€œHi.â€ â€œHiâ€ included a subtle question about â€œAnything new going on?â€ No, nothing new. Except our newfound popularity.

I looked at Fargo, who took that moment to walk to the door and give me a quizzical glance. â€œYou are right, Dog of Dogs. Itâ€™s lunchtime, and I have accomplished nada. I think Iâ€™l repair to my â€˜other ofï€ceâ€™ and let the answering machine do what

those clever people at G.E. built it for.â€ I eased around him and was out the door before he realized he was left behind. â€œIâ€™m sorry, Fargo,â€ I cal ed. â€œWe go through this every summer. Itâ€™s just too hot!â€

Ever efï€cient, I took the car and stopped by Gammonâ€™s Nursery to pick up the forgotten mulch. Then, with incredible luck, I got a parking space right at the head of the al ey leading down to the Rat.

The day was having trouble making up its mind what it wanted to do. Iâ€™d awakened to clouds, which gave way to sun. Now the clouds were moving in again.

Even at the Wharf Rat there was no escape from the world of drama. Joeâ€™s opening words were, â€œAre they here yet?â€

â€œNot as of half an hour ago, and Iâ€™m already sick of hearing about them. Just give me a Bud, Joe. My phone has rung off the hook for two days. How does word get around so fast?â€

He beat his hands on the edge of the bar and intoned, â€œBoom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Okay, one Bud. Want a pastrami? Itâ€™s nice and lean.â€

â€œWhy not?â€

â€œHi, Alex.â€ The aroma of garlic and beer was a sure ID.

â€œHel o, Harmon, how are you?â€

â€œI understand you got a bunch of actors movinâ€™ in next door at Bob Brownleeâ€™s place.â€

â€œYes, but they arenâ€™t here yet.â€ Maybe I could just tape this sentence and play it when asked.

â€œWel , Bob, he ast me to look after the yard while theyâ€™s away. Iâ€™m glad to do it, of course, theyâ€™re nice and they always pay good. But itâ€™s a perfect excuse to be there a lot and keep an eye on things.â€

Unthinking, I replied, â€œOh, I think al the valuables are safely locked away, Harmon. You donâ€™t have to worry about theft . . . not that I have any reason to think theyâ€™d steal anything. Theyâ€™re probably perfectly honest.â€

â€œMaybe, maybe not.â€ He raised his chin and straightened his stance. â€œIâ€™l be on the lookout, never you fear. You tel Sonny there ainâ€™t no drugs gonna go in nor out of that place but what I know it. You tel him Iâ€™m on the job.â€

â€œI wil do that, Harmon.â€ And I knew Sonny would be thril ed. I had no idea if our unseen actors enjoyed an occasional recreational drug, or shot up heroin four times a day, or were clean as arctic snow. But I did know one thing: Bob Brownlee was

going to have the best kept lawn in Massachusetts.

The weather had ï€nal y reached a decision. By the time I got to the car, the dust on the windshield was beginning to spatter into mud. By the time I got home, the rain had settled into a slow drizzle that looked as if it might stay a while. Pul ed up in

front of the Brownleesâ€™ were two white vans. Or, more accurately, one van was parked in front of the Brownleeâ€™s, the other was behind it, blocking my driveway. Eight or nine people mil ed around the vehicles, unloading enormous amounts of

luggage.

I stopped in front of my house and opened the car door, to hear Fargo barking lustily and ceaselessly out the dining room window. What real y intrigued me was that he seemed to be sitting on the little antique table Marcia had given us, and I

wondered what had happened to the lamp that ordinarily sat on it.

I got out of the car, to be greeted by a good-looking big, tal guy with his hand extended.

â€œHel o. Weâ€™ve blocked your driveway. Iâ€™m sorry. Iâ€™l get one of the drivers to move the van as soon as I can ï€nd him. Weâ€™re not quite organized yet. Iâ€™m Noel Fortnum, by the way.â€

We shook hands. I knew who he was. Iâ€™d seen him in a revival of Mame, where heâ€™d played Mameâ€™s il -fated mil ionaire husband. Heâ€™d done some TV stuff, too, I recal ed.

â€œWelcome to a rainy Provincetown. Iâ€™m Alex Peres, and donâ€™t worry about my car. It wonâ€™t melt.â€ I smiled. â€œNor wil I.â€

â€œWel , let me at least see what I can do about getting some luggage out of here.â€ He turned toward the van and then back. â€œOh, hi, Terese. Some of this stuff is yours, isnâ€™t it? Point it out and Iâ€™l get it out of the van for you. And Terese Segal, meet

our next-door neighbor, Alex Peres.â€

â€œEverything has an ID tag, al you have to do is look. My room is Number One upstairs. You can put it there. Careful with the laptop.â€ Ms. Segal, wearing a raincoat and hat with her wispy, carrot-colored hair now frizzled around the edges like some

longunstarched lace trim, gave me a head to toe look and dismissed me as one of the dul natives. We did not bother to shake hands.

â€œThat your dog?â€

â€œYes.â€

â€œI hope heâ€™s not going to be a nuisance. Why is he barking so much?â€

â€œHis original owner was a porn ï€lm maker. It traumatized the puppy so much he stil is frightened of actors.â€ Actual y, Fargoâ€™s breeder was a lovely retired postman with a farm in Vermont, who probably thought Doris Day ï€lms were daringly

risquÃ©. And I had owned Fargo since he was eight weeks old. He wasnâ€™t afraid of anybody. He assumed everyone he met loved him. Mostly, he was right. With the charming Ms. Segal, I wasnâ€™t so sure.

â€œYou wouldnâ€™t believe what Iâ€™ve spent on shrinks for him. What part do you have in the play? Lady Macbeth?â€

I heard Noel smother a laugh. Ms. Segal tightened her already smal mouth and answered, â€œNo, Iâ€™m not one of the troupe. Iâ€™m an embedded journalist for the A-List. â€ She favored me with a slight wiggle of her somewhat pointy nose, a professional

prerequisite, perhaps.

I knew the A-List was one of those weekly magazines ï€l ed with information, disinformation and misinformation about various celebrities and wannabe celebrities and used-to-be celebrities. My only question was: with whom was Ms. Terese

Segal currently embedded?

She took me aback with her next question. â€œTel me, are there a lot of drugs in Provincetown?â€

â€œI real y am not up on that,â€ I answered. â€œTheyâ€™ve never been my thing.â€ And then I had one of my ingenious, but not always wise, thoughts. â€œHowever, I know a fel ow who does undercover work for the Ptown cops . . . closest thing we have to a narc,

I guess. He hangs out at the Wharf Rat Bar, says he gets lots of tips there from the ï€shermen. Just ask the bartender to point out Mr. Harmon Kil ingsly, and heâ€™l be glad to help you, Iâ€™m sure.â€

She scribbled Harmonâ€™s name into a notebook, nodded and turned away without further comment. I had served my purpose, I no longer existed. Wel , thank you, too, Ms. Segal.

Noel was at my side again, having unloaded the contents of the van onto the sidewalk. â€œSheâ€™l be waiting awhile before I carry her bags up. I havenâ€™t bel hopped since my col ege days in the Poconos. Since youâ€™re here, why not meet the rest of

us? We arenâ€™t al that bad.â€

â€œIâ€™m sure.â€ I laughed. â€œJust let me go and see why my dog seems to be sitting on the dining table. Iâ€™l be right back.â€

Inside, I did indeed ï€nd Fargo sitting on the table, nose stuck through the blinds like that of a curious old woman. The lamp was lying on the ï€‚oor, and paw marks smudged the tablecloth. I shooed him off and quickly turned the tablecloth over,

picked up the lamp, more or less smoothed out several smal dings in the shade and put it back on the table. There! Al good as new. I leashed Fargo and we went out. I wanted to be able to give Cindy as ful a report as possible.

My next introduction was to Teri Malewski, who was to play Ophelia. She was a pretty blonde in her early twenties, standing beside her luggage, which consisted of a battered duffel bag and an obviously new and expensive suitcase. Her bags

rather summed her up, I thoughtâ€”newly into stardom, yet with personal experience perhaps far beyond her years. She was polite but distracted, obviously looking for someone.

Her search ended as a navy blue Porsche pul ed up behind my car, and a tal , slender man got graceful y out. â€œOh, Paul, thank God youâ€™re here! For some reason theyâ€™ve put me way up on the third ï€‚oor with Nick Peters, you know, that creepy

stage manager. Weâ€™ve got the only two rooms up there, and I have to share a bathroom with him!â€

She leaned her head against his chest. â€œOh, Paulie, Iâ€™l be way up there al alone with him, and heâ€™s weird! Canâ€™t you do something?â€

â€œYes, yes, darling, youâ€™l be quite . . . Donâ€™t worry. Nick is sometimes just a little hard to . . . Stay cool, Paulie is here and you know

I . . .â€

During al this, Paul Carlucci managed to absorb Noelâ€™s introduction and offered me a ï€rm warm handshake, topped off with a salesmanâ€™s smile. â€œMs. Peres! Delighted . . . heard such lovely things about you from El en Hal . We must have you

and your friend for drinks . . . getting settled today, but soon, soon . . . looking forward to it! Yessir, very soon . . .â€ And he was gone, stil smiling and nodding, with a cometâ€™s tail of people behind him asking questions and wailing problems. He must

have inï€nite patience. The hul abaloo around him didnâ€™t seem to bother him in the least.

My next introduction was to Elaine Edgewood. Both her name and face were familiar to me, but I couldnâ€™t place her. She was fairly tal , with a long and graceful neck, and rather average looking at ï€rst glanceâ€”straight brown hair in a ponytail, but

with lovely brown eyes and an expressive mouth that gave her an elusive beauty. I put her at plus or minus forty-ï€ve.

Noel gave her an affectionate hug. â€œElaine is Hamletâ€™s mother, Gertrudeâ€”my inamorata in the play, by the way. Unfortunately, in our little play sheâ€™s usual y cal ed Queenie. Sil y name.â€

Elaine raised her eyebrows and grinned. â€œThere are those who might say itâ€™s a sil y play. Not I, of course. I think we may present a Hamlet that wil make more headlines than the original ever did.â€

She and Noel laughed at some private joke, and I smiled politely. â€œMs Edgewood, Iâ€™m sure Iâ€™ve seen you somewhere recently. You look very familiar, but Iâ€™m having troubleâ€”â€

â€œPlease cal me Elaine. Iâ€™m getting ancient enough, fast enough, as it is. Wel , my most recent Broadway role was Sylvia, the older sister in Fondly Remembered. Or, a few months back on TV, I played Mol y, the half-Indian woman in the Follow

the Sun miniseries.â€

â€œOh, thatâ€™s it, Iâ€™m sure. Yes, I enjoyed your role. She was quite a character.â€

â€œThank you . . . oh, excuse me a moment.â€ She turned toward a rather short, almost pudgy man standing behind her, apparently listening to our conversation. â€œNick.â€ She smiled. â€œI tried to shift your footlocker, but itâ€™s a mite hefty. If you could just

take it out, I could get my stuff out, and I think that would empty this van thatâ€™s blocking Alexâ€™s driveway. The driver could take the van wherever theyâ€™re going to keep them, or you or Noel could just move it out of the way. At least let the woman get to

her own garage and out of the rain.â€

â€œYou do love things neat and orderly, donâ€™t you, Elaine? Anything to have everything in a tidy little box, so it looks like al â€™s wel with the world.â€ He put out his hand to me. â€œIâ€™m Nick Peters, the stage manager, the only plebian in this august group. I

hope weâ€™l al make good neighbors.â€ His smile was sweet, contradicting his sarcastic speech, but I noticed his light blue eyes seemed watchful and did not warm up with the smile. Elaine looked pained and turned away.

â€œIâ€™m sure you wil make lovely neighbors.â€ I smiled back. â€œThe problem may be the other way around. Just about everyone I know is al excited about having a theater group in town. By tomorrow, they may be lined up along my wal , hoping to meet

you.â€

â€œOh, they wonâ€™t even notice me,â€ Nick almost simpered. â€œMy name is in smal print in the Playbil . But theyâ€™re sure to be begging autographs from our leading man, wonâ€™t they, oh, royal Prince Hamlet?â€

â€œNot unless the weather improves.â€ The subject of Nickâ€™s snipe sauntered across the lawn to us. The rain had dwindled to a ï€ne mist, and he wore no hat, revealing blond curls ï€‚ecked with raindrops. He was tal and broad-shouldered, with

narrow hips clad in tight jeans. His tan ï€‚attered his deep blue eyes, and as he neared us we received the ful brightness of his smile. He was quite gorgeous and wel aware of it. â€œHi. Iâ€™m David Wil em.â€

â€œAlex Peres,â€ I answered. â€œAnd trusty companion, Fargo.â€

â€œHel o, trusty companion. Iâ€™l bet you take very good care of your owner. Watch out, Elaine, thereâ€™l be no sneaking over the wal at midnight with Fargo on guard,â€ he teased.

â€œDonâ€™t be bitchy, darling. And if I go sneaking over wal s I always carry a doggy biscuit.â€

Wel , that answered one question. I had thought Elaine might be gay. About the men, I wasnâ€™t sure yet.

Carlucci appeared on the porch. â€œSorry to interrupt, but I need you al inside for a moment. Letâ€™s get things settled in here, and maybe go over a few ground rules. Come on, my happy band of brothersâ€”and sisters. Dear Alex, you wil forgive us . .

. just dul , dul business . . . drinkies soon . . . perhaps tomorrow . . .â€ Did he ever ï€nish a sentence?

Fargo seemed happy to get home. So was I. I felt some tension in the air, like an approaching electrical stormâ€”not about me, but surrounding my new neighbors. They had al been very nice to me, except for the embedded journalist, and I felt I

had handled that wel . I was sure she considered me a dul and stupid local and wouldnâ€™t bother with me anymore, which was exactly what I preferred. And once she found Harmon, she should have no trouble thinking up headlines.

As for the troupe in general, I wasnâ€™t sure they were in the least a happy band.

Chapter 10

By now, everyone had a favorite name for that summer: mad, weird, crazy, scary, nutty. The swarms of tourists, the belching tour buses, the crowded ways, the ear-splitting music issuing from nearly every building along Commercial Street, were

just part of Ptownâ€™s daily life in midsummer.

But now we had the troupe of players come to town. We had recovered from the fright of the unseen al igator, and I had the feeling that any one of our lately arrived thespians might be more likely to chase a naked lady up a tree than any aquatic

beast.

Determined not to rearrange life around a bunch of strange people who would be living next door for six weeks, Fargo and I made our usual early morning beach run, and picked up the weekend goodies on the way home. On our return we had a

croissant, which we shared, and kibble, which we did not. By my second cup of coffee, Cindy joined us.

She kissed the top of my head, and then the top of Fargoâ€™s, which pleased us both greatly, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Joining us at the table, she cut an almond croissant and transferred half of it to her plate, where she broke off a tiny piece and chewed it slowly.

â€œGood.â€ She nodded, and broke off another mini bite. â€œBy the way, I noticed the strangest thing. The cloth for the little dining room table was put on wrong side up. When I took it off there was dirt and maybe paw marks on it, and the lampshade

has a couple of dents that werenâ€™t there when the lamp arrived. Isnâ€™t that strange?â€ She looked at me quizzical y.

â€œReal y?â€

â€œYes, real y. Alex, what on earth were . . . ?â€

â€œWel .â€ I stood up briskly. â€œIâ€™ve got to get going on framing those photos. Fargo, here, you go outside for awhile.â€

That was the way the day went. We met, parted, and met again. Late morning we gathered outdoors, where two of us had iced tea and one of us had a bowl of cool water and a biscuit.

Cindy cal ed Fargo to her side and told him to sit. â€œNow, confess, Fargo, so I donâ€™t have to beat you. Did you jump up on the table for some reason and knock off the lamp? And did Alex rearrange everything and real y think I wouldnâ€™t notice a dirty,

wrong-side cloth and bent lamp?â€

He knew he was being asked if he had done something bad, but since he had long forgotten that he had, he simply grinned and wagged his tail.

â€œI thought so,â€ Cindy said, and gave him a pretend spank on the hindquarters. But she couldnâ€™t help grinning back. â€œWhat were you doing, fel a, checking up on our new neighbors along with everybody else?â€ Turning to me, she asked, â€œDo we

have anything special on for today?â€

â€œNope. Nor tonight.â€

She looked askance. â€œYou mean we are actual y home on a Saturday night? Do you suppose this is just some social oversight, or should I check the expiration date on the deodorant?â€

â€œI think itâ€™s the midsummer doldrums. I suppose we could stir up some action,â€ I added without great enthusiasm.

She shook her head quickly. â€œNo, not unless you real y, really want to. Itâ€™s been a long week. Maybe Iâ€™l just run over to Evansâ€™s Market and pick up a roast chicken and some pasta salad. Weâ€™l slice some of your prize tomatoes with mozzarel a,

and weâ€™l just have a private backyard picnic for you and me and Fargo and Wel s. Howâ€™s that sound?â€

â€œPer-fect-o!â€

And again we parted to mulch the garden, prepare clothes for the next work week, patrol the wal against invaders.

Around ï€ve thirty Mom and Aunt Mae just dropped by, Mom with a big Cobb salad with seared scal ops and shrimp, Aunt Mae with one of her richly magniï€cent applesauce cakes.

Then, in rapid succession, we accumulated Peter and the Wolf, with an enormous chunk of Jarlsberg cheese, some fancy crackers and two bottles of wine. They were fol owed by Cassie and Lainey with another of Evansâ€™s chickens and a bunch

of corn mufï€ns. And ï€nal y, we acquired Trish and Sonny, bearing a smal ham and four six-packs of beer.

It would seem Cindy and I had a dinner party underway, which no one had bothered to tel us we were going to host. We knew, of course, the devious reasoning behind the arrival of these people. But I wondered what they thought they would

accomplish besides feeding us al a veritable banquet. Had they concealed telescopes somewhere in their clothing? Were they carrying cameras that looked like cigarette lighters or phones or pencils? Were they planning to speak in pear-shaped

tones, hoping to be hired as extras?

Did they real y think there might be some rehearsal taking place in the backyard next door, complete with armor and dueling foils and cries of, â€œTake that, you dastardly vil ain!â€ Or did they ï€gure our semi-famous neighbors would simply hop the

low wal and join the festivities when they got a whiff of the food?

In point of fact, that was exactly what happened, in a smal way. I noticed Elaine and Noel come out onto their back porch and sit down with the evening papers. They looked sort of lonely and I cal ed over to them.

â€œElaine, Noel! Weâ€™re having a kind of impromptu picnic here. If youâ€™re not busy, weâ€™d love to have you join us.â€

They seemed glad of the invitation. I introduced them around and got them drinks, and everybody seemed to be quite at ease. At some point, I heard Elaine and Aunt Mae discussing herbs. Noel and Cindy and Sonny were talking about col ege

funds for kids. I heard Trish offering Elaine a ride in her boat, and then Peter was inviting Noel to one of their soirees, although Noel seemed to be delicately declining. Mother helped rescue him with a question about mastering different dialects.

Final y, we had al eaten our ï€l . Dusk was fal ing as we sipped coffee or beer or whatever. And silence fel comfortably over us as wel . After awhile, I spoke.

â€œWel , Elaine, Noel, tel us. Why are you here?â€

â€œOh, my good lady,â€ Elaine quickly answered. â€œWe are but a poor troupe of players, come to entertain you with our dramatic antics. We bring you now a tale rife with greed and passion, falsity and betrayal, and, alas, of murders most foul. Our play

is cal ed Hamlet.â€

â€œAnd if you listen closelyâ€â€”Noel set down his beerâ€”â€œyou may recognize some smal resemblance to an earlier play with the same title. Our play is set in the present, in a smal city in northern Georgia, named Dalton. Some years before the play

opens, a businessman named Fred Hamlet made his home there and opened a discount store. It did wel , and he opened another, and another, and another, until he had some thirty stores around the south and was a very wealthy man. Fred cal ed

his stores KustomerKing Stores, and he soon earned the nickname King Hamlet.â€

Elaine took up the tale again. â€œA giant chain named Big Mart, sometimes cal ed Pig Mart, wanted to buy him out, but King Hamlet was uncertain. He had a feeling this corporate giant would not be economical y good for the various smal town

independent merchants in his areas, and he was afraid the large corporation would not treat his KustomerKing employees wel when the behemoth took over his stores. Fred was a good man.â€

She bummed a cigarette from Sonny, who actual y had a pack, and continued. â€œSome of Kingâ€™s executives and certain family members who owned stock in KustomerKing disagreed. They wanted to take the money and run. Among them were

his wife, Queenie, and his cousin, Duke Hamlet, who was very, very fond of Queenie. Wanting not to sel was the CFO, Joe Polonius, who for years had been skimming mil ions off the proï€ts and into his personal offshore accounts, and was afraid

Big Martâ€™s audit would ï€nd him out. Undecided was King Hamletâ€™s son, Prince Hamlet, although he seemed to be tilting toward his fatherâ€™s side. As you can see, we have a volatile situation here and much intrigue and possible treachery.â€

Sonny and I freshened drinks al around, as Elaine went on. â€œSuddenly, on a weekend ï€shing trip to the family cabin on the lake, King Hamlet drops dead of a heart attack. The only other person with him is the Duke. The coroner is uneasy about

the cause of death and wants to have the body examined by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. The local police chief poohpoohs the idea. After al , didnâ€™t the Duke have a big barbecue for the police and ï€remen every year? Wasnâ€™t he a member

of the NRA and the Slippery Elm Baptist Church? The Duke was a good olâ€™ boy who wouldnâ€™t never hurt nobody, and that was that. There was no investigation, but there was a wedding.â€ She reached for her coffee.

Noel stood up and began to walk around us. â€œIndeed, wedding bel s chimed for Queenie and the Duke, so hard upon the heels of Kingâ€™s burial, that many people said the leftover funeral meats were simply sliced into cold cuts for the wedding

feast.â€

He paused and leaned on the back of Momâ€™s chair. She looked up and gave him a smile. â€œEr . . . uh, wel . . .â€ He lost his train of thought. I imagined Momâ€™s smile could do that to you if you were a man. Recovering, he continued. â€œNow comes

Prince Hamlet home from col ege for the funeral and into a hornetâ€™s nest. He discovers the coronerâ€™s misgivings. He ï€nds that Poloniusâ€™s son Laertes, cal ed Larry, has maliciously â€˜outedâ€™ Hamletâ€™s affair with Horatio, while Polonius is busy cooking

the books. Lovely family. Prince Hamlet is now disgusted with, and untrusting of, his mother, his uncle and Polonius and Larry. He is sure of only one thing: he has inherited sufï€cient stock to swing the decision either way.â€

I put down my beer and raised my hand, as if in class. Noel smiled and nodded for me to speak. â€œI always thought Hamlet and Horatio were gay anyway. I mean in the original play. Remember at some point Ophelia canâ€™t ï€gure why Hamlet wonâ€™t

give in and marry her? She says something like, â€˜You had promised me to wed, but would you have tumbled me if I came into your bed?â€™â€

Noel paused in his perambulation and now rested his hands on the back of my chair. â€œAha, ladies and gentlemen, a Shakespearean scholar among us!â€ My mother and aunt gave a couple of hand-claps. I felt myself turn red and buried my nose

in my coffee mug as Noel went on. â€œMany of us have held that thought, but somehow it never took off with most scholars. My personal opinion is that the NRA squelched it. Probably ï€gured it would be fatal to the male bonding they al ï€nd so

masculine, yet so terribly satisfying.â€

Noel got a good swel of laughter out of that one, combined with several cal s of, â€œHear, hear!â€ He bowed and took up the tale again. â€œNow Prince Hamlet starts his fatal downhil run. First, Ophelia kil s herself, leaving a note that she canâ€™t face her

family and her social world with everyone knowing the Hamlet she so loved threw her over for another man.â€

Sonny handed him a beer. He nodded his thanks and took a sip. â€œThen one night, as Hamlet comes home, he hears his mother scream, â€˜Someone is on the balcony! Theyâ€™re going to kil me. Help!â€™ Knowing his father kept a pistol in an end table,

our brave prince runs in, grabs it and ï€res at the ï€gure struggling to free himself from the folds of the draperies. And who fal s out, dying, but poor old felonious Polonius? His last words are, â€˜But, Queenie, you knew I was coming. You told me to meet

you here so we wouldnâ€™t be disturbed.â€™â€

â€œBut,â€ Elaine added regal y, â€œI insist that Polonius was simply dying and confused, that I had told him nothing of the sort. And of course, the ever-faithful local cops write the incident off as a sad accident. Thatâ€™s ï€ne for the public, but Hamlet now is

almost certain Mummy helped Duke with the kingâ€™s death and set up Polonius.â€

She sank graceful y into a chair. â€œA few days later at a family â€˜businessâ€™ meeting, Laertes bursts in, back from a trip to their Caribbean bank and shoots Hamlet to avenge his father Poloniusâ€™s death. Mortal y wounded, Prince Hamlet ï€res back

and kil s Laertes, who manages ï€rst to blurt out that the Duke gave him ten grand to out Hamlet and Horatio. Hamlet blows the Duke away, turns to me and says I have no right to live after al Iâ€™ve done, and kil s me. Final y, Hamlet col apses and dies

in Horatioâ€™s arms.â€

â€œAnd there you have it, my lords and ladies.â€ Noel pul ed Elaine to her feet for his bow and her curtsy. â€œA typical Shakespearean tragic endingâ€”blood and corpses al over the stage.â€

There was a spontaneous round of applause. My mother, however, shook her head. â€œDo you think, as they say, that it wil ï€‚y?â€

Noel looked embarrassed. Elaine gave a rueful smile as she spoke. â€œMy dear Jeanne, A Husbandâ€™s House has been reviled by every womenâ€™s group on the planet. Snow has a dedicated, but smal , cult of gay men who laugh at al the wrong

lines. The Tanqueray Tragedy is not mentioned in polite theater society. If Paul Carlucci has another succes dâ€™arte, the only thing that ï€‚ies wil be Paulâ€™s backers getting out of the country before the loans and the bil s come due.â€

â€œLet me put it this way,â€ Elaine completed. â€œTo say we are al nervous is the understatement of the year. Weâ€™re already snapping at each other like turtles, daring anyone to make a mistake or upstage us by an inch. Thatâ€™s not necessarily bad. It

can make for very keen performances, as long as everyone knows his lines and his moves and is very, veryâ€” up. But if one of us makes a blunder, the timing wil al go to hel , which wil throw us off our lines, and weâ€™l go down considerably faster

than the Titanic. And I must add, having a nosy, second-rate, dirt-snifï€ng journalist privy to our every move does not help us hold it together.â€

Noel muttered, â€œOh, Christ!â€

I assumed it was the eveningâ€™s closing prayer.

Chapter 11

I suppose if you lived next door to Buckingham Palace, you would eventual y cease to pay attention when the Queen motored forth, or Prince Phil ip came out to sneer or one of the Corgis picked out a tree and peed.

In any event, we grew used to our new neighbors and ceased to be intrigued by impromptu backyard rehearsals. The actual ones were held at the amphitheater, of course. Perforce, we heard Ophelia practicing her scales and songs. She had a

good voice, and evidently had some good training, as opposed to so many of our current American performers. She hit her notes roundly and ï€rmly, could exercise power without screaming and actual y enunciated lyrics clearly.

Hamlet had a wel -trained voiceâ€”both speaking and singingâ€” but somehow he seemed emotionless to me, almost as if he had something else on his mind. Maybe I had just seen overly dramatic interpretations of that role. He seemed cold,

though, on stage and off. Horatio, who came to the house next door frequently to work on his scenes with Hamlet, seemed like a lovely, friendly puppy. I thought he and Ophelia were going to make â€œyoungâ€ Hamlet look pretty pale.

I assumed Duke Noel and Queenie Elaine would certainly turn in commendable performances. I had seen both of them in other roles. But even these two professionals were having trouble with a love duet, sung just before their wedding and

confessing their years of love for each other. Elaine kept chiming in on Noelâ€™s lyrics before she should, and he kept mixing up two lines, which made her responses idiotic. I guessed they would work it out.

We saw little of the other players or crew. In fact we saw little of our neighbor, the stage manager. Nick was gathering what props hadnâ€™t been shipped from New York and storing them in the garage, which he noisily and gratingly and repeatedly

declared off-limits to anyone who drifted within twenty feet of it.

He and Harmon had several rumbles about Harmon having access to the yard equipment stored in the garage, with Nick insisting Harmon leave it al outdoors, put it in the basement or, for al he cared, in the efï€ng living room. Final y, Harmon

simply put on his stolid, Iâ€™m-a-stupid-local face and did as he pleased. If nothing else, he had Nick by about three inches and thirty pounds.

One morning Ophelia cal ed across the wal to me with a horticultural question. Positively thrilled that anyone would ask me something about plants, I cleared the wal in my best Errol Flynn style and went to her aid. She had a tiny pot of dil she

had been given by â€œthis sweet old ladyâ€ (who was probably my aunt and not al that old, if you donâ€™t mind!). She was learning to cook, Ophelia explained, and thought if the plant grew big enough soon enough, she could clip some of it to make scrod

with dil sauce when her boyfriend came up to visit.

Wel , that pretty wel answered one question about Ophelia. She was straight. But what the hel , I liked her anyhow. Some of my best friends were straight. Sure, Iâ€™d be glad to help with the planting. Noting that the van was gone, which meant Nick

was also probably gone, we ventured into the garage and found a smal trowel. We got the little plant gently into the ground and watered it, with Ophelia kneeling to give it a ï€nal maternal pat, when our resident journalist strol ed up behind us. And

the morning had been so pleasant!

â€œWhat a charming bucolic scene! What are you doing, my dear, praying you ï€nal y wil stop fucking up your dialogue?â€

Ophelia stood, smiling sweetly. â€œOh, I may pray for this and that. But at least Iâ€™m on my knees only when Iâ€™m praying, not while I try to remember whatâ€™s being said during what I euphemistical y cal an â€˜interview.â€™â€

It took Terese, not to mention me, several seconds to catch on to what Ophelia meant. When she did, she gasped and her face turned an alarming red and she screamed, â€œYou cheap little bitch! How dare you insinuate Iâ€™d have to do that to get an

interview with any man!â€

Obviously, I had no idea what Terese might do for a juicy quote, but certainly her anger was genuine, as evidenced by her intended swipe at Opheliaâ€™s cheek. The younger woman grabbed her arm and held it. â€œDonâ€™t fuck with me, lady. I was

raised in a section of New York where youâ€™d just be pigeon goo on the windowsil .â€ She ï€‚ung Tereseâ€™s arm roughly away and walked toward the house, cal ing back, â€œAlex, thanks for your help. Sorry we were interrupted.â€

I saw Tereseâ€™s eyes drop to the nearby trowel. I stepped on it heavily. â€œDonâ€™t even go there. You started it. Al she did was defend herself.â€

â€œWhat are you, the peace police?â€

â€œIf need be, now let it go.â€ I picked up the trowel and walked toward the garage as Terese turned and moved toward the front sidewalk.

Entering the dimness of the building, I nearly walked right into the ï€rm, stocky body of Nick Peters. Whoever was away in the van, it wasnâ€™t the stage manager. Heâ€™d been around somewhere al along.

â€œOh!â€ I said. â€œIâ€™m sorry, I didnâ€™t see you.â€ I held up the trowel. â€œJust putting this away. I wonâ€™t bother anything.â€

He nodded. â€œNo problem,â€ he said with surprising mildness. â€œSheâ€™s a real bitch, isnâ€™t she? Good thing you stepped on that garden thing.â€

â€œYou think she might real y have hurt Ophelia?â€ I laid the tool back where Iâ€™d found it.

â€œTerese would wil ingly do anything she thinks would further her impressive career as what she considers a Pulitzer-quality journalist,â€ a voice behind me said bitterly.

Hamlet had come out of the house, unseen, and quietly joined us. â€œI have a word for her, but women hate to hear it, so I wonâ€™t say it. But she wil pry, lie, play one person against another, never minding whom she hurts, nor how badly, if it gets her

one more column inch of space in that ï€lthy rag! Youâ€™d think she was out to win the Pulitzer Prize for the junk she writes.â€

If David gave half the emotion of that little speech to his stage speeches, his Hamlet might indeed go down in history.

â€œShe always looks at you like she knows something about you,â€ Nick added. â€œSomething you donâ€™t know she knows. I think she gets her jol ies off on that.â€

â€œI think you may be right,â€ I said. â€œThat type would rather have you on edge about an unprovable rumor than to face you down with facts. Itâ€™s more fun to watch you squirm.â€

â€œShe probably does know something about you.â€ David laughed shortly. â€œAfter al , weâ€™ve al got a thing or two in our lives weâ€™d like to keep quiet, and sheâ€™s just the one to ferret it out. So just watch your back, Nick!â€ He punched the smal er man

playful y on the shoulder.

Nick reacted as if heâ€™d been plugged into a light socket. In a nanosecond he had the front of Davidâ€™s shirt bunched in his hand and was poking him hard in the chest with the foreï€nger of his other hand, as he backed him out of the garage and

onto the concrete driveway. â€œWhat are you talking about? What did that god-damn woman say? Wel , it isnâ€™t true, whatever she claimed!â€

David grabbed Nickâ€™s arm and tried to stop the poking. â€œNothing! Nothing! I just meant what I said. Stop that, Nick. It hurts!â€ He threw a clumsy punch at Nickâ€™s head, and they went down together, rol ing on the driveway, David screaming, â€œDonâ€™t

get my face in the gravel!â€

And Nick screaming back, â€œThen tel me what she said!â€

â€œShe said nothing. I just meant sheâ€™d love to have something on you, like she ï€gures she does on me, and Elaine, and everybody else! Christ, I could kil her for this!â€ They continued to rol , grapple, punch. Obviously neither man had spent much

time in the ring.

I was stil debating whether to get in the middle of this scufï€‚e, when Paul Carlucci catapulted out the back door and onto the drive. He pul ed them apart. â€œNick! David! Quit this! Right now! Nick, do not hurt his face. Both of you, quit! Al right, al

right. Thatâ€™s better. What on earth started this?â€ He looked curiously at me.

â€œDonâ€™t look at me, I was just returning a garden tool.â€ I lifted both hands in innocence.

â€œTerese.â€ Both men spat out the name simultaneously.

â€œOh. Wel , Iâ€™l handle it later.â€ He sighed with heavy resignation. And suddenly I was quite certain where Ms. Segal was embedded. â€œDavid, come get in the car. I want you to see a doctor about that scrape.â€

â€œItâ€™s nothing, Paul. Some Neosporin wil do it,â€ Hamlet said rather wearily.

â€œDavid, I said get in the car. We canâ€™t neglect this. It could get infected, and I have no intention of your going on stage looking like the phantom of the opera. Nick, Iâ€™m sure you have things to do. Alex, perhaps youâ€™l forgive us if we leave now?â€

And the theme music came up on Father Knows Best.

And I realized he actual y had ï€nished a sentence.

I went back to the house, suitably abashed, to be greeted by a worried Fargo. He wasnâ€™t used to hearing yel s and seeing ï€ghts, and apparently he didnâ€™t like them. Neither did I. I was strangely shaken by the two arguments Iâ€™d just witnessed. I felt

as if the four people were al yel ing and ï€ghting over one thing, with something else not said.

Picking up the kitchen phone, I cal ed Cindy and suggested we spend a night or two at the cottage. She obviously heard something in my voice, and simply replied, â€œOf course. Why donâ€™t you go on over now and Iâ€™l pick up some take-out for

dinner. If youâ€™l take over my yel ow dress with the white jacket for work tomorrow, thatâ€™l do it. See you there around six.â€

I took Fargo and the dress and went over to the cottage and opened windows and doors and then went out to play with the kinder. I would rol /bounce a smal bal down the little dock. Fargo would trail along behind it and jump into the pond to

retrieve it. Wel s would try to catch it en route , and was sometimes successful, in which case she would grab it and make a soccer run onto the lawn, guiding it with her paws. Then Fargo and I would have to chase her and get it back. I guess they

enjoyed the game. I did.

Shortly after six, I made a smal pitcher of bourbon old fashioneds, and, yes, I know itâ€™s better to make them individual y. I put pitcher, glasses and ice onto a table on the deck, moved two chairs close together, lit a cigarette and sat down to wait.

But not for long.

Cindy came around the side of the cottage and up the steps, bearing a plastic bag.

Fargo and I each got a glancing pat as she went inside, saying, â€œI wasnâ€™t very inspired. Weâ€™ve got fried chicken, coleslaw and potato salad. Plebian enough?â€

â€œWe didnâ€™t have to cook it. I donâ€™t care how plebian it is. I made old fashioneds, want one?â€

â€œAh, yes, now that ainâ€™t plebian. Be right out.â€

And she was. Now attired in shorts and T-shirt, she gave me one of those special Cindy kisses that could never be perfunctory and sat down with her drink. I told her of the dayâ€™s events and she nodded. â€œNo wonder you wanted to get away. I donâ€™t

know how people live as actors. You know, theyâ€™re trained to be ableâ€”in a playâ€”to turn on any emotion required for X-number of minutes and then just turn it off again. How do you simply stop being angry or scared or in love or . . . evil, right on

cue? And in real life, how do you know if youâ€™re responding to a situation with your emotions or the actorâ€™s? This drink is delicious.â€ She took another sip.

I recal ed, â€œThereâ€™s an old song my grandfather used to sing: I was a fool when I believed you, when said youâ€™d never leave me, when youâ€™ve never told the truth in all your life . Not that actors are necessarily liars, at al . But it would raise the

question, wouldnâ€™t it?â€

â€œYep. Of course, sometimes we al do it to a degree. We act interested in a business meeting when weâ€™re bored stiff. Or we get it together to be gracious and charming at some party we could sleep through. But weâ€™re pushing, doing it

deliberately because itâ€™s part of our job, or to be courteous to our friends. We are ful y aware of what weâ€™re doing. With actors, I wonder if there isnâ€™t a gray area where they either donâ€™t know exactly what it is theyâ€™re feeling or donâ€™t admit it. Hand me

one of your cigarettes. I feel dangerous.â€

â€œI donâ€™t know how you do that. Once you smoke one, donâ€™t you want to go out and buy a pack?â€ I lit one for her, passed it over, and lit another for myself.

â€œMy strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.â€ She removed the cigarette regal y from her mouth, posed and blew a delicate puff of smoke.

â€œYeah, sure. You in your Bette Davis mode?â€ We sat quietly for a while, watching some gul s circling off to the left and a pair of Canada geese moving lazily on the pond. Fargo had his eyes on the geese but couldnâ€™t quite be bothered. Wel s

pounced across the grass after some unseen critter. The sun started down behind the dunes, like a round, red lens saying â€œSmile.â€

â€œWeâ€™d miss this if we didnâ€™t have it, wouldnâ€™t we?â€ Cindy asked.

â€œYes, indeed. I know it sounds sil y to have a â€˜getawayâ€™ place just a mile from your regular house, but at times like this, itâ€™s priceless.â€ I waved my hand to encompass everything in sight.

â€œSometimes we both need it, sometimes I need it for myself alone. Do you ever need it alone?â€ She held up her empty glass.

I got up and gave us both reï€l s. â€œNo, not alone, not yet, anyway. Sometimes I like being here just with the animals before you get here.â€

â€œBut you might need it, and it should be here if you do. We can afford it, you know.â€

â€œYes, in a way, of course I know we can. At least for now. But what about thirty years from now, old age creeping up. Seems like you should start saving for it in kindergarten.â€ I looked over at her.

â€œNursery school is better.â€

I swished the ice in my drink. â€œAnd it seems a bit extravagant, sort of conspicuous consumption, you know? A couple of people have made some veiled comments. It would be different, maybe, if it were up in New Hampshire or Maine, I guess.

Itâ€™s just that itâ€™s so close.â€

She shrugged. â€œLet â€™em talk. We need it, we can pay for it, we got it. Weâ€™re wel invested. Youâ€™ve got your own IRA now, plus youâ€™re putting away the money we save having you on my medical insurance. Iâ€™ve got a good 401K at the bank. Leave

old age up to me. When you start doddering, weâ€™l be able to buy you a cane.â€ Her words were light, but her voice was very ï€rm.

â€œYou sound very certain,â€ I said.

â€œI am. We need a getaway Alex, for us, for me, and in a sense for you, even if you never spend one night alone here. You need to think you have some safe little escape hatch, or someday youâ€™l get up a head of steam and make a big breakout

weâ€™l both regret.â€ She ground out her cigarette emphatical y.

Hey, wait a minute, I thought, those are my lines. â€œDarling,â€ I began haltingly. I wasnâ€™t ready for this. I needed time to make sure it would al sound the way I wanted it to. â€œI love you andâ€”â€

â€œI know you do,â€ she interrupted. â€œAnd I love you. Thatâ€™s why Iâ€™m saying al this. It isnâ€™t exactly easy. Remember my bugbear about one of us coming home changed by a trip? It wasnâ€™t easy for me to admit that, but it did seem much less frightening

in the light of day. I think weâ€™ve al got bugbears that may seem sil y to other people, but can scare us into doing real y stupid things. Like my getting bitchy or needy every time one of us is going away.â€

â€œI suppose so. I guess itâ€™s just a matter of working through them,â€ I hedged.

â€œWel , youâ€™ve got a similar one you wonâ€™t even talk about at al . Youâ€™re afraid of being tied too tight, right? Youâ€™re afraid of losing yourself. Youâ€™re afraid you canâ€™t hack it, right?â€

I clutched her hand as if it were al that was keeping me from fal ing off a cliff, and maybe it was. â€œWel , maybe in some ways . . . yes . . . oh, hel , youâ€™re right.â€ And suddenly it al came bubbling out. Once begun, it would not be stopped. She

listened, without laughing or criticizing or getting angry or teary, without disagreeing or adding her own little interpretations.

So there were al my fears and doubts, spread before her like the unappealing wares left on a tag sale bargain table. She stil remained silent, merely bending forward to pick up her glass and drain it. I wondered if she were trying to think of a

nice way to say good-bye.

Final y, she spoke. â€œI was trying to think of a good way to put this, and I canâ€™t, real y. But think of this: visualize a giant piece of paper with a graph on it. Starting at the left margin there are two lines, one blue, one red. They go across the paper,

sometimes together, sometimes one moving a little up or a little down, crossing, re-crossing, going along together or slightly apart til they reach the right-hand margin.â€ She took another cigarette from the pack on the table, but I made no comment.

â€œThatâ€™s us, Alex. Sometimes weâ€™re closer than others, but weâ€™re basical y together until the paper runs out. Together, but deï€nitely one red line and one blue line. We do not turn into a purple smear!â€

I poured the smal remains of the old-fashioneds into our glasses. â€œI like that. Together until the paper runs out.â€ I smiled.

â€œDonâ€™t be ï€‚ip!â€ Her face was serious. â€œItâ€™s you I love, Alex, not some featureless blob of an extension of myself! You donâ€™t have to live scared. You know, loving someone who doesnâ€™t swim in your own gene pool or have four legs and a tail is not a

terminal il ness!â€

â€œI believe you.â€ I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. â€œItâ€™s simply that I have spent the last ten years, in and out of relationships, doing the same thing over and over and wondering why I got the same catastrophic result each time. Nowâ€”wel ,

you and I have a relationship unlike anything Iâ€™ve ever known. I want it. I love it. I treasure it. And what if Iâ€™m not big enough, or adult enough, or stable enough or something enough to handle it?â€ I sank my head into my hands. I couldnâ€™t believe Iâ€™d said

that to anybody, much less Cindy.

She lifted my chin and leaned over to give me one of those Cindy kisses that said she was both lover and friend. â€œI think youâ€™re something enough. Being together does not necessarily mean ofï€cial y living together. Loving each other does not

mean forsaking our own self to meld with the other. We shal be together until the paper runs out, under a multitude of roofs, in a plethora of beds. Weâ€™l even dine at separate tables if we feel like it, especial y if you and Fargo keep wrecking the one

in the dining room.â€

I grinned at her, and then felt a sudden shyness. â€œAh, you think it would hurt dinner if we postponed it for a little while?â€

She stood and held out her hand, giving me a smile that was sexy and impish and yet, somehow, kind.

â€œDearest Alex, nothing could hurt that dinner.â€

Chapter 12

We went back to the house a few days later. Iâ€™d been picking up my phone messages two or three times a day, but real y didnâ€™t like to be out of touch even that long this time of year. This was my time to do at least preliminary investigations on

fairly numerous insurance injury claims. It was my bread-and-butter income, and I couldnâ€™t be unavailable.

After the seasonâ€™s bizarre start, the cases had al continued to be blessedly predictable. A woman took a quite legitimate fal on a wet spot in a supermarket. That incident would be handled out of Boston. A man had tripped and fal en over a

barstool. Probably faked, but the unthinking bartender had served the guy a drink when he was already drunk. That one was settled on the spot with two of the crisp new bil s I kept available for such times. A man claimed â€œfood poisoningâ€ after lunch

at a local seafood stand. The clinic said it was more than likely too much hot sun combined with the giant banana split that had fol owed the mayonnaise-heavy lobster rol and fried onion rings. I always tried not to think of exactly how the clinic

arrived at such diagnoses.

I even took a cheating spouse case because I felt sorry for the older man who was â€œabsolutely certainâ€ his pretty young wife was cheating on him. I had hopes of proving she was not. He was, however, absolutely correct. Only two nights of

surveil ance revealed that the young woman had reunited with a doubtless more virile and, according to her, more romantic partner. I wasnâ€™t sure which of the two spouses I felt more sympathy for.

After a late night, thanks to the il icit lovers, and an early morning, thanks to Fargo, I set out rather groggily on my errands. The cleaners, the post ofï€ce, the drug store. As I walked toward the drug store, I was startled to see my mother and Noel

walking from the supermarket toward her car, Noel pushing a loaded cart. He grinned and waved. Mom blew a kiss, but made no effort to come over. I assumed she had run into him inside, picking up some snacks for himself and the others and,

knowing he had no car, she was giving him a ride home. She was always considerate.

Returning from my parking lot encounter, I got my second surprise when I saw that Cindy had come home for lunch.

She was hunched over the smal dining room tableâ€”now with a pristine new tablecloth and lampshadeâ€”eating a salad and reading some magazine. She barely looked up long enough to explain, â€œThis is the new issue of the A-List. I want to

ï€nish it so I can leave it for you. Your salad is in the fridge. It needs dressing. Thereâ€™s a pitcher of tea, too, if you want some.â€ She returned to her reading.

â€œOh, okay, thank you.â€ Iâ€™d been thinking of a salami on pumpernickel and some chips and a pickle, and maybe a cold beer. Oh wel , a salad and iced tea were nice on a hot day. Refreshing and healthy, just what I wanted, real y. Maybe if I kept

saying it, Iâ€™d believe it.

I took my now-dressed salad and a handful of club crackers and glass of cold tea into the dining room and sat down.

I hate watching someone else read something I canâ€™t see. Cindy sat across from me, so of course the copy of the A-List was upside down to me. As she read, Cindy favored me with little exclamations and opinions. Uhmnn. Oh-oh. Iâ€™ll be

damned. Oh, really. Te-hee. Oh, no way. Wow. Hah. Since there was no way for me to guess what these remarks referred to in the article, I was getting more irritated by the moment.

â€œCindy, please either read the damned article out loud, or be quiet. Your conversation is not quite understandable.â€

â€œWel , pardon me! I thought I was doing you a favor. These things are probably al sold out by now. The guy at the newsstand said he could have sold twice as many as he had in stock.â€

â€œSorry, do continue to enjoy your mumbles.â€ I punched a fork into my salad.

â€œMy mumbles?â€ She looked up and burst out laughing. â€œYou are just envious that I got it ï€rst and ticked off that you didnâ€™t get a thousand calorie sandwich and beer for lunch. Now be good, youâ€™l get this in a minute.â€

I sipped my tea sul enly. How did she know? How did she always know?

True to her word, she ï€nished the article quickly and passed the magazine across to me. â€œItâ€™s interesting and just about what youâ€™d expect, I guess. A lot of people in this town are not going to be thril ed. Neither are the cast members. Iâ€™ve got to

get back to work. Bye for now.â€

I tried to look disinterested and not to grab the magazine. At least not until she got into the kitchen. I vaguely heard her put dishes in the dishwasher and say good-bye to Fargo. I was already turning to an article entitled, â€œThe Life of a Play.â€ There

was a subtitle reading, â€œSurvival in a Smal Town.â€ Already I didnâ€™t like it.

Terese did not plagiarize her description of the Provincetown area from the Chamber of Commerce brochure. She referred to our rol ing dunes as giant sun reï€‚ectors that hurt the eyes. Our roaring surf and sparkling beaches were the Coney

Island of New England. She referred to the Brownleesâ€™ lovely inn as â€œstripped down living quarters.â€ She harped on our plethora of souvenir shops, with no mention of our interesting and good quality gift shops and art gal eries and museums. She

didnâ€™t think much of our restaurants or various boating and ï€shing activities either. I got up and added some more ice to my tea. I needed something cooling.

Terese did approve of the amphitheater. â€œA starkly perfect setting for the multi-talented Paul Carlucciâ€™s latest dramatic triumph. He has written a masterful modern adaptation of Hamlet, so in touch with so many of todayâ€™s emotions and

chal enging issues, it deï€es description . . . a classic which wil prove timeless.â€ Wow! Was she talking about the script Noel and Elaine had described to us the other night?

The cast, Terese hoped, would live up to the writer/director. Professionals al , she assured us, but having just a few problems along the way. She phrased her gossipy items in a tone of high-minded concern for the production. Actual y, she shot

them down like ducks at a carnival booth.

To her, David Wil em seemed to be having difï€culty maintaining his focus and projecting his depth of feeling for his role, perhaps due to the lack of his â€œaristocraticâ€ founding father Dutch family and his â€œartisticâ€ wife to keep him company and

provide support in free moments. I wondered exactly what that meant.

Could Teri work past her upbringing in New Yorkâ€™s more difï€cult environs to portray Ophelia as the truly delicate and sensitive young southern bel e of the play? It would take, Terese feared sympathetical y, a quantum leap.

Noel seemed to be just the teeniest bit stiff in his love scenes with Elaine. Could it be she brought back painful memories of his ï€rst wife? I didnâ€™t get that one, nor did I ful y understand her crack that Nick Peters thought heâ€™d make a better Hamlet

than stage manager. Was Nick a wannabe actor? I didnâ€™t know.

Terese then moved on to the locals. When I noticed Sonnyâ€™s and Harmonâ€™s names in type, I went and got a cigarette before reading it. It was a good move. A stiff bourbon might have been an even better one. I began to read.

Is he gay? Who knows? He turned down this reporterâ€™s dinner invitation because he was â€œtoo busy.â€ Did he possibly think I was asking for a date? But he wasnâ€™t too busy to have a drink that afternoon with our endearing young Horatio,

whose sexual orientation is so well-known so intimately to so many. Maybe this was Detective Lieutenant Edward (Sonny, what else?) Peresâ€™s â€œbusy-nessâ€?

Oh, Sonny was going to love this! His buddies would be teasing him for the next ten years! I read on to see what else Terese had to offer.

I asked Sonny about crime in Ptown. His reply was, â€œWe try to keep our town safe for everyone.â€ I pinpointed Provincetownâ€™s drug problem, and he answered, â€œWhat drug problem?â€ Really!

Actually, Provincetown has a horrendous drug problem. Nearly every day, the so-called ï€shing ï€‚eet leaves the docks to rendezvous with mother ships over the horizon. They then bring the drugs ashore where they are transshipped across

New England and New York. And sales are made locally in broad daylight on most any street corner.â€

I laughed aloud. Terese had swal owed Harmonâ€™s determined belief in mother ships hovering offshore to load up various ï€shing vessels with drugs. Our hardworking ï€shermen were likely to lynch her, if Sonny didnâ€™t beat â€™em to it. Heâ€™d real y love

the crack about drug sales on every street corner! I had a feeling Ms. Segal might be un-embedded and headed home very shortly. And possibly on the end of Sonnyâ€™s highly polished boot. I went back to the article.

And who is the lone warrior in an attempt to slow this ï€‚ood of narcotics? He is a so-called, pseudo undercover agent of the Ptown police, a true diamond in the rough who drifts around town doing odd jobs and picking up information

wherever he can, with little or no assistance. He is, for instance, now posing as a groundskeeper for the inn where Paul Carlucci, the stars of the troupe and I are staying. Harmon Killingsly is his name, and even his casual conversation

leaves no doubt where his interests lie. I suppose he assumes a theatrical group might provide a ready market for these busy drug dealers, though Iâ€™ve seen little evidence of it.

Harmon may be the simple rustic, but heâ€™s all that Ptown has.

More next week from Provincetown. Where Terese Segal sees all.

I laid the magazine down in disbelief. Terese had swal owed my off-the-cuff spiel and Harmonâ€™s ramblings hook, line and sinker and put a spin on them that wouldnâ€™t have occurred to me by the next mil ennium.

In one medium-length article, she had managed to infuriate various shopkeepers, restaurateurs, innkeepers, the ï€shermen, the entire police department and doubtless the board of selectmen. And that didnâ€™t count the people connected with the

play! Only Carlucci had come out wel , and unless his entire endeavor here was beyond my smal town comprehension, he was teetering on the edge of a resounding disaster with or without Tereseâ€™s help.

This cal ed for a beer. I looked at the fridge and decided the Wharf Rat was a better choice. â€œLetâ€™s saddle up, Fargo. I feel the need for companionship. I do believe we may be under attack by foreigners.â€ Ever faithful, ever ready to go, he waited

and grinned and wiggled by the back door until I got his leash, and we were off.

The Rat was stil busy with late-lunching tourists, but there were a good number of locals at the bar, and the front table had every seat ï€l ed with a group of ï€shermen, a few local workmen and a tight-lipped Harmon. Conversation at the table was

low-pitched and solemn. I waved as I passed, but I donâ€™t think they even noticed me.

Looking around for a table for myself, I didnâ€™t see one, but I did spot a table for two, occupied by my mother and Noel. I walked over to say hel o and accidental y nudged a couple of shopping bags tucked under the table.

â€œPresents for my kids,â€ Noel explained. â€œJeanne was nice enough to help me pick them out. Now al I have to do is mail them.â€

â€œI think Iâ€™ve got an empty carton at home thatâ€™s just about the right size to hold them,â€ Mom said.

Noel made a circle with thumb and foreï€nger and smiled. â€œAlex, shal we try to ï€nd an extra chair? We can make some room here.â€

â€œNo, no, ï€nish your lunch in peace. People would be tripping over me in the aisle. Enjoy your meal. Talk to you later, Mom.â€ I leaned and gave her a peck on the cheek. She smiled and gave my head a pat, and returned to her clam cakes. Wel , at

least Noel was gentleman enough to buy her lunch after she drove him and his groceries home and then helped him shop. At least I assumed he was buying.

I found a seat at the bar next to a man whose name escaped me. I thought he owned a smal shop downtown. As I sat down and Joe set a Bud in front of me, the man pushed his half-ï€l ed lunch plate and coffee mug toward Joe.

â€œNothing wrong with Bil ieâ€™s food, Joe, but that damn magazine articleâ€™s give me heartburn. Sayinâ€™ the townâ€™s ful a dope and junk souvenirs and bad food. How many people you think read that thing?â€

Joe shrugged. I swal owed a sip of beer and answered for him. â€œNot enough to cause us grief unless it goes on for another issue or two.â€

â€œI wouldnâ€™t be so sure,â€ the man disagreed. â€œIt makes us al sound like a bunch of drug lords and rip-off artists, and stuff like that, it spreads.â€

â€œIâ€™l be surprised if thereâ€™s a second one like it,â€ I said in an effort to placate. â€œI imagine there wil be a bunch of phone cal s to the A-List from the Town Manager and the Coast Guard and the Massachusetts Board of Tourism. Maybe even a

Senator or two. I think Tereseâ€™s next article wil be pure whipped topping.â€

â€œShe oughtnâ€™t be al owed to write a next article at al ,â€ the man grumbled, sliding off the barstool and turning toward the door. â€œShe should be stopped. Maybe some of us should get together and just see to that.â€

Joe ï€‚ashed a sour grin and leaned toward me to speak softly. â€œDonâ€™s upset. Some tourists in his shop this morning were laughing about the A-List and cal ing his so-cal ed merchandise â€˜junk.â€™ Of course, it is junk!â€

I laughed. â€œHurts worse when itâ€™s true, huh?â€

â€œAlex, Iâ€™m awful worried.â€ I turned to see Harmon now seated beside me.

â€œWhatâ€™s wrong, Harmon?â€

â€œThat damned woman, thatâ€™s whatâ€™s wrong. Here I thought she was just a nice lady, up here to write stories about them acting people, and look what sheâ€™s gone and done!â€ I thought he might cry. And I felt very guilty. I certainly hadnâ€™t helped

matters with my clever remarks to Terese.

Signaling Joe for a beer for Harmon, I patted his hand. â€œI donâ€™t think thereâ€™s any great harm done. Most people have sense enough to take magazine articles like that with a big grain of salt.â€

â€œIâ€™m afraid Sonnyâ€™s gonna be real mad at me, Alex, but I neverâ€”I neverâ€” told that damn red-headed snake I was a cop. She was al sweet and worried about drugs in town, and I told her how I kind of kept an eye on things. Just trying to make her

feel safer. You understand?â€

Sadly, I understood only too wel how a wel -meaning, innocent Harmon and a conniving, spinmeister Terese had produced a believable wicked fairy tale that would make perfect sense to anyone who didnâ€™t know Ptown.

â€œWel .â€ His face tightened with an anger I had never seen him show before. â€œSheâ€™s done made fools of al of us, even Sonny. It donâ€™t matter about me so much, but Sonny, heâ€™s an important man in this town. People look up to him like heâ€™s a rol ed

model, and that bitch ainâ€™t got no right to make him look bad. We canâ€™t let that go on!â€

I pushed the bottle in front of him. â€œSonny wonâ€™t be mad. He understands that kind of person, and he knows you wouldnâ€™t lie about being on the force. Donâ€™t worry. Itâ€™s not a big thing. Here, Harmon, have your beer and tel me how Tom and

Geraldine are coming along.â€

At least I hoped it wasnâ€™t a big thing. Too many people feeling like Don and Harmon would not be goodâ€”for themselves or the town. Maybe not for Terese either. I hoped the Governor of Massachusetts would draft a ï€rm letter to her editor.

Chapter 13

I had to admit that Terese Segal and the A-List had certainly made an impression on the town. By the next day, I think everyone over the age of six had read the damn piece, and everyone had a grumble. From Aunt Mae to the mailman, I heard

the chorus: She must be stopped.

It began to sound like one of those weird movies where the entire vil age unites and burns the evil y possessed woman at the stake, while the police force studiously looks the other way. I wouldnâ€™t have been surprised to see a lynch mob

proceeding up my street with grim, silent determination. The only thing that real y bothered me about that scenario was my niggling desire to join it.

And the merry band next door was anything but. Only Carlucci seemed to be on good terms with Terese. The others al seemed to speak in whispers among themselves, except for Nick, who spent most of his time closed in the garage, probably

with a cross and a bulb of garlic.

She had them al scared, and after a day or so, they began to take it out on each other. Hamlet, while sunning in the backyard, was joined by Polonius, with some complaint about Hamletâ€™s â€œtrampling, absolutely stomping on my lines, and I wil not

have it!â€

Hamlet stood, I presumed to cash in on his height advantage over Polonius, and insisted he was merely â€œanswering briskly, as any young col ege man would reply to some old trout droning on about what to do or not to do once you get to

col ege.â€

Polonius simpered. â€œYoung college man? Youâ€™d better put some dye on the sideburns, then. The gray is showing.â€

â€œItâ€™s nothing, but Iâ€™l take care of it. Many people start to gray in their twenties.â€

â€œTwenties! Youâ€™re thirty-ï€ve if youâ€™re a day.â€

Hamlet then literal y stamped his foot and screamed, â€œAm not!â€

I had taken my laptop out to the picnic table, assuming that Fargo and I would enjoy a little fresh air while I completed some reports that were rapidly approaching the overdue mark. It seemed I had made a mistake. I might as wel have brought

out the little TV and watched soaps. Although I didnâ€™t need to watch one on TV. I felt I was living in one.

I looked over at the now empty yard and tried again to ï€nish the reports. I was about halfway through the second one when I jumped at the sound of the back screen door crashing open across the way as Nick Peters stormed through it, and

crashing again as Ophelia came out hard on his heels.

â€œItâ€™s bad enough I have to share a bathroom with the likes of you under any circumstances, but you make it impossible! The maids clean it every morning, and by noon itâ€™s a mess again. Get up there and clean up your stuff and wash that tub! I

want to take a bath later.â€

â€œSo take it.â€ He walked on toward the garage.

Ophelia grabbed his shirt and spun him around. â€œI am going over to Jakeâ€™s to work on my solo. I wil be back in an hour. If that bathroom isnâ€™t clean, Iâ€™m going to take al your smel y, icky clothing and soggy towels and put them on the sidewalk with

a big sign saying, â€˜Plague! Nick Petersâ€™s ï€lthy clothes. Beware of lice!â€™â€ She released her hold and walked away.

â€œIn your dreams!â€ he cal ed after her. â€œYou wouldnâ€™t dare.â€ But I noticed that as soon as Ophelia was out of sight, Nick walked back to the house.

I gave up and returned to mine, but not before I had been treated to a smal tiff between Noel and Elaine. Elaine complained that when she ran to the Duke in one of their many love scenes, he caught her the wrong way and hurt her back. He

replied in an ultra-patient tone that if she would merely lean into him rather than col apsing into his arms, he wouldnâ€™t have to support her so tightlyâ€”to the point of wrenching his own shoulders.

At that point Hamlet sat up in a deck chair he had placed beneath a smal shade tree. â€œYou know, Elaine, if you would pace yourself to end up with your weight on your right foot, then when you turn to the left to embrace Noel, your balance would

be better andâ€”â€

Elaineâ€™s head snapped around almost audibly. â€œWhat did you study in that so-cal ed acting school, bal room dancing?â€

Placatingly, Noel intervened, â€œActual y, Elaine, he may have something. We could try it.â€

â€œFine, you two try it. Youâ€™l probably love it!â€ She stormed into the house, and the poor screen door crashed again.

I got a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table to light a cigarette. I was sick of the whole bunch of them at this point. Every dandelion was bigger than an oak tree to them. Cindy had spent last night at the cottage because of a

screaming match between Carlucci and Laertes that seemed to go on for an hour. I was not getting my work done as scheduled. I was into a cigarette I didnâ€™t need and about to open a beer I didnâ€™t real y even want. And it was barely noon.

Then I got mad at myself. Why did I let them control my life?

I would go back outside, do my work, and if anybody else started a ruckus I would simply tel them to take it elsewhere. And so I did, snubbing out the cigarette and replacing the unopened beer.

I was whizzing right along in the dul insurance-ese my employers preferred. Real day-to-day English was too easy to understand. At one point I saw Terese, apparently strol ing among the ï€‚owerbeds in the noon heat. I shook my head. To each

his own. Nick came out of the house, the back screen door now squeaking loudly each time it was opened and closed. He got into one of the vans and drove away. Sometime later, I noticed Ophelia coming up the drive, ï€nished with her solo work, I

guessed. And I would have bet the tub had been scrubbed.

But these things didnâ€™t bother me. I was, in fact, pleased with the progress I was making. I ï€nished another report and sent it winging, in some manner I would never understand, to Boston. I started on my last one, which I would shortly aim toward

Plymouth and hit Send.

And thenâ€”it was bound to happenâ€”Ophelia screamed.

â€œO-ooh, no!â€

She was pointing at something in the driveway. I ï€gured perhaps Nick managed to run over a ï€eld mouse, or perhaps a dead bird had somehow got there. I told Fargo to stay as I approached the wal . I didnâ€™t want him walking around for half an

hour with something smal and dead in his mouth, ï€nal y burying it, and then digging it up ï€ve minutes later to start the process al over again.

By the time I reached Opheliaâ€”Teri, she had picked up the victim and was clutching it to her chest. I hoped she wasnâ€™t one of those people with a strange afï€nity for roadkil . We used to have a woman in town who took it upon herself to pick up

roadkil , sometimes quite decomposed, put it in her car trunk and bring it home to bury in her backyard. You could smel her car before you saw it.

I braced myself as Teri opened her hands to me. And al I saw was a smal , uprooted plant, obviously run over by the van and now far beyond resuscitation. It looked like a clump of grass, and for a moment, I couldnâ€™t understand her tears. Then I

realized it was her little dil plant.

â€œWhat a miserable thing to do!â€ She gulped. â€œAn innocent little plant! They only did it to hurt me. Why take it out on my sweet plant? Nick or Terese! Itâ€™s got to be one of them. Iâ€™l ï€nd out, and theyâ€™l be sorry. Oh, wil they be sorry!â€

I thought back over the past hours. I didnâ€™t think it was Nick. When he came out of the house a little while back, my thought was that he went directly to the van, walking on the side of the driveway away from the dil plantâ€™s spot. But I wasnâ€™t a

hundred percent sure, and I didnâ€™t real y want to put the ï€nger on Terese if she hadnâ€™t done itâ€”although Iâ€™d bet she did itâ€”because I didnâ€™t want to start World War I I over a dil plant, rotten trick that it was. So I said nothing.

Nick picked that moment to drive in. As he got out of the van, he wore an unfortunate smirk as he asked, â€œSatisï€ed, now?â€

â€œYou bastard!â€ She uncorked a punch that knocked him onto his back and into the ï€‚owerbed.

He sat up, rubbing his chin. â€œAre you crazy? I clean up the damn bathroom, like you so nicely asked. Then I ask you are you satisï€ed and you knock me into next week. What the hel is the matter with you?â€

â€œDidnâ€™t you do this?â€ She held out the now disintegrating plant.

â€œWhatâ€™s that?â€ He struggled to his feet, stil coddling his reddening chin.

â€œMy dil plant. Didnâ€™t you pul it up and then run over it?â€

He hesitated. â€œIâ€”I might have run over it, Teri. I didnâ€™t see it. But I wouldnâ€™t have pul ed it up.â€ His face crumpled like a little boyâ€™s about to cry. â€œI wouldnâ€™t deliberately kil anything like that.â€ I believed him.

â€œThen it was Terese,â€ Teri said. â€œDid either of you see her out here?â€

I decided Terese could look after herself. I wasnâ€™t going to lie. â€œYes, sometime around the noon hour.â€

â€œUh-huh.â€ Nick nodded. â€œJust after noon, walking around the ï€‚owers.â€

Teri gave us each a sort of bow and walked into the house, stil holding the plant.

Nick shook his head. â€œTeriâ€™s tough as nails in some ways, and she can be a pain in the ass. But she did love that little plant. She watered it every day and even talked to it, like it was a cat or something. I feel sorry for her. Sheâ€™s stil only a kid,

real y. This is her ï€rst feature role and sheâ€™s nervous about it. Al on her own up here. Damn that woman! Did you see that article she wrote?â€

â€œYes. I didnâ€™t understand it al . Like what she said about Noel . . . and about you.â€

â€œOh, the thing about Noel was a double whammyâ€”also about Elaine. Noelâ€™s ex-wife is gay. Her lover and she are raising her and Noelâ€™s two kids. No problem. Noel sees the kids as often as he can, and they have a stable home, I guess. Once in

awhile Noel brings them into New York for a weekend or takes them to his cabin up in Maine or somewhere. Everybody seems friendly enough. And of course, the poke at Elaine is because sheâ€™s gay, too, and she and her lover raised the loverâ€™s

daughter. Thatâ€™s al . Of course, Terese likes to make it sound like everybody is at everybody elseâ€™s throat.â€

â€œI see,â€ I said, motioning for Fargo to come on over. â€œAnd what about your wanting to play Hamlet?â€

He rubbed his chin and winced. â€œI donâ€™t know why Terese even bothered writing that.â€ Nick spoke smoothly, but his eyes looked suddenly hard to me. â€œItâ€™s cold porridge. When I was in my teens I thought about becoming an actor, but . . .â€ He

laughed a little too heartily. â€œI was the worldâ€™s worst. Made a much better stage manager. Wel , I gotta get to work here.â€ He nodded and headed toward his friendly cave. Fargo and I recrossed the wal , and I felt I was gaining a new understanding of

how Dorothy and Toto felt on returning to Kansas. Our yard seemed marvelously safe and sane and familiar.

I stood looking fondly at my sturdy tomato plants, heavy with ripe red globes and smal er stil -green fruit, like Christmas tree bal s adrift in the wrong season. I remembered how frail the plants had been last spring, and that I, too, had found it

natural to give them verbal encouragement. If they had been vandalized at that point, I would have felt almost as if a helpless child or animal in my care had been harmed.

And I agreed with Nick. Hiding somewhere inside the tough broad was the vulnerable child that was Teri. Toughness is learned. Vulnerability is one of those mixed blessings some are born with. I knew a little about that.

So of course, I opened the car door for Fargo, and we headed for Aunt Maeâ€™s to ï€nd another dil plant.

Three cars were lined up outside Aunt Maeâ€™s little shop, and translated to eight customers inside. I browsed around until she was ï€nal y free, getting an appreciative hug for my wait.

â€œHel o, my dear, how nice to see you! Itâ€™s my day for the Peres family, I guess. Your mother and Noel were just here to get some rosemary. Sheâ€™s going to make her rosemary and white wine chicken for the Hamlet people to snack on, though I

imagine,â€ she laughed, â€œthat most of it wil have Noelâ€™s name on it. And now youâ€”â€

â€œYou mean now Momâ€™s cooking for that bunch? Boy, Noel has some nerve! Sheâ€™s been chauffeuring him around and helping him shop, and now sheâ€™s cooking! I expect any minute to hear heâ€™s just moved right in.â€

Aunt Mae gave a little stutter of a laugh. â€œWel , no, dear, I donâ€™t think you have to worry about that right now. So . . . to what do I owe the honor?â€

I told her of Opheliaâ€™s little murdered dil plant and she clucked with disapproval. â€œPeople can be just plain mean! Itâ€™s too bad that Segal woman doesnâ€™t simply pack up and leave! Certainly nobody wants her here.â€ As she was talking, Aunt Mae

was walking toward the back of the shop. She picked up a nice six-inch pot, scooped some soil into the bottom, dumped a dil plant from a smal er pot into the larger one, ï€l ed it with more soil and packed it down.

â€œThere, this wil live nicely on a bright windowsil , so she wonâ€™t have to worry about planting it outside. Just water occasional y and give it a little food once in a while. Hereâ€™s a little sample packet of food.â€

I reached for my wal et, and she waved her outspread hands from side to side. â€œNo, donâ€™t be sil y, Alex. It was kind of you to think of her loss. Iâ€™m happy to provide the little plant. It must be hard on a young girl, alone in a strange place. She told me

this is her ï€rst important role, so please be sure to tel her the little plant wil bring her luck. I know sheâ€™l do beautiful y in her performance next week.â€

â€œYes, thank God itâ€™s only eight days away. It seems like light years. I may give a block party when itâ€™s over and theyâ€™re out of here . . . except the whole town would probably show up. Wel , thank you, favorite aunt. I wonâ€™t keep you.â€ I nodded toward

a car as it disgorged three customers-to-be and took my leave.

I thought a casual stop at Momâ€™s would be a good idea. Mom was so openhearted. I wanted to make sure our summer visitors were not truly taking advantage of her good nature.

As I walked into the kitchen, the aroma told me the chicken was about done. Then I heard chords struck on the piano. Momâ€™s pleasant voice sang a line I assumed was from one of her beloved Broadway show tunes. Then Noelâ€™s picked up on the

second line and I realized just what show it was from.

So many years, I had to hide my love for you.

So many years I hoped you knew my heart was true.

Careful whenever others were near us

Always in fear lest they see us or hear us,

But now at last we are together forever

Wherever we go.

Together . . .

Forever . . .

Wherever . . .

We go.

I walked into the living room applauding. â€œSounds great! Gee, Mom, are you replacing Elaine?â€

â€œDonâ€™t be sil y.â€ She was, for some reason, blushing mightily, one of the few traits she had passed on to me that I wished she hadnâ€™t. â€œI was just helping Noel work through some timing problems in the duet.â€

Noel was rapidly gathering his sheet music from the piano rack. â€œYes, yes. Al much better now, Jeanne. I thank you a mil ion . . . must run . . .â€

â€œNoel, your chicken . . . oh my God, is it burning?â€ Mother ran for the kitchen, Noel and I fol owing. â€œNo, itâ€™s al right, but it was close!â€

â€œIt smel s wonderful,â€ I said pointedly.

â€œThank you, dear. Weâ€™re lucky itâ€™s not smoking. Wel , â€˜searedâ€™ is popular nowadays.â€ She laughed. Then Noel laughed. Then they both laughed for a while. What was so funny? By now she had most of it transferred to a platter, so I simply grabbed

a drumstick from the second large skil et. And they laughed some more. Final y, she got plastic wrap around the platter and Noel got out the door, careful y balancing the hot platter on his stack of music, thanking her again as he left.

My drumstick now was cool enough to eat, and I took a bite. â€œOh, so good!â€

â€œThanks, dear,â€ she murmured absently. â€œI wonder if I should have driven him home. I hope he doesnâ€™t drop the platter.â€

â€œItâ€™s only a couple of blocks. Surely he can make it that far. Youâ€™re now chief cook for the actors?â€

â€œNot hardly. But I guess theyâ€™re not real y eating too wel . Itâ€™s time-consuming and expensive to eat out al the time, and sometimes they eat at oddbal hours, and mostly nobody cooks. I guess itâ€™s nearly al TV dinners and snacks. I just thought a

couple of chickens might be welcome.â€

â€œYouâ€™re too nice. Cooking, shopping, rehearsing songs. I hope Carlucci has you on the payrol .â€ I gave her a fond, if slightly greasy kiss on the cheek.

â€œHah. Is everything al right with you? Any special reason youâ€™re here?â€

â€œNope. Aunt Mae told me you were making chicken, and I came to rob. Plain and simple. My mission is accomplished,â€ I ï€bbed, dropping the bone in the garbage.

Looking desperate, Fargo pawed my leg. â€œOh, Fargo, I was so hungry I forgot to save you a bite.â€

Mom smiled. â€œHere, Fargo, I cooked the gizzards for you, but I think they are outdoor food, if you donâ€™t mind.â€ He didnâ€™t mind at al and crouched happily in the grass, chewing mightily.

As I pul ed out of the driveway, with Fargo stil licking his chops, I gave Mom a wave. But she was looking absently up the street as if stil concerned that Noel might be strewing pieces of chicken along the way.

She real y was too nice. Next theyâ€™d have her making dinner every night.

Chapter 14

Cindy and I were sitting in the backyard, swapping our accounts of the day. Two of her clients had brought in their month-old baby girl to introduce her to Cindy and set up a col ege account, â€œRemember?â€ she asked. â€œI told you people started

younger and younger. I expect to be cal ed into a delivery room any time now.â€

â€œWel ,â€ I said, â€œas long as they donâ€™t want you there at the moment of conception.â€

She laughed and tousled my hair. Obviously the event had put her into a good mood, so I skipped over the tale of the dil plant. I knew it would only make her sad. However, I did tel her of Momâ€™s helping Noel with his lyrics and making chicken for

the group at his B&B.

â€œHeâ€™s as slick as a used car salesman,â€ I grumbled. â€œFirst sheâ€™s doing his grocery and souvenir shopping, then sheâ€™s driving him around. Next sheâ€™s helping with his songs and making chicken for that whole bunch. Iâ€™m surprised she hasnâ€™t told

him off.â€

Cindy looked at me curiously. â€œWhy would she tel him off? Nobody is forcing her to fry a chicken.â€

â€œWel , sheâ€™s not stupid. Surely she knows heâ€™s using her.â€

â€œI think not, darling girl. Iâ€™ve seen them having lunch downtown a lot, and the other day I ran into them on the pier, going out to the whale watching boat and giggling like kids, and Lainey saw them one night at the movies. Dating, my angel, itâ€™s

cal ed dating.â€

â€œDating? My mother, dating? Donâ€™t be absurd, Cindy. She doesnâ€™t date. And an actor at that? Never! Anyway, heâ€™s younger than she is.â€ I nodded abruptly. Certainly that settled it.

Cindy ï€‚ashed a smile that tried not to become a laugh. â€œWel , Alex, somebody is often a little younger than somebody else in a twosome. And last I knew, dating isnâ€™t limited to people under thirty who have not yet been married or procreated.

Trust me, theyâ€™re dating. And having a wonderful time of it! Vive romance! Donâ€™t you dare be a surly grouch to her about this!â€

I squirmed in my chair. â€œGod, Cindy, do you supposeâ€”oh, hel no, couldnâ€™t be. Wel , I suppose a few lunches and a boat ride just kind of make up for the favors sheâ€™s done him. Anyway, theyâ€™l al be gone in a week and I guess no harm done. I

wouldnâ€™t cal it dating, Cindy, I real y wouldnâ€™t.â€

She gave me a look that was simultaneously knowing, pitying, irritated and amused. â€œWhatever you say, dear, whatever you say.â€

At that moment the back screen door of the actorsâ€™ quarters wailed its minatory opening squeak. Cindy glanced up. â€œOh, itâ€™s Elaine. Shal we ask her over for a drink?â€

â€œNo!â€ I said vehemently, deliberately not turning to look. â€œAl theyâ€™ve done al day over there is ï€ght and scream. Iâ€™ve had it with actors. And youâ€™re trying to tel me my mother is dating one! I canâ€™t wait for next week. Iâ€™l escort them al to the Bourne

Bridge. Peace, al I want is peace.â€

â€œAlex, sheâ€™s sitting on the back steps, al by herself andâ€”oh, dearâ€”sheâ€™s crying.â€

â€œOh, sweet Jesus in the foothil s, go see whatâ€™s wrong now. She probably sprained her toe.â€

It seemed only seconds before Cindy and Fargo returned shepherding a snifï€‚ing Elaine across the yard. â€œDarling,â€ Cindy cal ed brightly, â€œWeâ€™ve decided on vodka tonics, and Fargo asked nicely for a biscuit. Would you oblige us?â€

I stood and managed a smile. â€œCertainly,â€ I replied with great heartiness. â€œMy pleasure. Iâ€™l be right back.â€

In the kitchen, I put together their drinks plus a hefty bourbon for myself, and reached for the dog biscuits. â€œAsked nicely, did you? Are you sure?â€ Fargo did a little two-step and grinned. It was enough for me. â€œYouâ€™re the only sane one around this

place. Here.â€

He took it gently, and I fol owed him out the door with the tray of drinks. â€œWel , here we are,â€ I said cheerful y, handing out the glasses. â€œIs something wrong, Elaine? Can we help you with anything?â€ I real y did like her. Cindy was nice. I would try to

be nice.

She sipped her drink and sighed. â€œI truly guess I have to talk to someone. Iâ€™ve held this al in for so long, itâ€™s simply consuming me. I hate to burden you two, but I guess Iâ€™m going to, arenâ€™t I? Please promise me you wonâ€™t ever tel anyone what Iâ€™m

about to say!â€ She looked at each of us seriously.

â€œJust Cindy, Fargo and me. It goes no further, I promise you.â€ I took a preparatory swal ow of bourbon and braced myself for some sil y tale of woe about somebody getting better bil ing than she did.

She placed her hand on my wrist. â€œYou know who I am, donâ€™t you?â€

My God, had she got amnesia? Was she having some sort of breakdown? Was she going bonkers on us?

â€œEr . . . ah, yes, I guess so.â€ Maybe if I reminded her subtly, â€œElaine Edgewood, Queen Gertrude, Queenie!â€ I laughed slightly. â€œTake your pick.â€

â€œNo, I mean who I real y am.â€

And al of a sudden, I did know.

At once, I was back in the early summer, with Fargo in front of the TV, while Cindy was away in Boston. One of those bio-dramas came on the tel y, â€œThe Woodchopper Widow.â€ The drama opened with the trial some thirty years ago. I saw the

expressionless wife, who had been tried for stabbing her husband and feeding parts of him into a woodchopper. She had done so, she said, to protect her children from his sexual abuse of their children. And I remembered the tal , rather plain

young daughter, swearing that their father had never abused her or her brother. Now, nearly three decades later, she sat before me, having acquired her motherâ€™s long and graceful neck and rich, dark hair. Her plain looks had grown into a tal , quiet

beauty. She had her motherâ€™s intensity without the somewhat wild eyes.

â€œYouâ€™re Elaine. Elaine Leonard. Your mother . . . wel , I mean . . . your father . . .â€ I could think of no way to end the sentence. â€œYouâ€™ve grown up.â€

â€œAnd then some.â€ She smiled faintly. â€œI thought you recognized me when we ï€rst met. You looked at me rather sharply and said something about my seeming familiar. I thought you knew me and were just too polite to blurt it out.â€

â€œNo.â€ I sipped my drink. â€œI did think you looked familiar, but just assumed it was because I had seen you on a TV series. I didnâ€™t recognize you as Elaine Leonard until just now. Although I did see that so-cal ed bio-drama one of the cable stations

did when your mother died.â€

Cindy was looking from me to Elaine and back with total lack of understanding. I was sure Cindy had read about the event in one of her scandal mags, but had simply forgotten. Elaine took pity on her.

â€œWhen I was twelve and my brother was seven, Bobby told my mother that my father did â€˜bad things that sometimes hurtâ€™ to him and to me. He made matters worse by adding that I liked the bad things he did. My dad traveled a lot on business,

and Mother had several days for this too terrible news to stew in her mind and let her imagine al sorts of horror scenes.â€

She took a deep breath and went on. â€œThen, on a Friday, just as Dad pul ed into the driveway from being away al week, a toddler across the way got loose from his mother and ran into the street. Dad dashed out and picked him up, and returned

him to his mother with a playful swat on his bottom, for which the kid gave him a big smooch. Mom saw this from the kitchen window and decided it was a sign of further abuse, approved of by the toddlerâ€™s on-looking, smiling mother.â€

â€œMy God!â€ Cindy said. â€œYour poor mother must have simply been over the edge from worrying about it and imagining things that might have happened. If only sheâ€™d spoken to someone before your father came home!â€

â€œYes, that might have helped, but I think she was too mortiï€ed. In some way, certainly, she had cracked. She had never been terribly stable. Apparently, when my father entered the kitchen, she caught him completely off guard and stabbed him

several times and then dragged him to the backyard. About that time Bobby and I returned from a birthday party, we saw Dadâ€™s car in the drive, heard the chopper running and ï€gured he was doing some yard work. We ran around the house andâ€”â€

â€œStop, Elaine.â€ I put my hand on her arm. â€œDonâ€™t put yourself through any more of this. How can we be of help to you?â€

â€œBy listening a bit longer, actual y. Iâ€™l skip the gory details and the trial. Moving right along . . . we had no close relatives, and a psychiatrist recommended Bobby and I be adopted separately. I was against that at the time, but later was very

grateful. As they say, I real y lucked out. Could I have one of your cigarettes?â€

â€œSure.â€ I pushed the pack and lighter across the table toward her. It seemed to be my role in life to supply cigarettes to people who had â€œquitâ€ smoking. What would happen if I quit? Where would any of us ï€nd the stray, rare, necessary cigarette? It

could change the world, cause nervous breakdowns, increase unemployment, turn farms into wastelands. Best I did not quit just yet.

Elaine lit one and continued. â€œMy new family was great. I wanted to keep my ï€rst name, and they agreed that Elaine Edgewood was a ï€ne name. They had a natural son a couple of years older than I, but had been advised at his birth to have no

more children. Tim was a great brother. Just slightly bossy, protective and a great deal of fun. Mom and Dad had wanted a daughter, but kept putting it off til they heard of me, and the story moved them, and we were immediately attracted to each

other when we met. They own a maple syrup farm in Vermont, and it was such a wonderful place to grow up! I lovedâ€”loveâ€”the place and them and my big brother to pieces. They were al supportive of my wanting to be an actress, although Tim

used to tease me about it. Not anymore. Now heâ€™s very proud. And somehow my parents found the money to give me a year at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts after I graduated col ege.â€

â€œDo they know youâ€™re a lesbian?â€ Cindy asked.

â€œYou bet, and they have treated my lover, Joan, as if she were their daughter, too. They are truly splendid people. They understood when I was grown and asked where my birth mother was. I went to see her. I guess I made peace with her. It helped

some. I didnâ€™t see her again. She seemed rather content the way things were. She seemed calm, and they werenâ€™t very strict with her. But I sent her little notes about my career and a smal present now and then. It al helped.â€ She was sounding

much calmer, and I was considerably relieved.

â€œHow did Bobby make out?â€ I asked.

â€œBobby had big problems. He swore to the end that Dad was abusive. I assure you he was not. And Bobby had no physical marks of abuse, nor did the shrink think his story held up. Unfortunately his hysterical babbling didnâ€™t help Mother any,

either. Anyway, the shrink saw him for a while, tried to help him and hoped heâ€™d grow out of it. I guess maybe he did. We donâ€™t discuss it.â€

Cindy picked up our glasses and headed for the kitchen. â€œDonâ€™t say anything important til I get back.â€ We didnâ€™t, and on her return Elaine once again picked up her weird tale.

â€œBobby was eventual y adopted by a lovely, somewhat older couple who had no other children. They owned a big old family drugstore in a smal Pennsylvania town. It was a great place. I visited once when I was in col ege. They sold everything in

the world in it, and even had one of those old-fashioned marble ice cream counters with those wire stools that look so rickety. And when Bobby was the soda jerk, it was probably the one time in his life he was real y popular and outgoing and had

some fun. Itâ€™s too bad he didnâ€™t stay there. I think he knew everyone in town. Actual y, they changed his ï€rst name as wel as his last, but I canâ€™t seem to cal him anything but Bobby, although I try not to in public.â€

â€œSounds like he made out pretty wel , too.â€ I sipped my drink slowly. I stil didnâ€™t know what we were leading up to.

â€œYes, for some time. Iâ€™m afraid my visit didnâ€™t help, unfortunately. When I told him I was going to be an actress, he said he was going to be an actor. Just like that. Like youâ€™d decide to have mustard on your hamburger because I put some on mine,

and it looked good. But his parents went along with it, planned on col ege and a yearâ€™s acting school.â€

â€œWhat happened? Did he do wel ?â€ I had begun to wonder just how long this saga was going to be.

â€œA big discount store moved into the area, and downtown businesses went downhil . Some even had to close, although the drug store managed to survive. Itâ€™s ironic, that our play here has the same theme, and itâ€™s probably not helping Bobbyâ€™s

emotional state. Anyway, there was no money for acting school, and university turned into a little community col ege in the next town over. And Bobby, grateful boy that he was, sued his parents for breach of contract!â€

â€œHe sued them?â€ Cindyâ€™s eyebrows were on the rise again.

â€œYep. Sued them for breach of contract. He said they had a verbal contract to send him to the University of Pennsylvania and then to a year in acting school. His grades were good enough to get into Penn, ergo, they had to send him. He had lived

up to his part of the bargain.â€

â€œI assume nobody al owed him to pursue that madness.â€ I pul ed my cigarettes back and lit one, scolding myself silently on general principals. I had long ago lost count.

â€œWel , yes, he actual y found a lawyer who was wil ing to represent him, but a judge threw it out before it ever came to court. Can you imagine the precedent it would have set? It boggles the mind! Kids would be suing their parents over a new

bike! Unfortunately, word of it spread al over town. Bobbyâ€™s parents were very popular and wel thought of in the area. While most people looked on it as just a stupid teenage trick by a spoiled brat. Bobby immediately became a treacherous young

vil ain to some. He actual y received threats, to the point where he decided to leave town.â€

I sipped my drink and groused, â€œIâ€™m surprised he wasnâ€™t tarred and feathered and ridden out on a rail.â€

â€œNo, it never got violent.â€ Elaine sighed. â€œBut his parents were afraid it might, and gave him a couple of thousand dol ars they couldnâ€™t spare. He came to New York to become an actor.â€

â€œIâ€™m afraid they were much more generous than I would have been,â€ Cindy added. â€œI think my only expenditure for him would have been a one-way bus ticket to Burnt Cactus, Arizona.â€

â€œHow did he make out as an actor?â€ I sucked on an ice cube and hoped the end of the tale was in sight.

â€œHe spent a few months at some third-rate acting school, and then thought he should be leading man in every play scheduled for a Broadway run. God! After four years as a drama student in col ege, one at AADA and three years doing off-off Broadway walkons, I had ï€nal y gotten the part of a salacious maid with about twelve good lines in A Goldï€sh Bowl on Broadway. I was so grateful, I walked around saying â€˜Thank you, God,â€™ over and over everyday.â€

Cindy nodded in understanding. â€œDid you see much of him at this time?â€

â€œToo damned much. He was living with a couple of guys who wanted to get rid of him, and he wanted to move in with us. But Joan was teaching, I was trying to get my own career going, and we had her little girl Katie, so fortunately, we had no

room, or time, to help him. I tried to help him get parts, but he messed up the few he got. His attitude was that he knew it al , and no director had anything of value to tel him. He seemed to have no future in the theater at al . Of course, he has

apparently found his niche and is doing quite wel .â€

She ï€lched another cigarette and looked at me as she returned the pack. â€œMay I presume youâ€™ve already guessed that Bobby is here with us?â€

Chapter 15

I stared at her, my mind racing like a runaway engine. Bobby Leonard. There was no Bobby Leonard in Carlucciâ€™s group. I was sure of it! But no, he wasnâ€™t Bobby Leonard anymore. I visualized the stocky little boy with his golden curls and big

blue eyes and ful lips, and unexpectedly I saw a tal , handsome, broad-shouldered man with blond wavy hair and light blue eyes and a sexily sulky mouth. I saw Hamlet . . . David Wil em.

And my speeding thoughts ran on to the A-Listâ€™s comments about him, as if his claim of an old, aristocratic Dutch family were a lie and that his wife might wel be ï€ctitious as wel . Then I recal ed his superior air, his comments about his years at

Princeton and his great Shakespearean training at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in England, his arrogance toward the other actors and toward the stage manager, his condescending courtesy toward the locals. Oh, yes, I knew right where

our Bobby was!

I wondered how he could keep al his stories straight and why someone who knew him as a boy hadnâ€™t faced him down with them years ago. Final y I realized Elaine had begun to speak again.

â€œSo you see, al this stuff Terese Segal has been publishing, wel , about al of us, real y, has me especial y worried about her comments on Bobby. Heâ€™s not the most steady boat in the river. I donâ€™t know what he would do if the whole distasteful

story came out. She hinted to him the other day that she knew something about his schooling. If she knows that, she may wel already know or ï€nd out everything and blast the whole sordid account across the front cover of the A-List!â€

Her eyes wel ed over. Tears rol ed unheeded down her cheeks. â€œI canâ€™t let that happen to him, heâ€™s stil my brother. I think I could survive it if I must. I have Joan, and her daughter Katieâ€™s grown and married now, with a ï€ne life of her own. Sheâ€™s

expecting their ï€rst child shortly. We would make it through, I think. But Bobby . . . on the bottom line, Bobby has no one except me. I have to stop Terese, but I canâ€™t think how. Can you please help me stop her?â€

I had never felt sorrier for anyone in my life than Elaine at that moment. As for Hamlet, one side of me thought he had it coming. But I supposed I shouldnâ€™t judge anyone who had been through what he had suffered as a child.

What I felt or thought or judged was real y academic. The truth was, I hadnâ€™t the foggiest idea how to shut up Terese short of a thirty-eight-caliber revolver, which was sure to put Sonny in a bad mood.

â€œWel ,â€ I said, â€œI know there have been many complaints about her ï€rst articleâ€”I mean from the town selectmen, the Chamber of Commerce and, I believe, from certain state organizations, plus a Congressman and Senator or two. I canâ€™t believe

the editors wonâ€™t be awful y careful about what they publish in the future. There are some people you just wouldnâ€™t want to provoke.â€

â€œBut, Alex,â€ Cindy countered, â€œIf Tereseâ€™s information is correct, there real y is no legal reason to stop her, is there? I mean, they canâ€™t stop you from publishing something if it is true, can they?â€

â€œNo, darling.â€ I smiled. â€œYou are quite right. There isnâ€™t.â€ Oh, how I would have liked to put an ice cube up each of her nostrils at that moment! â€œBut pressure from those in high ofï€ce usual y makes people think twice about antagonizing them. I think

it may wel work out. Or, Elaine, you might simply try to talk to Terese. Surely there is a heart or at least some sense of social responsibility in there someplace. Just tel her the truth. This could put Bobby over the edge mental y. I canâ€™t believe even

Terese would want to be accountable for that.â€

â€œYes.â€ Elaine stood. â€œI guess thatâ€™s about the best move.â€ She didnâ€™t sound convinced, and I didnâ€™t blame her. â€œWel , maybe Iâ€™l have a brainstorm. We can hope. Thank you both for listening to my screed. I feel better, even though nothing is real y

solved.â€

â€œElaine, believe me.â€ I gave her a hug. â€œIt wil al work out. Somehow these things always do.â€

â€œIf al else fails,â€ Cindy promised, â€œIâ€™l get one of the tekkies at work to hack into the editorâ€™s computer at the A-List and publish a sizzling tale about her! â€

We al managed a weak laugh on that, and Elaine left us, walking careful y across the now dark yard.

Within two minutes we had cleared the outdoor table, gone into the house, and I had ordered an extra large sausage and pepper pizza, without a word of protest from Cindy. Within ï€ve minutes I had ï€l ed Fargoâ€™s bowl with kibble, and he was

chomping sturdily through it. Heâ€™d be happily surprised at the pizza for his second course.

Cindy poured herself a glass of milk and sighed. â€œWhat a terrible mess for poor Elaine. Do you think she can talk Terese out of using whatever information she has? Or can fabricate?â€

I shook my head. â€œAs you so pointedly said, my love, not if itâ€™s true. Just think how Hamlet is always strutting around, just letting it drop oh-so offhandedly, that he went to the RADA and to Princeton. If it turns out heâ€™s a graduate of Split Elm

Community Col ege and Ramonâ€™s Stairway to the Stars, that alone would be worth twenty thousand extra to the A-List circulation. If Terese has found someone who knew Hamlet as a teenager, she may easily ï€nd out the whole miserable thing, and I

donâ€™t know what would stop her from publishing it, except decency, and we know that ainâ€™t in â€™er. Ah! Thereâ€™s the pizza truck.â€

I met the deliveryman at the back door, armed with the correct change plus tip. I wanted nothing to slow this late dinner down. We concentrated on the pizza for a time. Fargo was so attentive, making sure he got every crust. Most with a bit of

meat, cheese and sauce left on. His nose was quivering.

Eventual y, we slowed. Final y, we stopped. We were replete.

Cindy got around to the subject we hadnâ€™t quite explored with Elaine. â€œDo you think Hamlet wil have some sort of emotional break if this tale goes public?â€

â€œI think Elaine is very worried that he might. With good reason, I fear.â€

â€œWhy?â€

â€œWel , heâ€™s built up this whole faÃ§ade about an Ivy League school and a founding father family, that kind of half-British accent, etc. That would be quite a tumble for him. He does seem edgy. He had a real wingding over nothing with Polonius the

other day. And I heard him arguing with Carlucci, too. Carlucci wanted Hamlet to sound sweeter and gentler when he broke up with Ophelia. Hamlet seemed genuinely confused when he asked Paul, â€˜Why should I be sweet? Iâ€™m through with her,

arenâ€™t I?â€™ That almost scared me when I heard him.â€

â€œWhew! Makes you worry a bit, doesnâ€™t it?â€ Cindy polished off her milk and stood up. â€œWant coffee?â€

â€œYeah, great. It is frightening, especial y when you ï€gure heâ€™s only acting, anyway. And then thereâ€™s the old genetic thing. Mama was bonkers. Daddy may or may not have been a pedophile. God, Iâ€™l be glad when this is al over and they al go back

to New York. Iâ€™l never complain about plain old tourists again.â€

Before Cindy could answer that, the phone rang.

It was Sonny.

â€œWel , hel o,â€ I said. â€œI wondered where youâ€™d been of late. Where are you? Hiding from Terese?â€

â€œIn a way. Iâ€™ve been in Boston until this morning. Home now. Remember my old army pal whoâ€™s head of security for INN-TV over there?â€

â€œVaguely.â€ I nodded my thanks to Cindy for the coffee and took a sip.

â€œWel , he and I talked to one of their producers and convinced him to do a little special on our great theatrical weekend coming up. He thought it a good idea. Itâ€™s summer, news is slow. Great publicity for the town. For Carlucci, too, of course.â€ I

heard ice rattle in a glass.

â€œSince when are you a PR expert? Whatâ€™s this al about?â€

â€œOh, I have been known to have the rare creative idea. This was just one of my better ones.â€ He was very smug about something. â€œItâ€™s a great little piece. Itâ€™l be on at six tomorrow. I just wanted to make sure you didnâ€™t miss it. And try to make sure

al your people next door remember to watch . . . just in case Carlucci forgets the time. Heâ€™s always sort of in a fog.â€

I took a gulp of coffee and burned my mouth. â€œThey are anything but my people,â€ I sputtered, â€œBut if I see anybody, Iâ€™l remind them.â€

â€œOkay, Sis, Iâ€™l see you soon.â€

We hung up. I wondered why he cal ed me Sis? Usual y he reverted to that childhood name only when he was very excited or upset. I shrugged and turned back to Cindy to announce our TV plans for Monday night. Neither of us could ï€gure out

how Detective Lieutenant Edward J. Peres could be involved in a TV program promoting an outrÃ© version of a Shakespearean play. Final y, we gave up guessing and went outdoors to enjoy the cool evening.

We sat quietly for some moments, letting the peace of the evening settle around us. Fortunately, our cast of players was al at the amphitheater for a rehearsal. Fargo meandered around his estate. I stretched out and lit a cigarette, which I

generously decided was number ï€ve. Cindy stretched and sighed.

â€œI know itâ€™s Macbeth that is supposed to be the bad luck play, but I donâ€™t have a very good feeling about this one.â€

â€œWhy would you?â€ I laughed. â€œThe whole cast is a nervous wreck. Paul is ï€ghting for his professional life. And dear embedded Terese holds us al in thral as to what she may say next. I would say that hardly bodes a smooth, balanced

performance.â€

â€œYes, thatâ€™s al true.â€ She shifted uneasily in her chair. â€œMy unease is different, I think. More personal, maybe. Hard to explain.â€ She straightened and laughed shortly. â€œAnd real y not my worry, is it? Letâ€™s go in and cal Lainey and Cassie and maybe

Vance and Dan, so they can be sure to watch Sonnyâ€™s ï€rst TV production. He may be starting a whole new career.â€

I stood up and grinned. â€œYeah, and I may be the next American Idol.â€

We col ected ashtrays and straightened chairs and started inside. â€œAre we on the way to bed?â€ I asked. â€œMaybe I could be the American Idol there.â€

â€œMaybe. As long as you donâ€™t sing, darling. Please donâ€™t sing.â€

â€œI donâ€™t see why I canâ€™t sing. I sing as wel as any of them.â€ I closed the door behind us.

â€œItâ€™s different, Alex. You try to carry a tune and canâ€™t. They ï€‚atten the letter I, drop the letter G, hold the mike an inch from their mouths and scream without moving their lips. Tune doesnâ€™t come into it.â€ She put the cups and saucers in the sink with a

so-there clatter.

â€œDearie me, lady, you sound worse than that judge Simon Somebody whoâ€™s so sarcastic. I guess my singing days are over,â€ I pouted.

â€œNo, sweetheart, I take it back. You can sing to me anytime.â€

â€œEven in bed?â€ I kissed the back of her neck.

â€œEven in bed, but it wil cost you.â€

â€œIâ€™l pay, Iâ€™l pay.

Chapter 16

Fargo did not get his morning run. I ï€gured that for the two weeks before Labor Day, the beach would probably be crowded from dawn to midnight. So after an unhappy strol around the yard he came back in the house and jumped in bed with

Cindy. With wet, dewy paws and warm, slurpy tongue. She was not amused.

She got up, and while I was in the shower, she made coffee. I took a generous swal ow and almost spit it out. It tasted like a combination of cough medicine and some laxative I had been given as a child.

â€œWhat the hel is this?â€ I stared at the cup with some alarm.

â€œItâ€™s a delicious new breakfast drink, al organic, much healthier than coffee, with a brisk, enlivening, wake-up ï€‚avor.â€

â€œWhat did you do, memorize the commercial?â€ I asked. I careful y moved the cup under my nose and sniffed. â€œAlfalfa, ammonia and syrup of ï€gs.â€

â€œYou neednâ€™t be sarcastic.â€ She sipped her new breakfast drink with apparent pleasure. â€œYou automatical y hate anything new or healthy. At least give it a chance.â€

â€œAl right.â€ I lifted the cup once more. I sipped and grimaced. â€œGod, Cindy, itâ€™s awful. It real y is. You drink that, youâ€™re going to spend the morning in the john. One way or another.â€

â€œDonâ€™t be crude.â€

â€œSorry. Look, Iâ€™l just run down to the Coffee Mil and grab the papers. Back in a couple of minutes.â€ Fargo and I trotted to the nearby cafÃ©, where I purchased a large container of plain old coffee and a paper. I perched on the wal at the end of our

yard and sipped my coffee at leisure.

Entering the kitchen later, I smel edâ€”but had the good sense to make no commentâ€”coffee. It seemed our latest trip into the organic wilds had been cancel ed. Cindy and I began to chat about the dayâ€™s activities, which apparently included

considerable housework. I had almost forgotten she was taking a vacation day. As she outlined her plans, I almost wished she hadnâ€™t. It didnâ€™t sound like my idea of vacation.

I had to go to Wel ï€‚eet. The art gal ery there had cal ed yesterday to say they had only one or two of my photos left. Could I bring down eighteen or so this morning? I surely could. I had anticipated, or at least hoped for, this need and had matted

and framed a bunch of photos last week. When I mentioned this most necessary errand, she nodded.

â€œWel , since you have to ï€ght the trafï€c anyway, how about doing some grocery shopping while I clean?â€

I tried very hard to maintain a neutral expression. Actual y, I would gladly have driven to Hyannis to get one little three-ounce jar of her favorite lavender honey if it would keep me far, far away while she cleaned.

â€œWhy not?â€ I shrugged. â€œMight as wel combine what we can. Iâ€™l probably run the car through the Speedo-Lube while Iâ€™m out. You got a grocery list?â€

She had. Plus an armful of clothes for the cleaners and a request for me to pick up a dress she needed brought back from the cottage for a Thursday meeting. Oh, it would be a glorious, errand-ï€l ed morning! With any luck at al , it would be two

oâ€™clock before I got home.

â€œCome on, fel a, letâ€™s go!â€ We exited briskly as the vacuum started in the back of the house.

I returned home in the early afternoon to learn that Cassie and Lainey would be coming over to watch the news with us and was glad I had purchased some sliced Smithï€eld ham and lemon pepper turkey breast so we could make sandwiches,

cut up a salad and cal it dinner.

With some grunts and groans, I moved our â€œsmal â€ TV from the kitchen to the little table in the dining room so we could watch both the screen and the next-door neighbors on their front porch. The Brownlees had wisely placed their LCD wide screen in storage, and the only other downstairs TV was a smal one in their kitchen. The actors wouldnâ€™t al ï€t in that room, and I hoped they would opt for bringing the TV out to the large, cool front porch.

I put out the ice bucket and mixers. I arranged some marvelous Stilton cheese and water crackers, careful y trimming some rough edges and feeding them to Fargo and me. A year ago, my hors dâ€™oeuvres would have been a chunk of

supermarket cheddar and saltines stacked on a dinner plate. Cindy had deï€nitely been a civilizing inï€‚uence.

She was duly impressed upon entering the kitchen. â€œDarling! How nice! I think later we can just al make our own sandwiches and have some sliced tomatoes and chips and that wil do it.â€

We just had time for our own drink, quietly together before Lainey and Cassie arrived, bearing bakery-hot cherry tarts. Our menu was complete.

We made our drinks and turned the TV on, without the sound. â€œKeep your voices low,â€ I said. â€œIâ€™d just as soon the neighbors didnâ€™t know we are eavesdropping.â€

As we crowded around the smal table and looked out the window, Laertes, Polonius and Horatio came up the walk and went inside. Horatio reappeared shortly, bearing their kitchen TV, which he placed on a table facing away from us. That

meant the viewers would be facing toward us. Good, we could hear their comments better.

The men brought out various chairs to add to those already there. The women brought drink trays and passed them around. Terese brought herself and sat in a chair closest to the TV.

â€œI donâ€™t know why weâ€™re going through al this fuss to watch this thing,â€ Terese complained, although I hadnâ€™t noticed her going to any fuss. â€œNobody from the TV station talked to me, and I would have been the logical one to provide information.

Except, of course, for you, Paulie darling.â€

Paulie darling was his usual placating self. â€œWel , they talked to several of us, plus a number of local people. It could be some very nice publicity for al of us. Weâ€™l know in a minute.â€

I looked at my watch. So we would. I reached over and turned up the sound as some music started and a title ï€‚oated up: Provincetown, Not So Far Off-Broadway As You Might Think, An exclusive INN Monday Night Special with Ray Cartell.

Cartel came on-camera and began to tel the history of Provincetown as a town friendly to artists of al schools for nearly two hundred years. When he reached the present, Paul Carlucci joined him, standing above the top row of seats at the

amphitheater. The camera was down on the stage, giving a long-distance shot and silhouetting them like smal ï€gurines against the setting sun. Very dramatic.

Carlucci was good, sounding rational, sincere and enthusiastic. According to him, Ptown would soon be the Shakespearean capital of the world. Both traditional and modernized versions would ï€‚ourish. He ended with his favorite phrase, â€œJust

visualize it, Ray. First Hamlet, then Julius Caesar, Lear, Othel o! Weâ€™ve proved it, and weâ€™l prove it again and again. A great play knows no calendar!â€

Cartel went on to interview Hamlet, Ophelia, Horatio and Nick in various scenic spots. Al of them praised Carlucci, praised the people of Provincetown and sounded very upbeat about the production. Even Nick managed to smile and make

nice. Then they broke for commercials.

On our neighboring porch, the conversation seemed to alternate between teasing those who had been interviewedâ€”about how they looked, or that they sounded like they were doing a paid infomercialâ€”and agreeing that the publicity was al

very positive. The commercials ended and Cartel returned.

He was walking through the town with none other than my brother. Sonny had on a navy linen blazer, a white col arless shirt and khaki chinos. He looked very masculine and quite handsome. They strol ed out onto MacMil an wharf, where Sonny

propped his foot up on a bol ard, displaying those spit-shined low boots he so dearly treasured. He gazed out across the bay with an expression that would have done credit to Drake.

Cartel stood beside him, intoning, â€œIâ€™m strol ing around Provincetown with Detective Lieutenant Sonny Peres. Sonny, how does it feel to have a busy tourist town under your care?â€

â€œI love this town, Ray. Born and raised here. I know every foot of it. I know every beach, every inch of waterfront.â€ He gestured out into the bay toward various ï€shing and recreational boats. â€œI know the piney woods and the dunes and where to ï€nd

the best beach plums. I love the smel of the Portuguese bread frying in the bake shop, or the fog starting to send its tentacles through the town. I love the ocean when itâ€™s green and surly and working up a temper. Itâ€™s my absolute pleasure to help

keep this town safe for the people who live and who visit here.â€

Cartel leaned on a guardrail and grinned. â€œYou sound a little Shakespearean yourself, Sonny. But how do you feel about a bunch of actors descending on you?â€

Sonny turned on the ful wattage of the Peres smile. â€œI think creative people are different from most of us. I think they see things differently. Like maybe colors are brighter and clouds are darker, you know? I think they may have nerve endings

nearer the surface. But how do I feel about this group?â€ He made a circle of thumb and foreï€nger.

â€œI feel just ï€ne about them. Iâ€™ve gotten to know a few of them, and I feel Iâ€™ve made real friends. In fact, I have only one un-good feeling.â€

â€œWhatâ€™s that?â€ Cartel asked.

â€œTrafï€c, Ray, trafï€c. Iâ€™m afraid we may be parking cars a mile out to sea to accommodate everyone who wants to see this fantastic play.â€

Both men laughed. Then Cartel sobered. â€œI can see how you might have made friends, Sonny. Youâ€™re a nice, friendly guy. But you and even Provincetown itself seem to have made one very vocal enemy of a certain magazine reporter. Any

comment on that?â€

Sonny put on his hurt little boy face, which he did very wel . â€œI donâ€™t understand it, Ray. I donâ€™t expect a portrait of Ptown not to show some of the warts. Sure we have a couple of kinda sleazy bars and some shops that sel junky stuff and a couple

of food joints I donâ€™t much care for, but we have good shops and restaurants, too! Fine ones, in fact. Not to mention our museums and art gal eries. Weâ€™re a tourist town, Ray. We cater to lots of different people with different budgets and different

tastes.â€

Sonny put out his hands as if he were balancing something. â€œI wouldnâ€™t have minded if the reporter had presented a proportionate picture of the town, but she just chewed us up and spit us out.â€

On the porch across the way, I heard a male voice say, â€œAw, Terese, see how mean you were. That nice boy looks like he might cry.â€ A chorus of laughter went up.

Terese answered with a snort. â€œSmarmy little bastard!â€ More laughter.

Cartel continued, â€œYet this reporter learned that she invited you to her hotel for drinks and dinner. And when you refused, she let it be known that your refusal was because you are gay.â€

â€œYeah, I heard that, too.â€

Cartel leaned closer to Sonny. â€œIs that true? My information indicates you are not gay. Did the accusation insult you?â€

â€œNo, Ray, to both questions. Iâ€™m not gay, but I certainly wasnâ€™t insulted that she assumed I was gay. In fact, I imagine quite a few men have pretended to be gay upon receiving that particular invitation.â€ Sonny gave that Peres smile again, and once

again the camera faded for commercials.

It took a second for Sonnyâ€™s reply to sink in. Then the four of us looked at each other and roared. A similar burst of sound went up across the way. In the midst of it Terese jumped up, overturning her chair with a loud crack.

â€œIâ€™l have his bal s for this!â€ she screamed.

â€œNo, honey,â€ Ophelia replied. â€œYou already tried that.â€

More shrieks of laughter fol owed her into the house. And I thought I heard another screen door bite the dust on her exit.

Cartel was back, speaking with the Town Manager and various merchants and innkeepers, but none of us were listening.

Cindy and Lainey were freshening drinks. Cassie and I were stil wiping our eyes.

Lainey patted the TV as if Sonny were somewhere inside. â€œAbsolutely bril iant! If I werenâ€™t gay, I think Iâ€™d marry him.â€

â€œNot if youâ€™re smart,â€ I answered. â€œHeâ€™s a great friend, a wonderful brother, a lousy husband.â€

â€œAnyway.â€ Cindy grinned as she handed me a glass. â€œHe may be leaving us shortly for New York and stardom. Weâ€™ve got Judge Judy and Doctor Phil. How about Lieutenant Sonny?â€

Chapter 17

Tuesday morning found Provincetown basking in the bright glow of Sonnyâ€™s reï€‚ected glory. Mom and Aunt Mae were on the phone early. Other friends were close behind. Cindy left for work saying, â€œI feel I should be wearing a big â€˜I Love Sonnyâ€™

button.â€

I smiled and laughed and agreed with everyone I spoke with. Final y, I let the phone answer itself and went into my ofï€ce to mat some additional photos to take over to Tel manâ€™s Gal ery, near the lighthouse up in Truro. As I worked, my grin faded,

and I became less certain how Terese would react to Sonnyâ€™s humorous, but sharply cutting, put-down.

Frankly, I was concerned about what she might do. I didnâ€™t think Terese would be swayed by a phone cal from Ted Kennedy suggesting veiled repercussions, any more than one from Bil y Graham asking for a little Christian mercy. I had no idea

of Tereseâ€™s background, but I was pretty sure she didnâ€™t get where she was by crying herself to sleep and then giving in to anyone. I had the feeling this next article in the A-List might be smoking.

I would be wil ing to bet that by noon today, Terese would know al about Sonnyâ€™s two divorces, his two kids, his gay sister, his fatherâ€™s bizarre death and his motherâ€™s . . . wel . . . dating Noel. Her nasty little shovel might even dig up the fact that

sweet Aunt Mae once went out with a man who later became a kil er. And I would bet it would al be in the next edition of the A-List.

Furthermore, if she and her research people could gather any factual evidence about Elaine and Bobbyâ€™s background, that would make the cover headline. Not to mention, the six oâ€™clock network news with a nice exclusive for Terese on a show

like Jerry Springer or Geraldo. Elaine and Bobby would then both have good reason to go off the deep end, but dear Terese would have been tel ing only the truth, which, of course, would make it al perfectly okay.

I wondered what Elaine thought Hamlet might do if the whole sordid story came out. Al the sympathy that would go out to him for his childhood experience would be negated by the lies he had fabricated as an adult. Did she think he would get

violent? Col apse? Go off and nurse his depression? I rather opted for the last. Hamlet might yel and scream and stamp his foot, but I didnâ€™t foresee much more.

Final y, the photos were done. I showered and dressed, and Fargo and I took off. He looked disappointed when we didnâ€™t turn for Race Point, but I explained, â€œWe are going to break the law, angel dog, and so we must be very careful. After we

drop some photos off at Tel manâ€™s we are going to sneak into The Beeches the back way and have a little run.â€ He grinned and let his tongue hang out just a little.

When we reached Tel manâ€™s I tied him to a statue of Eros in the front yard. As I went through the door, I cal ed back. â€œDonâ€™t biteâ€™em off.â€

He gave me a dirty look as if to say, â€œWhy not? Somebody bit mine off!â€ I laughed and went in, to be deluged with more talk of actors and reporters and Sonny and how handsome he looked on TV. Maybe Cindy was right. A new career might

await him.

At last we drove slowly down an unpaved back road into the far reaches of the hiking area of The Beeches. â€œNow,â€ I said, â€œYou have to be very quiet and not bark. When I blow your whistle you have to come at once. I mean at once, and then we

scarper. Got it?â€ He looked at me with total y intel igent eyes. I would swear he knew exactly what I had said.

I quietly released the dog with a whispered, â€œNo bark!â€ I sauntered innocently along the trail down which Fargo had already disappeared and settled onto a bench under a beech tree with leaves that would soon lose their dusty green patina and

turn to copper, like a giant Christmas tree hung with newly minted pennies.

I would have been happy to enter by the main gate and pay the fee, but I knew this time of year, Fargo was canis non gratis.

I heard a couple of distant barks, but ï€gured they were too far away to be heard back at the entrance. I had a passing worry that he had met up with the al igator along the edge of the large pond, but discarded that quickly. If the gator hadnâ€™t shown

up by now, he was probably in downtown Bangor.

I had a cigarette, probably number two, then careful y put it out, ï€eld-stripped it and put the ï€lter in my pocket. Then I stood and gave a mighty blow into the silent whistle. A couple of minutes later Fargo appeared, tongue lol ing. I grabbed his

col ar before he could dash off again, and we jogged to the car. We drove away, not having seen another soul, our crime du jour successful y complete.

Heading back to town, I realized I was very jumpy, even after my little adventure with Fargo. I donâ€™t know why this Terese thing was bothering me so much. Sonny was a big boy. If he wanted to bait her, that was up to him. Anything she spread

about our family wouldnâ€™t be al that bad, and nobody in town would give a hoot. They al knew it anyway. As for the rest of the world, Iâ€™m sure it could care less about the little peccadil oes of the Peres family.

As far as Elaine was concerned, I felt great sympathy for her, but there wasnâ€™t anything I could do. I sincerely did not think my trying to talk to Terese would accomplish a single thing except to make matters worse. My connection to Sonny alone

would be enough to make her hate me. And, frankly, I planned to stay as far from her as possible.

I didnâ€™t feel like going home. I didnâ€™t want to hear al the love songs to Sonny being sung at the Wharf Rat. The cottage would be lonely without Cindy. What to do to get out of this mood?

Suddenly I remembered I promised my mother Iâ€™d move some iris from the front yard to the back for her. Iâ€™d do that now. Maybe doing something physical and sweaty would calm me down. I made the turn onto her street.

In the driveway, I let Fargo out, and he ran immediately for the picnic table in the backyardâ€”where sat Mom and Noel, drinking iced coffee. Jeez! This guy was turning into the old bad penny!

â€œHel o, darling!â€

â€œHi, Mom, Noel.â€ I gave Mom a kiss on the cheek and Noel a nod. â€œWel , madam, your gardener is here. Tel me what you want done with the iris, and Iâ€™l punch in on the time clock.â€

Mom gave a little grimace and pointed to the back fence, along which now ran a neat little line of iris plants. â€œDarling, you are so sweet to remember! But Noel was here . . . and I mentioned them . . . and, wel , he did it. But I thank you a thousand

times, anyway.â€

â€œOh, okay, just so itâ€™s done.â€ I gave Noel a look that probably wasnâ€™t terribly friendly.

â€œIâ€™m sorry, Alex, I didnâ€™t mean to do your job for you. Let me confess, I have absolutely nothing to do until tonight, when we have a run-through for lighting cues, and I am jumpy as a cricket. When Jeanne mentioned the iris, I practical y ran for the

garden fork, just to have something physical to do. I hope youâ€™l forgive me.â€ He sipped his coffee and looked penitent.

I laughed. â€œWel , I can hardly be irritated, considering that explanation. Itâ€™s why Iâ€™m here, too. I ran out of things to do and was about to jump out of my skin, when I remembered the iris. Gee, Mom, you want a wel dug, or something? Youâ€™ve got two

eager workers here.â€

â€œYou wouldnâ€™t like to clean out the basement, would you?â€

â€œNo,â€ we chorused.

â€œLook, Iâ€™ve got a better idea.â€ Noel smiled. â€œWhy donâ€™t I take you two ladies to the Rat for lunch? We wil speak only of pleasant things, and a glass of wine wil steady our nerves. Okay?â€

â€œSounds good to me,â€ I said. â€œAre things that bad back at the ranch?â€

â€œPlease.â€ Noel groaned. â€œNick is in the garage with the door closed. I canâ€™t imagine how heâ€™s breathing. Ophelia is on the front porch guarding her dil plant and talking to it. Hamlet is in his room pacing, and moaning from time to time. Elaine

keeps going to Tereseâ€™s door and saying, â€˜May I please come in, Terese? I need to speak with you.â€™ Terese doesnâ€™t answer. Elaine goes away and comes back ten minutes later with the same request. Terese has had the phone tied up al morning,

between talking and using her noisy little fax. Itâ€™s been lovely.â€

Mother put her arm through his. â€œNo wonder digging up iris sounded like such fun. You poor thing! Of course weâ€™l go and have some lunch.â€

I put Fargo in the house with his bowl of water and a biscuit, and left him looking total y outraged. How quickly he forgot his run through the beeches. With Fargo it was, â€œSo what have you done for me lately?â€

The three of us strol ed the couple of hundred yards to the Wharf Rat and walked into a wal of noise. The Blues Brothers were gathered at the front table and had obviously been there for some time. As I entered, Harmon bel owed at me ful blast,

â€œHi, there, Alex. See that boy over there? Now ainâ€™t he somethinâ€™? I reckon he ï€xed that carrot-topped you know what, didnâ€™t he?â€

â€œI reckon he did, Harmon, indeed.â€ When I recovered from the beer fumes I looked over and saw my brother, sitting alone at a table for four. I turned to Mom and pointed. She nodded and we went to his table.

â€œHel o,â€ I said. â€œMay we join you, or are you waiting for your agent?â€

â€œMom and Noel are welcome. I assume you can ï€nd a place at the bar.â€

â€œNow quit it, you two, or Noel and I wil ï€nd a place at the bar.â€ She turned to Noel. â€œI went through eighteen years of this. Iâ€™m not going to ruin my lunch with more of it. Now, can you two behave?â€

â€œYes, Mommy Dearest,â€ Sonny lisped.

â€œYes,â€ I replied, cowering. â€œPlease just donâ€™t beat us with the coat hangers.â€

â€œOh, God.â€ Mom sat down and picked up a menu.

â€œReminds me of my two,â€ Noel said. â€œTheyâ€™re just not quite old enough to have any subtlety yet.â€

â€œYou cal this subtlety?â€ Mom stared Sonny and me down, and said sweetly to Noel, â€œNow about that wine . . .â€

Lunch real y was enjoyable, except for the parade of people coming by to congratulate Sonny on shooting down Terese Segal. If he, and we, had accepted al the offered drinks, weâ€™d have been face down for a week.

Despite his statement that we should speak only of pleasant things, Noel at one point did tel us what worried him personal y about Tereseâ€™s next article.

â€œAl kidding aside about bratty kids.â€ He lifted his glass to Sonny and me. â€œI worry about what La Segal might publish that would affect mine. Several years back my wife decidedâ€”or discoveredâ€”she was gay. Thatâ€™s why we divorced. She had

met a woman she fel in love with.â€

â€œMy goodness!â€ Mom looked startled.

â€œYes. The divorce was about as amicable as they can be, I guess. I suppose neither of us had any very serious feelings left for each other. Mainly we were together for the kids, I think, and we werenâ€™t together al that often, anyway. At least the

divorce wasnâ€™t cutthroat. Karen is a good mother. I saw no reason to start some sort of custody battle. So Karen and her partner have the kids, and seem to be doing a good job with them. They own a womenâ€™s sportswear store near White Plains

and do quite wel . They also make sure one of them is home every day when school gets out.â€

â€œDo you see the kids?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œYes. We have no problem with that. The only problem is that Iâ€™m away so much. I would like to spend more time with them, but thatâ€™s not Karenâ€™s fault. Anyway, I bring them into New York or to my place up in Vermont whenever I can. Everything is

pretty smooth. The kids love both women and vice versa. At ï€rst, there was some talk at school, but now everyone just seems to accept it. Schoolmates, teachers, other parentsâ€”no problems, except with an occasional right wing religious type, and

the kids have learned to handle that.â€

He sipped his wine and laughed. â€œThey just lean over and whisper in the other kidâ€™s ear, â€˜Be careful what names you cal us. Thereâ€™s more of us than there are of you. You just donâ€™t know it yet.â€™ But you can see why I donâ€™t want Terese spreading

news of that arrangement al over the A-List. People would read it and start the gossip up al over again. I have no desire to hurt my ex-wife and her lover, and certainly I want to protect the kids. Iâ€™d real y like to gag Terese, and I donâ€™t know how to do

it. With a bath towel, maybe.â€

Sonny stared dreamily at his beer bottle, not his ï€rst, I thought. â€œSometimes I think it real y would be nice to have a police state.â€

â€œNo, it wouldnâ€™t,â€ Mom countered. â€œThen Iâ€™d have to wear a big badge and carry a nightstick to keep you in line.â€

I walked back with Mom and Noel to pick up Fargo and the car. It had been a nice long break, but the three of us were quiet and thoughtful as we walked. Personal y, Iâ€™d be awful y glad when the play was presented and Terese had packed up and

gone. Surely then sheâ€™d ï€nd some other target for her poisonous little darts. I wished Carlucci and his jol y troupe the best of luck, but I wasnâ€™t the least certain I wanted them back every year for a series of Shakespearean soap operas.

Thanking Noel for lunch, I asked if he wanted a ride back.

â€œNo.â€ He smiled rather sadly. â€œI think Iâ€™l just start cleaning out the basement.â€

I could almost get to like him.

137

Arriving home, I was startled to see Harmon mowing our lawn. It didnâ€™t particularly need it, nor had I asked him to do it. I always did it myself. And I was pretty sure Cindy wouldnâ€™t have asked him. Even more surprising was the speed at which he

was striding around the yard, almost throwing the lawnmower out in front of him and then yanking it back the other way. Harmon was not noted for rushing through any job, but with his current reckless approach, I had some fear that ï€‚owers,

vegetables and smal shrubs would al be at ground level before he ï€nished.

â€œHi, Harmon,â€ I cal ed. â€œWhatâ€™s up?â€

He throttled back the mower and came over, pale and sweating hard. I wondered if he were having some bizarre kind of heart attack. â€œHarmon, are you al right? Sit down for a minute.â€

â€œLet me just ï€nish this. Iâ€™l be right there.â€

â€œOkay, Iâ€™l go get you a beer.â€

He shook his head. â€œNo, I better not have no alcohol. Ice water would be ï€ne.â€ He roared off at a half gal op, and now I was real y worried.

I brought out his glass of ice water and my iced tea as he ï€nished. He gave the mower a cursory brush-off and propel ed it toward the garage, nearly taking off my carâ€™s front bumper and trailing grass clippings as he went. What the hel was the

matter with him?

He ï€‚opped into the chair opposite me and stated without preamble, â€œSheâ€™s gone too goddamn far, Alex. I shal take action.â€

â€œWhat are you talking about, Harmon? Have some water. Cool off a little.â€

He took a sip, his hand so shaky he dribbled some down his shirt and never even jumped when the icy water hit his chest. â€œYou remember my older brother Rob, that was kil ed in Vietnam?â€

â€œSure,â€ I replied. Actual y I didnâ€™t. Iâ€™m not sure I had even been born then, but I had heard about him over the years. Another war where we seemed to have no clear idea what we were doing or why.

â€œWel , a few days back I was over to the cemetery, clipping the grass and puttinâ€™ out some ï€‚owers like I had promised my mother I always would, and here came Miss Nosy wanderinâ€™ around, reading headstones. She asked who Robert was, and

I told her. You got a cigarette, Alex?â€

I handed him the pack and lighter. I wondered whether I smoked half as many as I seemed to give away. Didnâ€™t anybody carry their own anymore? Or did they just wait for Alex?

â€œWel ,â€ he said, â€œI told her about him . . . how he was hit himself, but kept ï€ring at the enemy while they helped some of our wounded get in the helicopter, and then when it was his turn, he couldnâ€™t make it. I told her how they sent him home with al

them army men for the funeral, and how he got a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star that I stil got in that little velvet box. She actual y said she was sorry for my loss and went on.â€

Amazing, I thought. Was Terese a closet patriot? Could she actual y feel for a young boyâ€™s loss of his only brother and a middle-aged manâ€™s lonely task in the cemetery? Maybe underneath that leather tough exterior beat a heart ofâ€”

â€œBut then, this afternoon right after lunch,â€ he interrupted my sweet dream. â€œI was mowinâ€™ their lawn next door and she come running out screeching like a barn owl. Said she couldnâ€™t work with me making such a racket. I told her this was the only

time I had to do it. Then she gives me this smirk and says she found out Rob werenâ€™t no hero, that he was a coward . . . shot in the back runninâ€™ away! Al that hero stuff were just a cover-up, and she was going to write it up in her next magazine

article! Making everybody think Rob were a coward, when lotsa the men in his platoon wrote and tolâ€™ our mama that he saved them! Alex, Rob wasnâ€™t no coward!â€ He burst into tears.

â€œOh, God, Harmon, donâ€™t you see sheâ€™s lying! She was just pissed you were making a bothersome noise and knew that was a sure way to hurt you! She wouldnâ€™t be able to get that information from the government, even if it were true . . . or any

information at al , in such a short time. She was just making it up as she went along. And no way is she going to publish it. You could sue her for mil ions! Forget it, Harmon. We al know what a hero Rob was!â€

I ï€nal y got him sort of calmed down, although Iâ€™m not sure he real y believed me, and he left. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the mower, raking up the clippings and stomping the divots back into the lawn. That felt good. Every stomp was

a kick in Tereseâ€™s butt.

Cindyâ€™s arrival home at dayâ€™s end was laden with clues for the trained observer.

Her car door slammed with great vigor. As she walked across the driveway, I heard her kick at something and send it skittering. She came through the door fuming, â€œFargo, if you keep leaving rawhides in front of the door, youâ€™re going to kil

somebody.â€ She came into the kitchen. I braced.

â€œWhy is the outdoor gril lit? I hope to God weâ€™re not having company. Would it be possible to get a Scotch and soda?â€ She continued toward the bedroom. â€œItâ€™s stiï€‚ing in here. I hate these damn shoes.â€ She disappeared.

Highly skil ed investigator that I am, it was almost immediately obvious to me that Cindy had put in a bad day. I doubted that it had anything to do with Fargo or me, and she would ï€gure that out shortly. So I simply made us both a drink, and Fargo

and I went outside to put the steak on the gril and await the transformation.

It didnâ€™t take long. Wearing shorts, a T-shirt and no shoes worked wonders.

â€œHel o, my darlings. Iâ€™m starring in a new production of the Seven Dwarfs, and guess which one Iâ€™m playing? Uhmm-m, that steak smel s luscious.â€ She kissed us both, murmuring mea culpa , as she gave each of us a hug. â€œGood grief, what a day.â€

She sat down at the table and absently ran her hands through her hair.

â€œThe bank was robbed and they think you did it?â€ I asked.

â€œNo, they know exactly what I did. I did it right in front of half the bank.â€ She sighed.

â€œYou . . . ah . . . had an accidental intestinal eructation? The elastic broke in your underpants? Your opium pipe fel out of your purse? You jokingly pinched someone you thought was Lainey on the butt, only it turned out to be Mr. El isâ€™s sister?â€ I ran

out of ideas.

â€œWorse than al of the above. It al started with this nice looking, very wel dressed man who arrived unannounced at my ofï€ce door. I tabbed him at about forty and medium-wel -to-do. He informed me heâ€™d had a 401K just sitting in some bank in a

money market account, getting virtual y no interest. He grinned and said it had been there quite awhile, just due to his own laziness. He wanted me to advise him how to diversify it into various mutual funds, bonds, stocks, so he would be getting

good returns for his retirement.â€

She took a deep drink of Scotch. She must have pul ed a big boner . â€œHe was quite presentable and spoke wel . I aimed him into a chair and asked him about how much money we were discussing, and he said a bit over four hundred.â€

â€œAlex, can you just imagine an extra four hundred thousand-plus on my accounts at the end of the week?â€ Her eyes went dreamy. â€œMy bonus would support us for six months. I sent Marianne for coffee and pastry. Choate El is happened to be in

the hal , and I cal ed him in and introduced them. I introduced him to both our young brokers.â€ She reached for a cigarette, then muttered â€œNoâ€ to herself and continued.

â€œI worked out a nice portfolio with him. He was a bit conservative for his age, but I ï€gured I could get around that later. Then I handed him a form, told him to ï€l it out, and we would arrange transfer of funds from his bank.â€ She looked up at me with

an expression halfway between laughter and tears.

â€œHe smiled and said, â€˜Oh, that wonâ€™t be necessary.â€™ He reached into his pocket and laid four crisp hundred-dol ar bil s on my desk, plus two twenties and a smal pile of coins. I asked what that was and he answered, â€˜My 401K. I took it out of the

other bank yesterday.â€™ Alex, I real y thought I was going to faint. That was it. Four hundred and forty dol ars and seventy-eight cents. That was his fabulous investment . . . a bit over four hundred!â€

â€œWhat did you do?â€

â€œI looked at my paperweight and my letter opener for a long time. Then I tore up his little pie chart and we got back down to business. He works for a ï€‚orist. That suit set him back two months pay, at least. I put him on a budget that had him in

tears, opened a Roth plan, and heâ€™s supposed to sock one ï€fty a week into it. Thatâ€™s one hundred and ï€fty dol ars. I hope he likes that suit, heâ€™s going to be wearing it a long time. Your steak is about to burn.â€

So it was. We took care of that, made a salad and nuked a couple of potatoes, and there we were. We ate outside, there being no signs of the merry troupe next door.

We just ï€nished when the rain started, and I wondered how they did lighting cues outdoors in the rain.

After we cleaned up, more or less, we actual y found a decent movie on TV and curled up on the couch to watch it. It was stil raining gently when we went to bed, a soft and swiftly working lul aby for two tired warriors.

I was having a lovely dream. Cindy and I were in Venice, coasting leisurely past beautiful palaces on a wide canal. Our gondolier was a stunning woman who sang some sort of operatic air as she poled the boat along.

Suddenly, instead of singing, she began to scream. And scream. And scream again. By the third scream Fargo was on the bed barking, and I was pushing him aside, trying to get up.

Chapter 18

I wrestled my way into yesterdayâ€™s jeans and tucked in the T-shirt I had slept in. One boat shoe was at the edge of the bed. I slipped it on and began feeling under the bed with the other foot. There! Glancing at the clock, I noted it was six twelve

a.m. I thought I might want to remember that.

Cindy was making her way up from sleep. â€œWhat . . . ?â€

â€œI donâ€™t know, somebodyâ€™s screaming next door.â€ The screams subsided to a somewhat hysterical sobbing as I spoke.

â€œWhat should . . . ?â€

â€œYou should get dressed and make some coffee. If Fargo wants out, take him in the front yard on lead. Donâ€™t let him loose in the backyard. Donâ€™t let him loose anywhere. Keep him right with you. And you stay here!â€

â€œYouâ€™re so bossy. Are you mad?â€

â€œNo, sweetheart, scared.â€

â€œThen come back to bed.â€ She pul ed Fargo down beside her and began to quiet him. â€œSee? Weâ€™re okay.â€

â€œI see and Iâ€™m glad.â€ I couldnâ€™t resist a grin and a kiss for both. Then I ran through the early morning light.

I cleared the wal at a leap and took a good skid on the wet grass and damn near went down. I pul ed up limping, with an ankle that hurt. Fine. Heroic Alex races to the rescue, unfortunately breaking her ankle in the process. How dear Terese

would love to write that blurb!

I burst through the back door and into the Brownleesâ€™ kitchen, to ï€nd Ophelia clutching the side of the refrigerator and sobbing, and Elaine in her nightgown, kneeling on the ï€‚oor by a pool of blood.

It occurred to me ï€‚eetingly that Terese wouldnâ€™t care if I broke my ankle or my neck or made a trip to the moon on gossamer wings. She was lying on the kitchen ï€‚oor, in what looked like buckets of blood, barefoot, shortie nightgown pul ed up

around her waist and a large chefâ€™s knife sticking out of her chest.

â€œElaine! Donâ€™t touch that knife! Donâ€™t touch anything! This is a crime scene. Anything we do wil just fuck it up. Come here!â€

â€œDonâ€™t be mean, Alex.â€ The tears started to rol . â€œI just wanted to see if there was a pulse . . . if we could help her somehow . . . or get help, but I think sheâ€™s gone. My God, she looks so frail.â€

And so she did. Face pale and pinched, eyes expressionless, like one of those old Queen Elizabeth I portraits. White, white arms and hands at her sides, palms up as if in some mute acceptance of her fate. Bony white feet, skinny white legs

and hips, and a tiny tuft of orange pubic hair that seemed more a pathetic afterthought than a guidepost to any past sexuality.

Elaine began to stand, and I noticed a smal rim of blood on a portion of her nightgownâ€™s hem. Immediately, the thought ï€‚ashed into my head and lingered: how long had it been there?

Once again she bent over Terese. â€œIâ€™l just straighten her gown. This looks so . . . so violated.â€

â€œElaine! For heavenâ€™s sake just come over here and leave things alone! You canâ€™t just rearrange the body to suit your genteel feelings. The police need to see things as they are, not as you think ï€tting. How long have you been down here? And

how did you get that blood on your gown?â€

She stepped past me, chin in the air, great actress about to perform, I thought. â€œOnly a minute. I heard Teri scream and ran down to see what was wrong. And I havenâ€™t rearranged anything. I guess I touched the blood when I felt for a pulse. I did

not put that knife in her chest!â€

Turning to Teri, I said, â€œOh, so you were the one who found the body?â€

That resulted in renewed sobs and a col apse into my arms. At that moment, Noel fortuitously stepped into the little alcove by the refrigerator, and I shoved her into his arms.

â€œHere, Noel, throw some cold water on her and take her over to my place for some coffee. Cindy is up.â€ I hoped.

â€œYeah, okay. Just let me go get some shoes and a shirt on. Whatâ€™s going on? Whatâ€™s al the racket?â€

â€œTerese is dead, apparently kil ed. You donâ€™t want to see it.â€

â€œGood God, what did she do, manage to electrocute herself? Slip and hit her head?â€

â€œNo, she was stabbed.â€ I had the feeling Iâ€™d be using that sentence a lot of times throughout today.

â€œYouâ€™re kidding!â€ That cal of disbelief came from Nick Peters, standing on the bottom step clad only in a pair of rumpled khakis, revealing a surprisingly hairy chest. â€œWhat was al the yel ing? Who was she ï€ghting with? Who did it?â€

â€œThe yel ing was Teri having hysterics from ï€nding her. Nobody is ï€ghting. We donâ€™t know who did it.â€ And we never would if I didnâ€™t get on the phone to the Ptown cops. But I did want to try to keep the area as clear as possible. It seemed as if

people were coming out of the woodwork.

I had one of those absurd moments, which I tend to do in crises, remembering a fel ow on TV who complained to a reporter, â€œOriginal y I was leading a smal group in a peaceful anti-war protest. Then al of a sudden I was running for my life to

keep ahead of the mob.â€

Figuring Noel was the sanest, I spoke to him as he was coming down the stairs, now wearing shoes and struggling into a shirt. â€œPlease get everybody out of here as soon as you can. This place is a madhouse.â€

Elaine put her arm around Ophelia. â€œCome, my dear.â€ She looked at me coldly. â€œWe wil infringe on your hospitality as little as possible.â€ They turned, and I watched them move slowly across the wet grass, barefoot and in their nightclothes,

looking like a pair of bedraggled evicted angels that had suffered a long and painful fal .

Now dressed, Nick pushed silently past me and started across the lawn. Once over the wal , he used a handkerchief to wipe down one of our wet lawn chairs, and then sat in what had to be a great deal of leftover dampness, staring thoughtful y

after Elaine and Ophelia. But apparently he didnâ€™t feel sociable. Not my problem. I felt much the same.

I started to go through the dining room to use the phone in the living room. My attention was immediately drawn to mud, tracked on the light beige carpeting, opened French doors, and a shattered pane of glass in one of them. Uh-oh. What had

we here? Intruders in the night?

My God, had someone decided to rob the place, perhaps not knowing the Brownlees had stored most of their valuables? Or perhaps ï€gured actors were rich and would have cash and jewelry lying around? Had Terese simply gotten hungry and

come down to the kitchen at the wrong minute for a snack? Had a burglar, suddenly realizing he was discovered, simply grabbed a chefâ€™s knife out of the block on the counter, stabbed her and run for it?

I pul ed a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and then shoved it back. I could hardly light up, much as I could use one, when Iâ€™d screamed at everyone else about preserving crime scenes. As I stood there, a movement to my left caught my eye. It

was Paul Carlucci, about to come from the Brownleesâ€™ bed-sitter, which he was temporarily occupying, into the dining room.

â€œNo! Paul, stop! Donâ€™t come in here. It looks like somebody broke into the house and tracked in mud. It looks like there are shoeprints. Donâ€™t mess it up before the cops can make photos.â€

He did stop. And he stared at me through very red eyes, as if I were a long distance away. He pointed toward the kitchen and croaked, â€œIs that . . . ?â€ He cleared his throat and tried again. â€œIs that Terese in there? Is she hurt? We must get some

help, Alex, sheâ€™s bleeding, and sheâ€™s probably in pain.â€ He sounded as if she might have cut her ï€nger.

â€œOh, Lord, Paul, did you just go into the kitchen?â€

â€œNo, I saw her from my other door . . . the one into the kitchen. I was planning to get a cup of coffee, but no one had made any. They never seem to think of the comfort of others around here.â€ He now sounded thoroughly petulant, and I had the

strong feeling he was stil at least partial y drunk and deï€nitely in shock.

â€œWel , thereâ€™s coffee at my place.â€ I might be accused of false advertising. I hoped there was coffee, I could use some myself. But I had remembered that Cindy was due at work this morning. She must be real y pleased to have Carlucciâ€™s stunned

and frightened group ï€ling into our house and demanding room service, if I judged them rightly.

â€œHowever, youâ€™re going to have to climb out your window and go get it. You canâ€™t use either of your doors until the cops clear them.â€

Carlucci clutched the doorjamb and leaned his head against it. â€œDonâ€™t be sil y. I canâ€™t climb out a window. Iâ€™m not wel .â€

â€œOf course you can, Paul,â€ Noel answered over my shoulder. â€œIâ€™l go around the outside and help you through the window. Put on some clothes and Iâ€™l meet you there. We need to get out of the way for the cops to look around.â€

Noel turned to me and gave a mock salute. â€œAl the passengers are off the ship, Captain, or wil be in a minute. You wouldnâ€™t believe David Wil em. I found him sitting in his room, showered, shaved, ful y dressed in a lovely double-breasted Glen

plaid suit, shirt, tie and wingtips. I donâ€™t know how he managed it in so short a time! He has decided that Terese had a stroke or something, and that, as lead actor, he should be properly dressed when issuing a statement to the press. I think heâ€™s

dead-ass drunk.â€

â€œJesus, I hope they donâ€™t get into our booze. Our cabinet doesnâ€™t lock.â€ That would be al Sonny needed. Or Cindy.

â€œIâ€™l go sit on it.â€ Noel smiled. â€œSee ya!â€

Now what was he so cheerful about?

I went on into the living room, noticing that the front door seemed properly closed. A mantel clock told me it was stil only six forty. Somehow I thought it was approaching noon. Sonny would not yet be at work. Would he be â€œhomeâ€ at Momâ€™s or with

Trish? I picked up the living room phone with my shirttailâ€”my bow to possibly interesting ï€ngerprintsâ€”and dialed Momâ€™s number. Looking out the window as the phone rang, I noticed Noel and Paul making slow progress. Paul was making frequent

stops to throw up. Poor Noel kept trying to look elsewhere. I wondered if he were smiling now?

Mom answered with a sleepy hel o. I ï€rst told her I was okay, so was Cindy, so was Fargo. Only then did I ask for Sonny.

â€œYeah. Whatâ€™s up?â€ He sounded wide-awake. How did he do it?

â€œSonny, weâ€™ve got what certainly seems to be a homicide at the Brownlees.â€™ Terese Segal has been stabbed, I think more than once, and is deï€nitely dead. No need to send an ambulance with sirens screaming.â€

â€œYou sound calm enough. I take it nobody is standing over the body with a bloody knife or hatchet.â€ I heard him make sitting up noises.

â€œNope, just a bunch of hysterical actors. I sent them al to my house for coffee to get them out of there. They kept wandering around and wanting to rearrange the body more comfortably. A pil ow under the head and a little makeup would have

been next. I couldnâ€™t make them stay put anywhere. The bloody knife is stil in her chest. I think it may be part of a set kept in a block on the counter. Looks like someone may have come in through the French doors in the dining room. They are wide

open, with mud tracked in, and a pane of glass is broken by the latch.â€

I looked thoughtful y at a half-drunk cup of coffee somebody had conveniently left by the phone, God knows when, by the color of it. No, I wasnâ€™t that desperate.

â€œOkay. Good job.â€ Sonny sounded brisk and rested. â€œWeâ€™l be right along. Stay there til the ï€rst car arrives, wil you? And keep everybody out. When you go home, keep them there until I can talk to them.â€ I could almost hear his mind racing. â€œPut

them al in your dining room. Donâ€™t let them get off in corners and get their stories straight, if they havenâ€™t already. Iâ€™l get a uniform over there as soon as I can.â€

â€œHel , Sonny, weâ€™re probably out of coffee and milk by now, and theyâ€™l be getting hungry. Cindy is supposed to go to work and is probably going nuts as we speak. I canâ€™t stand guard and go shopping, too!â€ I heard my voice climbing, my cool

fading.

Mother had obviously stayed on the line, and now interjected, â€œTel Cindy to run along, dear. Iâ€™l do the shopping and be there shortly. Donâ€™t worry, Iâ€™l replenish your stock of food and drink for the Huns.â€

Sonny intervened. â€œHang in, see you soon.â€ He hung up, and apparently Mom did, too. In a second I got a dial tone.

I knew the ï€rst car would arrive in two or three minutes. Wondering if there were any obvious clues other than the knife itself, I wandered back into the clear corner of the kitchen. It wasnâ€™t exactly neat, but looked reasonable for a kitchen used by

ï€ve or six people with no real interest in keeping it clean. After al , they knew the maids would be in during the morning.

The maids! El ie and Betts! We couldnâ€™t have them walking in on this scene! Theyâ€™d faint dead away. I turned back to the living room and got El en Hal â€™s number from Information. I started her day with a real bang, and ended our conversation by

suggesting she have a disaster-cleaning crew on tap, and cal the Brownlees, so they didnâ€™t pick it up on the noon news, just in case it merited a national mention. I left her moaning, â€œYeah, yeah. Oh, God, why me?â€

Indeed, El en, why any of us? Most especial y, perhaps, why Terese? And by whom?

Provincetownâ€™s ï€nest arrived and took over my lonely outpost. I was glad to leave it. Terese and I hadnâ€™t had much to say to each other, and I wil admit, her presence was beginning to make me shaky.

Cindy was wide-eyed and wild haired and not thril ed by our ful house. â€œI canâ€™t even get dressed. People keep coming to the bedroom door and asking where things are! That damned Hamlet ï€rst announced he needed a brandy to steady his

nerves. I told him we hadnâ€™t any liquor. He already smel s like a distil ery. Then he had to have tea, his sensitive stomach would not tolerate coffee this morning. I told him where it was and two minutes later he was back asking if we didnâ€™t have any

English breakfast. I was damned if Iâ€™d tel him where it was! Let the snooty bastard drink Lipton.â€

â€œA perfectly adequate black tea, and certainly good enough for the likes of him and his terminal hangover,â€ I soothed her and gently kissed her cheek. â€œKeep the good stuff for us. Can you give me ten minutes to shower? Mom is on her way, and

we can free you up to get out of this bedlam.â€

â€œBless her. I donâ€™t know why Iâ€™m even going in. Do they real y think Iâ€™m going to be able to concentrate on stock options with a murder next door and the kil er probably lounging in our dining room?â€

Then she had her arms around me. â€œDarling, is it too awful over there? Are you al right? I remember last summer when youâ€”â€

â€œIâ€™m ï€ne. I may join Snooty in a mug of tea just to coddle my stomach a bit, but Iâ€™m al right. She just looks . . . pitiful. Al that energy, curiosity, intensity, that inquisitive nose, that tight little mouth . . . just gone, turned into a mannequin doused with red

paint.â€ Suddenly I found myself wishing ï€ercely that Terese were stil alive. â€œYou know, she could surely have used a big dose of humility, and maybe some humiliation as wel , but not this . . . not this . . .â€

Cindy held me long and hard and then said, â€œGo shower, darling, Iâ€™l make you your own little pot of English breakfast tea. No one wil ever know itâ€™s Twiningâ€™s best. Then Iâ€™l go to work, I guess, at least for a little while.â€

Showered, shampooed and dressed in fresh clothes, I entered the living room to ï€nd Cindy and Mom fending off a mutiny. The merry band had decided they would al return to the Brownleesâ€™ to bathe and change clothing, and then go out for a

proper breakfast to stabilize them after their ghastly experience. Even Nick had joined them, apparently recovered from whatever had prompted him to sit alone outdoors on a rain-soaked chair.

They were al talking at once and my mild, â€œExcuse me, everyone,â€ had gotten me nowhere.

â€œShut up, al of you, right now!â€ I banged a metal wastebasket down on the coffee table.

That got me their attention. â€œI spoke with Detective Lieutenant Peres, who has directed that al of you go into the dining room and relax until he can join you. My mom has brought pastries, and we have coffee or tea. Lieutenant Peres says heâ€™l try

not to detain you longer than necessary.â€

Only Noel and Ophelia made any attempt to help Mom and me get stuff out onto the buffet. The others sat in sulky silence, although they had no difï€culty in making quick inroads on the pastries.

After asking again about a serving of brandy, Hamlet irritably announced himself ready to leave. He said he needed his morning orange juice, probably with a healthy shot of vodka.

â€œYou canâ€™t,â€ I explained for what seemed like the hundredth time. â€œThe police need to learn anything you can tel them about last night and this morning.â€

â€œI know nothing,â€ he answered haughtily, â€œAnd I can tel them that anytime, anywhere.â€

The others began to grouse along with him, and I sensed another mutiny in the forecastle.

â€œAnyone who leaves without police permission wil probably have his or her interview held in one of our local cel s,â€ I said.

â€œOh, thatâ€™s rich.â€ Hamlet forced a laugh over what doubtless was a pounding headache. â€œWhy would we be in a cel ?â€

â€œBecause you are al murder suspects.â€

â€œUnfortunate but true,â€ Sonny agreed from the kitchen doorway. â€œGood morning, ladies and gentlemen, sorry to have kept you waiting.â€

â€œGood morning, Lieutenant,â€ they chorused, like the good little children they suddenly were.

Chapter 19

Sonnyâ€™s voice was smooth and pleasant as he took a seat at the dining table, coffee mug in hand, tape recorder tucked under his arm. Youâ€™d think he had merely invited us al to breakfast.

â€œAs you al are aware, Ms. Terese Segal was fatal y stabbed in the early hours of this morning. We have a tentative time of death between one and ï€ve a.m.â€

He placed the recorder in front of him and took a bite of Danish. â€œNow we need to establish a time line of events that took place leading up to the death, and immediately fol owing it. We rely on al of you to help us with that.â€ He grinned. â€œAnd

perhaps one of you wil even be kind enough to narrow it down to the exact moment for us.â€

Then he offered his most sweet boyish smile. â€œI want to remind you, that while you are not under oath, lying to the police is real y foolish. Hiding something you know or think you know is equal y unwise. So please be truthful, and please be

forthcoming with any information you may have, or even think you have. Weâ€™l ï€nd out in the long run anyway, and then we wonder just why you lied, and we get a little tense.â€ His smile faded. â€œAnd you know how cops can be when theyâ€™re tense.â€

Hamlet stood, red-eyed, elegant and condescending to the local cop. â€œWel , real y, Peres, youâ€™re treating us like street corner, lowbrow suspects in a mom-and-pop-store murder. Yet, it is my understanding that there was deï€nitive evidence of a

break-in through the French doors. Obviously poor Terese came down for a late snack and stumbled upon a robbery, or perhaps was deliberately kil ed by some disgruntled local individual. Unless one of us conceivably saw or heard something

related to that, which I did not, I see no reason for us to be detained here. It is clearly a matter for the local police to solve over there . . . or not.â€ He waved in the general direction of the Brownlee place.

â€œWhere was it you wanted to go, Hamlet?â€ Sonny asked innocently.

â€œWhy, back to my room, since neither you nor Paul has shown the foresight to schedule a press conference. Iâ€™l change into something casual and join my col eagues for a suitable breakfast.â€ He smirked, having put the dumb local in his place,

along with our pastries and non-gourmet tea and coffee.

â€œWel , Hammy.â€ Sonny leaned back in his chair. I hated it when he did that, especial y when they were my chairs. â€œThe Brownleesâ€™ entire house plus cel ar and garage are being searched inch by inch, inside and out, as we speak. The contents of

every closet and drawer wil be inspected, shoes wil be examined. Drains wil be disconnected and checked for blood. It wil probably be late afternoon before you may be admitted long enough, and in company of a police ofï€cer, to pick up some

clothes. By then, we hope the real estate agent, El en Hal , wil have found you places to stay for a few days. You wil not stayâ€”nor would I think you would wish toâ€”at the Brownlees.â€

154

He began to set up the tape recorder. â€œLetâ€™s start with you, Teri, since you were the ï€rst one down this morning. Weâ€™l try to make it fast and painless, just like your favorite dentist.â€ His smile was gentle. Teri stil looked terriï€ed and an inch away

from tears.

I closed the sliding doors between living and dining room, so Sonny and the interviewees would have real privacy in that direction. Then I retired to the kitchen with Mom, and closed the door to the dining room and the shutters to the pass-through.

Of course I tilted the shutters so we could see and hear through them with ease.

Everyone except Teri settled uneasily in the living room, a motley looking crew if ever I saw one. Especial y Elaine, stil barefoot in her rumpled gown with its streak of blood along the hem. Cindy had earlier equipped Teri in a pair of her jeans, a

shirt and mocs and had offered Elaine a similar outï€t of mine, as being more likely to be a reasonable ï€t.

According to Cindy, Elaine had sniffed that she would â€œprefer not to be indebted to Alexâ€ and would wait until she could fetch her own clothing. It looked like a long wait, and I pondered making another proposal. I decided against it. I was not in the

mood for temperamental actresses. Perhaps later Iâ€™d get Mom to make an offer. Maybe Elaine would be more amenable to that.

As I tuned back in, Sonny was asking Teri where sheâ€™d been about eight oâ€™clock last night.

â€œWe were al at the amphitheater. Paul had cal ed for a ful cast and crew run-through to check the light cues and music cues, starting at six p.m. It was going along the way they usual y doâ€” that means lousy,â€ she said. â€œWe worked until around

eight, when it started to rain. Then we al huddled in the dressing rooms, damp and freezing, waiting for it to stop. Final y, about nine, Paul said the hel with it, weâ€™d pick up where we left off this afternoonâ€”I mean todayâ€”at two. So we al scattered.

Most of us hadnâ€™t had any dinner, and that wasnâ€™t helping.â€

Sonny lit a cigarette from a pack I had thought was on the kitchen table. I was strongly tempted to go in and retrieve it.

â€œSo where did you scatter to, Teri?â€

â€œBack to the B&B. I was hungry but not very sociable. Nothing about this play has gone wel . Some people say that means a good opening, but I guess Iâ€™m not that sophisticated yet. It scares me. I was tired and I asked Horatio and a couple of the

stagehands to drop me off on their way downtown in one of the vans. They said sure, no trouble. Noel had already asked them to take him home, so they took us both.â€ She cupped her hands around her coffee mug as if she were chil ed, leaned

down and took a noisy sip.

â€œWhere did Horatio and his friends go after they dropped you and Noel off at the house? Do you know?â€

â€œYeah, they said they were going to Bocceâ€™s for spaghetti and then to the Crown and Anchor for a little mischief. I donâ€™t know where they get the energy.â€ She sighed.

â€œWhat did you and Noel do when you got home?â€

â€œLike I said, I was exhausted and jumpy.â€ She was sounding irritable now. â€œNoel found some salami and cheese and asked if I wanted him to slice me some. I told him no and just picked up a pear and a banana and went upstairs. I ate the

banana and took one of my panic pil s and went to bed and passed out.â€

â€œThen what?â€ Sonny must have felt like he was trying to pul teeth with tweezers.

â€œThen nothing. I slept. Woke up about six, starving. This sounds crazy, but now I real y wanted some of that salami and cheese. I decided to go get some and bring it back to bed. I went down and saw the . . . red stuff near the refrigerator. I thought

someone had spil ed tomato juice, and not bothered to clean up the mess . . . but then Iâ€”I saw her. And I guess I started screaming and then Elaine was there. And then your sister. Then I was over here and Cindy was making me drink coffee.â€

â€œOkay, thanks, Lady Ophelia. Youâ€™ve been a help. Just one more question, do you know if any of the people at Brownleesâ€™ wear work boots?â€

She looked total y lost. â€œI dunno, I donâ€™t think so. Maybe some of the stagehands, youâ€™d have to ask them.â€

Sonny stood. â€œOkay, thanks again. Ask Elaine to come in, would you?â€

He remained standing until Elaine came in and took a seat. Once again he turned on the Peres personality. â€œYouâ€™ve had a terrible morning, I know, Elaine. Weâ€™l try to move right along here and then get something comfortable of my motherâ€™s for

you to wear for the time being.â€

â€œThat would be most kind.â€ She nodded. She sat rigidly erect, face composed, her ramrod-straight spine four inches from the back of the chair, just like royalty. Only her eyes were a giveaway, alert and ever moving like an animal sensing danger

from an unknown source.

At Sonnyâ€™s question, she recounted the rehearsal and the rain. â€œI guess it was about nine,â€ she continued, â€œPaul gave it up. He mentioned that he and Terese were going to the Landfal for something to eat. David asked if he and I could come

along. I wasnâ€™t thril ed to be a member of that foursome.â€ She shrugged. â€œBut I was hungry, so I went along.â€

â€œWas there any unpleasantness at dinner?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œNo. Paul and Hamlet got off onto can-you-top-this tales of funny stage disasters that had happened to them. Terese was cuddling up to Paul. The three of them were drinking quite a bit. I was tired, I just ate.â€ She reached out for a cigarette, and

Sonny politely lit it for her, fol owed by one for himself. I tried to think where I might buy a carton and have them charge it to Sonny.

â€œWhen we were ï€nal y ready to go, I insisted on driving home,â€ Elaine said. â€œThe others were quite incapable. Paul and Terese were in the backseat doing God knows what. Hamlet was in front with me, dozing, I think. Anyway, when we pul ed up,

Paul and Terese headed for his room, joined at the hip and drooling.â€ She gave a disgusted little spitting sound.

â€œHamlet and I went upstairs to our rooms,â€ she continued. â€œI took a sleeping pil , and that was al I knew til Ophelia awoke me sometime around six.â€ She took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, ï€nished with her tale.

â€œThank you, Elaine. That would seem to be al for now.â€ Sonny extinguished hisâ€”myâ€”cigarette. â€œOh, by the way, does anyone at the house wear work boots?â€

â€œNo-o-o.â€ She pursed her lips. â€œNone of us at the house. The stagehands do. Some safety regulation their union requires, I think. And of course, that nice groundskeeper.â€

Sonny looked at her as if she had told him the Pope was down at the bookstore signing copies of the Koran. â€œNice groundskeeper. You mean Harmon wears construction boots?â€

â€œThatâ€™s right. Harmon. I recal being in the kitchen a couple of times right after the maids mopped the ï€‚oor. Harmon came up from the cel ar and one of them cautioned him not to track the clean ï€‚oor with his dirty boots. Wil that be al ?â€

Sonny stood. â€œEr, yes. Yes, thanks.â€ He looked rattled.

He came into the kitchen to reï€l his coffee mug, and I quietly eased the new pack of cigarettes I had opened into my pants pocket. He poured his coffee and leaned against the counter. â€œDid you hear that about Harmon? Whereâ€™s Mom?â€

I answered the second question ï€rst. â€œMomâ€™s gone to get Elaine something to wear and wil be right back. Yeah, so what about Harmon? He switches from sneakers to work boots whenever he mows or uses the edger. It makes sense. I guess

the boots have steel toes.â€

â€œYes, that makes sense! Much safer.â€ He sounded relieved. â€œI wonder why he was in the cel ar? Getting some yard tools, I guess.â€

â€œNo.â€ I shook my head. â€œTheyâ€™re al kept in the garage, over Nickâ€™s vociferous objections. Early on he and Harmon almost had a knockdown over that, though I notice theyâ€™ve gotten friendlier lately. I saw them out back having a soda the other day.

Seemed quite chummy. Iâ€™ve no idea whatâ€™s in the cel ar . . . oh, yes, I do know one thing. Carla Brownlee told me they locked some silver in a closet down there.â€

â€œThatâ€™s nice,â€ he murmured absently. â€œWel , back to the grind.â€

158

Entering the dining room, Sonny found Noel already seated at the table.

â€œHi, I ï€gured I was next, so I came on in.â€

â€œThatâ€™s ï€ne.â€ Sonny was already sounding tired, and he had a long way to go. â€œAnything of interest youâ€™d care to share?â€ He clicked on the recorder.

â€œProbably nothing that means anything,â€ Noel answered, â€œBut Iâ€™l have a shot at it. I guess Ophelia told you we came back to the house together. She took some fruit and went upstairs. I sliced some meat and cheese for a sandwich and grabbed a

couple of cans of beer. That wil usual y put me to sleep, along with TV. At least I hoped it would.â€

â€œWhy did you hope that?â€ Sonnyâ€™s voice was super casual.

â€œOh, I was overtired, for one thing, and paradoxical y, the more tired I am, the more I canâ€™t get to sleep. It had not been a good evening. Our little orchestra had gotten about one cue out of four correct. And that was in the ï€rst act. The lights werenâ€™t

rigged right for a couple of scenes. Everybody was cross, and then the rains came. I was hoping for a good nightâ€™s sleep and a bright new day.â€ He smiled wryly. â€œSo much for that.â€

â€œYes.â€ Sonny did not return the smile. â€œBy the way, what did you do with the knife after you made your sandwich?â€

â€œTossed it in the sink.â€ Noel paled. â€œOh, God, was it . . . was it the one?â€

â€œApparently.â€

â€œShit.â€ Noel lifted his coffee mug with a trembling hand.

â€œIt makes no difference,â€ Sonny said. â€œIt would have happened anyway. I was just curious where the kil er found his weapon. Anyhow, you made your salami sandwich . . . ?â€

â€œYeah, and itâ€™l be awhile before I make another! Wel , I was getting out the beer when Paulâ€™s car pul ed up out front. I heard Elaine and David say goodnight to the others and go upstairs. Paul and Terese came through the kitchen, clinging lovingly

to each other and bumping into things along the way. They were real y blotto. I donâ€™t think they even saw me. At any rate, they didnâ€™t speak. I scooted out, went to my room and settled down to an old John Wayne oater.â€

â€œAnd dozed right off?â€ Sonny prompted.

â€œWel , no.â€ Noel shifted uneasily in his seat. â€œLook, Sonny, this is embarrassing. You see, my window is right above Paulâ€™s, and they werenâ€™t exactly quiet. But I think you should ask them about that, if you think itâ€™s pertinent.â€

â€œIâ€™m asking you. Nothingâ€™s private when someone is kil ed.â€ Sonny loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He was not having fun.

Noel let out a noisy sigh. â€œOkay. They were playing a bit of slap and tickle, as the Brits would say, and having another drink from the sound of it. Then they settled down to business.â€ He sighed again.

â€œLook, Sonny, I tried to concentrate on the movie, but I judgedâ€”I canâ€™t remember every word of thisâ€”I judged from what they both said, Paul was having some major trouble . . . ah, performing. Lord, Paul would kil me if he knew I was tel ing you

this.â€

â€œLetâ€™s hope not,â€ Sonny laughed. â€œOneâ€™s enough. Go ahead.â€

â€œEasy for you to say. Wel , at ï€rst Terese seemed to be understanding and was apparently trying very hard to be of assistance. God, I feel like some sort of Peeping Tom, Sonny! But I guess whatever she was doing wasnâ€™t helping, and she got

snotty.â€

Noel paused and seemed to col ect himself. â€œPaul yel ed back that heâ€™d been working for sixteen hours and what did she expect. She said sheâ€™d expect better than this from a drunken eighty-yearold. He said maybe her toy boys could get it up on

demand, but that he needed a little feminine charm. And on and on. Final y she slammed out into the kitchen. I heard cabinets bang and glasses rattle. I think she got a bottle of booze and maybe a glass and stomped up the stairs.â€

â€œDid she make it to bed?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œDepends on how you look at it.â€ Even Noel was laughing now. â€œDavid stil had his door open. Heâ€™s a fresh air freak. Freezes us al half the time. Terese cal ed out, â€˜Want a drink, sailor? Iâ€™m pissed and Iâ€™m horny.â€™ He said something like, â€˜Sure, why

not?â€™ She went in and the door closed.â€

Sonnyâ€™s eyebrows were rivaling Cindyâ€™s in disappearing into his hairline. â€œMy God, what a busy little bee! Wel , at least you got some sleep.â€

Noel shook his head. â€œNo rest for the wicked. I was just dozing off when Hamletâ€™s door opened. He was yel ing, â€˜So, Iâ€™m sorry. I didnâ€™t mean it. So I was a little rushed! We could give it another go.â€™ Then Terese was in the hal , shrieking, â€˜Why? God

knows youâ€™re a worse Romeo than you are a Hamlet! Youâ€™re hung like a Chihuahua and about as romantic as a shar-pei!â€™ Then she stormed into her room, and John Wayne ï€nal y kissed the girl.â€

â€œOuch.â€

Noel nodded. â€œYou bet. I doubt that Hamlet was in any shape for another go after that sweet goodnight. And God knows Terese was striking out al around. Surely she gave up after the second ï€asco. I ï€nal y went to sleep. But seriously, as I was

just going under, I thought I heard somebody go downstairs, and then later I thought I heard somebody come back up. But I could have been dreaming. I donâ€™t know. Thatâ€™s it. I guess thatâ€™s enough.â€

â€œQuite a night. Donâ€™t worry, I wonâ€™t use any of this unless it has some bearing on things, and right now I donâ€™t know if it does or not. Tel Hamlet Iâ€™l be with him in a minute. I need a coffee ï€x.â€ Sonny stood and came back to the kitchen.

â€œActors,â€ I said.

â€œReporters,â€ he countered.

We both laughed.

Mom came in then from the driveway with an armload of clothes. â€œOkay if I give these to Elaine?â€ she asked.

â€œSure. No, wait.â€ Sonny walked to the door and cal ed to the patrolman stringing yel ow tape al around the Brownleesâ€™ yard. â€œAsk Jeanine to come here, wil you?â€

She appeared at the back door momentarily. â€œYeah, Sonny, whatâ€™s up?â€

â€œCome on in.â€ Sonny motioned. â€œTake Elaine into the bedroom and give her these clothes from Mom. You keep Elaineâ€™s nightgown. Itâ€™s got blood on the hem, so it goes to the lab. See if you spot any blood or stains on any other part of it. Stay

with her while she changes. See if you notice any scratches or bruises. If you do, come and get me right away.â€

â€œOkay, boss.â€ She took the clothes and turned away.

â€œWait.â€ Sonny held up a hand. â€œAfter you get through playing ladyâ€™s maid, put on your waitress cap and offer fresh coffee, especial y to Paul Carlucci and David Wil em. Bring their used mugs out here and bag them. I want a DNA on both of them.

If Iâ€™m interviewing Wil em, come on in, itâ€™s al right.â€

â€œYes, massa, I go now.â€

â€œMe too, smartie.â€ He topped off his mug and headed back to the dining room.

â€œNow, Hamlet, letâ€™s get this ï€nished so you can concentrate on your press conference. Am I correct that you were at the amphitheater from about six to nine p.m. last evening?â€

â€œYes, I was in nearly every scene.â€

â€œAnd that you went to a late dinner at the Landfal with Elaine, Paul and Terese?

â€œYou returned to Brownleesâ€™ shortly before eleven? Said good night and retired?â€

â€œUh, yes, thatâ€™s al correct.â€ Hamlet sat back silently, as if the interview were over. Sonny waited him out.

Jeanine came in, offering fresh coffee. Hamlet replied that he preferred English breakfast tea, if such were to be had. Jeanine volunteered to look around and ï€nd something. She picked up his mug and took it with her. The silence lengthened.

Final y, Hamlet cleared his throat. â€œAh-h-h, I suppose I should mention, not that it has any bearing on anything at al , but Ms. Segal stuck her head in my doorâ€”oh, nearly midnight, I would guessâ€”and offered me a nightcap. It had been a hectic

day, and I felt it might help me sleep, so I agreed. We had a drink, chatted a few minutes and bade each other goodnight.â€

â€œAnd Ms. Segal returned to her room at that time . . . after your . . . ah, nightcap? Say, shortly after midnight?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œOh, yes, I heard her door sl . . . close.â€

â€œAnd that was that?â€

â€œOh, yes.â€ Hamletâ€™s voice was deeply sincere. â€œLong day, little nip and I went right to Morpheusâ€™s arms. Morpheus, as you may have heard,â€ Hamlet added for the poor uneducated cop, â€œis the famous Greek god of sleep.â€

â€œReal y?â€ Sonny replied. â€œAnd here al along I thought it was Ovidâ€™s name for the Roman god of dreams. Thank you so much for sharing, Hamlet.â€

My mother snapped her ï€ngers and murmured, â€œAttaboy! Put that ignorant snob in his place.â€

Jeanine got Hamlet off the hook by arriving with a cup of tea.

â€œAh, hereâ€™s my favorite brew.â€ He took a deep swal ow.

â€œYessir.â€ Jeanine smiled. â€œLuckily I found an old Red Rose teabag in the bottom of my purse.â€

Hamlet looked greener, if possible, and ran for the powder room.

â€œSend in Nick Peters,â€ Sonny cal ed after him, with a wink for Jeanine.

While they waited, Jeanine moved closer to Sonny and said softly, â€œElaine has a fairly nasty bruise on her right forearm, says she accidental y got caught it in the van door. It looks about right for that. No scratches or cuts I could see.â€ Sonny

nodded.

Nickâ€™s interview was like the man himselfâ€”short with no wasted motions. He conï€rmed the six to nine routine. He then took one of the vans from the amphitheater to the Bradford Drive-In, ordered some take-out food and went home. He ate

while watching House, fol owed by the news, took a sleeping pil and knew nothing until awakened by the loud noises coming from downstairs about six a.m. No, he had not seen or spoken to anyone, although he heard Teri come into her room

shortly after he got home.

Sonny asked if anyone could place him at the drive-in.

Nick thought for a moment. â€œI didnâ€™t notice anyone I knew. But the bag the food came in is upstairs in my wastebasket. I imagine the receipt is in there, too. Theyâ€™re usual y date and time stamped.â€ He gave a sour grin. â€œYour people probably got it

already.â€

Sonny nodded. â€œThatâ€™s ï€ne. Oh, do you or anyone else in the troupe wear work boots?â€

â€œThe stagehands. Itâ€™s an insurance thing, in case they drop a sofa on their toe or something. I donâ€™t have to.â€ His voice sounded bitter. â€œIâ€™m considered an executive, if you please. I donâ€™t move furniture. Anyway, sneakers do it for me. Theyâ€™re

quieter backstage and more comfortable. Why?â€

â€œSomebody tracked some mud into the dining room. We just wondered who might have come in wearing boots.â€

â€œSorry, I canâ€™t help you.â€

â€œNo problem.â€ Sonny stretched. â€œAsk Paul Carlucci to come in, wil you? I feel like Iâ€™ve been in this chair since Easter.â€

â€œAs long as you donâ€™t lay an egg.â€ Nickâ€™s laugh sounded rather like a rusty cackle itself. I judged it wasnâ€™t used much.

Paul came in with an almost shy smile. â€œHel o, Sonny, Iâ€™ve been trying to decide whether youâ€™ve saved the best for last, or the worst. I feel just awful about this. That poor woman! I stil canâ€™t believe it.â€

â€œWould you be surprised to learn that youâ€™re the only person out of this entire group that has uttered one word of regret that Terese is dead?â€

â€œOh, I imagine theyâ€™re just in shock.â€ Paul sipped his coffee, now in a fresh mug. â€œThey donâ€™tâ€”didnâ€™t know her as I did. She barked worse than she bit.â€

â€œI read her article, Paul. It bit. I didnâ€™t understand al the nuances about the actors, but I understood she cal ed me gay. I could care less, but in some place other than Ptown, an accusation like that could have a police lieutenant back to patrol ing

the municipal parking lot. And she made hamburger out of Harmon, one of the nicest guys God ever sent along. And I understood wel enough when she hinted that Polonius likes his girls young and virginal. And she didnâ€™t care if she hurt Noelâ€™s

kids. So what was so great about her, Paul?â€ Sonnyâ€™s voice was hard.

Paul sighed. â€œLook, Sonny, somehow Terese liked me. She had it in her head I was some kind of delicate artistic giant that needed protection . . . that I was vulnerable. Maybe I was the child she never had. I donâ€™t know. And this doesnâ€™t say much

for me, but I knew as long as I acted the part she had created for me, Iâ€™d keep getting pages of good coverage. Maybe a few cheap shots at some of my people, but not at me. And you can bet, Sonny, even if everybody in this play showed up on

Saturday drunk, missing cues, forgetting lines and fal ing into the orchestra pit, weâ€™d get rave reviews, even the people she sniped at last week. She thinks being with me gives her a touch of class. She told that to her editor, and he told me. You think

I was going to risk losing that? I played right along with her . . . in every way.â€

â€œThat side of her is hard to see,â€ Sonny said.

â€œI can understand that. But go back and look at her past reviews. Itâ€™s the way they play her game at the A-List. They love to get everybody upset and wondering what sheâ€™s going to say next, but believe me, they always back off in the end. Their

editor admits it openly. They love to have people threatening to sue, but not actual y ï€ling suit. Hel , in the end Terese even praised The Tanqueray Tragedy , cal ing it a sensitive insight into the problems of todayâ€™s alternative lifestyles. Frankly,

Sonny, it stank. But she made it into a gay cult piece that stil gets performed hither and yon. And Iâ€™ve been approached regarding a TV movie. Nothing deï€nite, but who knows?â€

â€œUn-huh.â€ Sonny sounded disbelieving, but to me it al sounded crazy enough to be true.

Sonny ï€ddled with the tape recorder volume. â€œNow you went out to dinner with Terese, Elaine Edgewood and David Wil em, right? Were there any arguments over dinner?â€

â€œYes, we four went to dinner. No, there were no arguments that I can recal . David and I got to tel ing old war stories about plays weâ€™d been in. Frankly, I donâ€™t remember much after that. We were al a little high except for Elaine. She was

exceptional y quiet, I think.â€

â€œWho drove home?â€

Carlucci looked confused. â€œWhy, we were in my car. I would assume I did. You mean al this third degree is because I dinged some guyâ€™s fender in the parking lot and forgot to leave my name or something?â€

â€œItâ€™s about what you remember.â€

â€œAl right, so I drove home and pul ed in the driveway as usual, and we al went inside and went to our respective beds. That do it for you?â€

â€œNo. In point of fact, Elaine drove home, and parked on the street so as not to block either of the vans, I presume. She and Wil em went upstairs. You and Ms. Segal retired to your room off the kitchen.â€

â€œOh, wel , I said I was a little drunk.â€ He blinked his eyes hard. â€œAre you saying Terese heard that glass door break and went to see what happened and the burglar stabbed her?â€

â€œNo, she left your roomâ€”at least the ï€rst timeâ€”before we think the door was broken.â€

â€œThe ï€rst time?â€

â€œYeah, apparently Ms. Segal was quite amorous, but you were quite drunk and couldnâ€™tâ€”shal we be frank?â€”you couldnâ€™t get it up. Remember that? Or did you manage to forget that part of the evening, too?â€

Carlucci actual y blushed. â€œNo, I donâ€™t remember that at al . But, hel , it happens to us al sometimes. Surely you have had times when things just didnâ€™t work wel , havenâ€™t you?â€

Obviously Sonny was not about to swap tales of any malfunctions he might ever have suffered. â€œMs. Segal got angry at your inability. The two of you had loud, unfriendly words. She left in a huff and went upstairs, where she had drinks with David

Wil em.â€

â€œWil em?â€ Carlucci sounded incredulous. â€œAre you sure? They didnâ€™t much like each other.â€

â€œMaybe he was the least of the evils left awake.â€ Sonny accepted a thin, expensive looking cigar from Carlucciâ€™s gold case. Wel , I wasnâ€™t going to take up cigars so Sonny could swipe them. â€œOr maybe she was just getting even with you.â€

He looked at Paul quizzical y, but got no answer and continued. â€œEverybody else in the house seems to have been drunk and passed out or sober and took a pil and passed out. Iâ€™ve never seen people so concerned about sleep.â€

â€œNow, my question is this.â€ He nudged the tape recorder nearer to Paul. â€œWe know Terese later went back downstairs for a drink or something to eat. Did you hear her or did she come to your door? Did she come into your room? Did she start

taunting you again? Had you had enough of it, enough of her ridicule, enough of Lady Dominatrix? Enough of playing sad little boy to promote your shaky career? Had she had enough of your saccharine yes-man behavior and threatened to reveal

your sexual non-prowess in her column? Did you stab her several times and then smash the French doors and make it look as if some unknown burglar had broken in?â€ He ground out the cigar and stood up. â€œPaul Carlucci, did you murder Terese

Segal?â€

Carlucci jumped up and hufï€ly threw his cigar at Sonny, who managed to deï€‚ect it into the ashtray.

â€œWel ?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œWel , shit, Sonny. To be honest with you, I donâ€™t remember a damn thing after I ordered dinner last night until I woke up this morning. But I would never kil anybody. Iâ€™m not that kind of person. I wouldnâ€™t lower myself. And I certainly wouldnâ€™t have

thought to throw dirt al over the ï€‚oor. Youâ€™re just being mean, Sonny, downright mean!â€

He ran his hand through his already unruly hair. â€œYou know Iâ€™m worried sick about this play. I donâ€™t have time to go around kil ing people. And Iâ€™m not the one who hates her. The whole cast does.â€

He blew his nose. â€œSo do half the people in town. Donâ€™t pick on

me, Sonny. Iâ€™m not wel .â€ He buried his face in the handkerchief and sobbed. Sonny sighed and clicked off the recorder. â€œIâ€™l take that as a deï€nite maybe not.â€

Chapter 20

Sonny came out and slumped at the kitchen table. â€œIs it too early for a drink?â€

â€œNot if you need one.â€ I smiled. â€œBut I canâ€™t very wel go into the living room to get it with that ï€‚ock of vultures roosting there. Settle for a beer?â€

â€œI better not. Too many people would love to say they smel ed it.â€

â€œYeah, probably. Sonny, can you get these people out of here soon? Iâ€™ve about had it with them and their pil s and lies and messes and demands and complaints.â€ My voice sounded shril to me, and I saw Mom look up sharply from the morning

paper.

She turned to Sonny. â€œWhy donâ€™t you see if El en Hal has come up with any place for them to stay? Otherwise, send them out to their precious theater. This real y is not Alexâ€™s problem.â€ He looked at me and nodded.

The wal phone was beside me. â€œIâ€™l cal ,â€ I said, checking a smal address book on top of the phone.

El en picked up on the ï€rst ring. As I announced myself, she interrupted. â€œI was just looking up your number. We lucked out. The Chambered Nautilus had a cancel ation. Somebody got sick. Your two women wil have to share a room and bath, but

it has two double beds. I found four rooms on the ground ï€‚oor of the Marshes, so your men can go there.â€

I thought of the group sprawled in my living room. â€œOh, God, Elaine and Teri wil scream at having to share. And the men, especial y Hamlet and Carlucci, wil take one look at those third-rate rooms at the Marshes, opening onto a parking lot, and

toss a ï€t.â€

â€œAlex, this weekend is Labor Day. I booked those rooms and considered al of us fortunate I found them. If they donâ€™t like them, their only other choice is going to be a sleeping bag in their vans. Who told them to go and stage a murder, anyway?â€

Mother took the phone out of my hand. â€œEl en, itâ€™s Jeanne Peres. Theyâ€™l take the rooms, wherever they are, and owe you a bottle of Moet for them! They donâ€™t know how lucky they are.â€ She paused and listened. â€œThank you, my dear. Ladies at

The Chambered Nautilus and men at the Marshes. Weâ€™l get them there shortly.â€ She hung up.

â€œSonny, these people are now leaving. I wil deliver Elaine, Teri and Noel in my car. The other three, for al I care, can be sent in the paddy wagon. It might be good training.â€

Sonny and I looked at each other and chorused, â€œYes, Mommy Dearest.â€

The house felt strangely empty and silent. Yet somehow vague aromas of cologne and cigars and coffee and the occasional whiff of sweaty fear made it seem stil eerily populated. I went around opening windows while Fargo plodded, whufï€‚ing,

beside me.

I picked up mugs and cups and plates and dumped ashtrays and loaded the dishwasher. I moved tables and chairs back where they belonged. I even vacuumed and used some of that spray stuff that makes smel s go away without leaving its

own sickening perfume behind.

I ï€nished by actual y changing the sheets on our bed. I didnâ€™t know why I did it. Certainly no one had lain in it except us. Then I had to smile at myself. My next move would probably be to cal Peter and the Wolf and ask if they knew a good exorcist.

I gave Fargo fresh water and a belated breakfast and myself a beer. As of now, I was off duty. My ankle was aching. Iâ€™d try an Ace bandage as soon as I felt like looking for it.

But that didnâ€™t mean I was able to put another matter aside. There was something I had to tel Sonny, something I had quite seriously promised I would never tel another soul.

It seemed like yesterday to me that Cindy and I had been comforting Elaine in our backyard. She had broken down and recounted the story of her fatherâ€™s ghastly death, her motherâ€™s lifetime in a hospital for the insane and the adoption of her and

her brother, and her brother also ending up as one of Carlucciâ€™s group. And I had sworn that Cindy, Fargo and I would maintain her secret.

And now, of course, I could not. Sonny had to know.

And worse, yet, I supposed I had to tel Elaine I could no longer keep her conï€dence. I imagine she had guessed it. I could think of no other reason for her coldness to me. Maybe she ï€gured I had already told him. I wouldnâ€™t dream of doing that

without informing her ï€rst. But she didnâ€™t know me wel enough to know Iâ€™m funny about things like promises.

Iâ€™d take a chance she was at her new B&B. I took a jacket from the hooks in the pantry. The rain had quit, but it was gray and chil . Fargo didnâ€™t care, he was already at the back door. â€œDog of dogs, letâ€™s get out of here. I promise you a late lunch of

your very own hamburger, okay? Just let me get this Elaine thing over with.â€

We pul ed into the Chambered Nautilus parking area, and Lexus strol ed off the porch to greet us. Fargo pounced out of the car, damn near landing on top of the irate cat, and they were off. They circled the house twice at top speed, with Lexus

ï€nal y leaping for the mimosa tree and gaining the ï€rst branch, where he sat hissing and spitting. Fargo sat beneath him, looking up, with the ï€rst happy expression I had seen on his face al day.

We found Martha in the kitchen, making out next weekâ€™s breakfast menus and consulting cookbooks. According to her, Ophelia had gone to a rehearsal. Elaine wasnâ€™t needed til later and was in their room.

Reluctantly leaving the wonderful kitchen smel s, I went up the back stairs, Fargo equal y reluctant at my heels. I knocked lightly on the door of their room.

â€œCome in,â€ Elaine cal ed pleasantly.

She sat in a comfortable chair, feet propped on the bed, reading a book. Immediately upon our entrance, the feet came down, the book snapped closed, the smile faded and she drew herself slightly away from Fargo.

â€œCould you please leave the animal outside? I have al ergies.â€

She also apparently had memory problems. She had always known â€œthe animalâ€™sâ€ name before, and she had not hesitated to pet him, with no noticeable discomfort. Obviously this scene would be played to the hilt.

I walked back to the hal and cal ed down the back stairs. â€œMartha, could you guard my ferocious animal for ï€ve minutes? Ms. Edgewood has developed acute al ergies. She thinks it is the dog. I rather imagine it is I.â€

Martha looked up the stairs, grinning. Clearly she had understood my tone if not the words. â€œSure. Câ€™mon down, Fargo, you can help me plan tomorrowâ€™s breakfast. Good boy.â€

Turning back into the room, I sat uninvited in the other chair. â€œThis wonâ€™t take much of your time,â€ I began mildly.

â€œIt neednâ€™t take any of it,â€ she said. â€œYou have either told, or are about to tel your detective brother al that I imparted to you in complete conï€dence, thereby casting unnecessary suspicion on my brother and me around this unfortunate incident

involving Terese. Good-bye.â€

â€œLetâ€™s just say I am about to provide Detective Lieutenant Peres with information I can neither legal y nor moral y withhold from him in his efforts to solve a vicious, brutal murder. It bothers me more than you apparently can understand to break a

promise of conï€dentiality, especial y one of such a personal nature. You have my deepest apologies. You also have my assurance that Lt. Peres wil never make any of this information public unless it proves to have direct bearing on the case. But

he has to know it. You can believe none or al of that as you please. Good day.â€

We found Sonny in his ofï€ce, surrounded by blackboards holding lists and notes. This was the way he always studied a confusing case. He said it let him see everything at once without shufï€‚ing through piles of paper or dragging stuff around on

a computer. It also let him prop his feet on the desk, lean precariously back in his chair and al ow his thoughts to roam. It was a system that worked wel for him. He usual y came up with the answers.

His ï€rst list held the names of those he felt the most likely suspects and their alibis, if any. Carlucci was head of the pack, with no alibi. Hamlet was a close second, also with no alibi. Polonius was apparently clear. He had been at the al -night

diner with the lighting crew. Nickâ€™s garbage had yielded up a receipt showing he picked up his takeout order at nine ï€fty-two, which proved nothing except that at some point, he brought the bag back to his room.

Horatio had been with two of the stagehands, out drinking. Noel seemed to have the least motive, and had been extremely cooperative. Too much so? Elaine and Ophelia were possibilities, but Sonny had marked them â€œUnlikely.â€ Wel , one of

those was about to change.

At the bottom of the board was â€œUnknown burglar,â€ with the added notation of â€œUnlikelyâ€ crossed out. I wondered why that had changed.

Beneath it had been added the name â€œHarmon!â€ A joke, to tease him? Surely not serious.

One board showed that the hours in which Terese was presumed to have died had been narrowed to todayâ€”Wednesdayâ€” between one and three a.m.

A note fol owed saying â€œSeminal ï€‚uid and clear liquid sent to lab for DNA checks.â€ I wondered exactly what that meant.

There were other cryptic notes. â€œCheck boots with Sears.â€ â€œDumpsters?â€ â€œRaincoat & hat?â€ â€œZilch computer.â€

I grinned and asked, â€œIs Zilch a new brand of computer?â€

â€œZilch is what is left on Tereseâ€™s laptop. Not a word. The whole hard drive is clean as a whistle. And something tel s me it wasnâ€™t Terese housecleaning. Although maybe it was. We didnâ€™t ï€nd any faxes either.â€ Sonny sounded disgusted.

â€œNo. I canâ€™t believe she dumped everything. I doubt she knew she was going to be kil ed. But for one thing, I donâ€™t get the idea that bunch of artistes is very big on todayâ€™s technology, for one thing. For another, who would have time to do it? We

cleared the place out pretty quickly.â€

â€œAlex, almost anybody today can turn on a computer and start hitting the delete key. It doesnâ€™t take long. Iâ€™m just hoping Nacho can retrieve something of interest from the hard drive. The faxes are my fault. We did not personal y search the

suspects before they had a chance to dump them. Hel , they may have gone out in your garbage.â€ We looked at each other and shrugged.

Finishing up Sonnyâ€™s blackboard display was a smal er board with a rough, amateur sketch of a womanâ€™s torso with red chalk marks where the six stab wounds had been. Somehow the very unprofessionalism of the drawing made it seem more

personal and the red marks somehow more invasive and cruel.

Sonny pul ed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and actual y offered me one. I clutched at my heart and let him light it. He nodded at the boards. â€œAny additions? Disagreements? Questions?â€

I nodded at him. â€œUnfortunately, al of the above.â€ I ï€l ed him in on the gory history of the Leonard family and ended by explaining that Terese had told Elaineâ€™s brother she had dug up an old school chum of his. He and Elaine were both afraid that

would lead to the entire ghastly story surfacing and appearing in the A-List next week.

â€œAnd youâ€™re saying that David Wil emâ€”Hamletâ€”is actual y the grown up Leonard boy, Bobby? How many names does he have, for Godâ€™s sake? Youâ€™re sure about al this?â€ Sonny made a note.

â€œOh, no doubt about it when you recal them as children,â€ I assured him. â€œIf you can get an old copy of The Tell-All that had the original story in it and photos of the kids, they look then just like they do now. His adoptive family changed his ï€rst

name, which Elaineâ€™s didnâ€™t. She says she stil has trouble not cal ing him Bobby. Also, I have some vague memory of that bio-drama saying that Papa Leonard was stabbed six times. Not sure. But it could be signiï€cant in some ritualistic way.â€

â€œIâ€™l get Nacho on The Tell-All right away,â€ he said. â€œShe could get the original of the Magna Carta in an hour if we needed it. Okay, what else?â€

â€œHave you had lunch? Iâ€™m starving and I promised Fargo a hamburger.â€

â€œNo, I havenâ€™t. You buying?â€

â€œAfter what you did to my house this morning?â€ I snorted. â€œYou owe Cindy and Fargo and me a six-course dinner starting with Beluga caviar and a magnum of Krug!â€

â€œPlease!â€ He sounded insulted. â€œThe town of Provincetown wil gladly reimburse you for any expenses up to ï€fty-nine cents. Just ï€le seventeen copies of each receipt and have two men of the cloth attest to your honesty.â€

â€œIâ€™l settle for my usual and a Bud, plus an extra rare hamburger, plain.â€

Without discussion we started walking toward the Wharf Rat Bar. I brought up the questions Sonnyâ€™s blackboards had raised in my mind.

â€œHey, Sonny, why was that Unknown Burglar crossed out and Harmonâ€™s name put in? Are you just pul ing his leg?â€ I turned to look at my brother and was surprised to see deep lines of worry appear around his nose and eyes.

â€œGod, I wish I were, Sis! I wouldnâ€™t blame him if he did kil Terese, after that article she wrote, and then threatening to tel the world that Rob, the brother he worshipped so much, was yel ow, shot in the back while running away, saying the whole

medal thing was a cover-up! Heâ€™s right. Nobody should be al owed to tel those kinds of lies! Did you hear about it?â€ Sonny slammed one ï€st into the other, and an elderly lady skipped briskly into the gutter to give him way.

I nodded and recal ed Harmonâ€™s words to me, â€œI shal take action.â€ I should have paid more attention at the time. I decided not to mention that statement right now. Right now I would concentrate on not limping.

â€œWeâ€™ve got a real problem with Harmon, Alex. There is a work boot print thatâ€™s quite clear in the mud on the dining room rug. It does not match any of the boots worn by any of the Hamlet crew. And none of them are sporting brand new boots

today. Harmon readily admits to wearing that type of boot for protection when he does heavy yard work. He says he kept them in the garage next to the mower. We canâ€™t ï€nd them.â€

â€œOh, God.â€ My stomach was now feeling emptier than ever.

Sonny went on, his voice harsh with anxiety. â€œHe says he bought them last winter at Sears. Hatcher has gone down to the store with the dining room photos to see if they match up with the style Harmon bought. Alex, Iâ€™m scared to death they wil .â€

He wasnâ€™t alone.

â€œThen,â€ Sonny continued, and I wondered how much more disaster he had to relate. â€œWhen Mitch went over the cel ar, he found the padlock on the storage closet forced, and what looks like two cartons of whatever the Brownlees had stored in

there are missing. Harmon took one look and said it was two cartons of their silver. He said Bob Brownlee gave him a key and asked him to keep an eye on it. We havenâ€™t found any trace of the cartons.â€

I felt a little brighter. â€œWel , if Harmon meant to steal, which I wil never believe, he didnâ€™t have to break the lock. He had a key, and he might as wel have taken it al .â€

Sonny shook his head. â€œI think it was a ruse. I think someoneâ€” I fear Harmonâ€”broke in through the dining room doors, went down to the cel ar, and forced the lock. Harmon would be too smart to use his key, I think. Then he took two cartons,

apparently the smal est and easiest to carry, which wil turn up in one of the vans or a dumpster or somewhere. Then I think he waited outside for Terese to come out of Paulâ€™s room. But she came out earlier than he had ï€gured on, and Paul was stil

awake then and might have seen him. So he waited some more, and ï€nal y Terese came back down, and he kil ed her.â€

We were almost at the Rat and I was glad. My ankle was beginning to throb. Why had I never managed to get a bandage on it? Fargo was glad, too, whufï€‚ing noisily, wondering what goodies were in store.

I turned to Sonny. â€œThat seems like taking a chanceâ€”hanging around at that hour just hoping Terese would show up. What if someone woke up and saw him? And if Harmon was smart enough not to use his key, why wasnâ€™t he smart enough to

scuff out his footprints?â€

He shrugged. â€œNobody is smart al the time. Maybe he heard a noise. And he had to have been under a lot of stress. Stress means mistakes.â€

â€œWel , he seems to have made some, skipped some. How did he know Terese would come back downstairs at al ? If he didnâ€™t realize he left footprints, how come he made his boots disappear? And why did he have them on in the ï€rst place, in

the middle of the night? Was he going to mow the lawn at three a.m.? In the rain?â€

â€œWe donâ€™t have al the answers yet,â€ he answered stifï€‚y. â€œBut Dr. Gloetzner raised an interesting point. You see that torso on my blackboard? It shows the approximate locations of the six wounds. Five of them were not deep and would not have

been fatal if sheâ€™d gotten help. Gloetzner thinks they were done immediately after she died, though. The ï€rst, where the knife was apparently replaced in her chest, was deep. In fact, it nicked the heart. That accounts for nearly al the blood, and the

swift, quiet death. But back to the other ï€ve, they were smal , almost decorative. Thatâ€™s a total of six wounds, if you ï€gure the knife was placed back in the ï€rst, fatal wound. Not counting Terese, six people live in the house. You donâ€™t suppose itâ€™s one

of those things where everyone stabs her so no one can squeal on the person who actual y kil ed her, do you?â€

I slowed down as if I were thinking. â€œI could possibly believe it of everyone except Hamlet. Heâ€™d be too scared to prick her with a pin if anyone else was going to know about it. Heâ€™d be afraid someone would somehow blame it on him. I can see

him losing his temper and kil ing her, but not as part of a ritual.â€

â€œOkay,â€ he said. â€œI can buy that. Then consider this, if you connect the dots, as it were, the wounds could be said to form a rough letter â€˜R.â€™â€

I tried to think of where he could be going with this. Final y, I tried, â€œR for revenge? R for rage? For retribution?â€

â€œOr for Rob.â€

â€œSonny, are you trying to put this onto Harmon?â€

He left me tying Fargo to the big anchor in front of the Rat and stormed through the door. Inside, I stopped at the bar to order Fargoâ€™s burger. The Blues Brothers were out in ful force at the front table, minus Harmon. They al watched Sonny move

across the room toward a table for us. Their eyes were not friendly.

I waited at the bar for the burger and took it and some water out to my patient pooch. By the time I got back inside, Sonny had us a beer and had ordered lunch.

Just getting off the ankle made me feel better. A large swal ow of Bud helped even more. I broke the silence. â€œIâ€™m sorry, Sonny. I shouldnâ€™t have said that about you and Harmon. I didnâ€™t mean it. You must be terribly upset.â€

â€œYeah. And thereâ€™s one more thing. Dr. Gloetzner has conï€rmed sperm in Tereseâ€™s vagina. The spermâ€™s gone off to the lab, along with a clear liquid, which is not seminal ï€‚uid, but a ï€‚uid which some men â€˜leakâ€™ when they have sex. Before they

ejaculate, or even if they donâ€™t. We are pretty sure the sperm is Hamletâ€™s. Weâ€™re going to be real interested in the leaker. Weâ€™l have DNA on both in a few days.â€

â€œWel , maybe Carlucci wasnâ€™t as impotent as everyone thought, unless it is Hamletâ€™s.â€ They seemed the most obvious. â€œHel , that only leaves Nick and Noel in the Brownlee building.â€

â€œUh-huh,â€ Sonny gave me a weary smile. â€œOr Harmon.â€

â€œSonny, just hush!â€ I chewed a bite of my sandwich viciously. â€œOh, al right. I might as wel tel you.â€

â€œTel me what?â€

I told him of Harmonâ€™s practical y wrecking my backyard, and of his ï€nal statement, â€œI shal take action.â€

Sonny looked puzzled. â€œNow that isnâ€™t like Harmon. That sounds like something out of a book or a movie. Harmon would say heâ€™d get her for this, or sheâ€™d pay for this, not â€˜I shal take action.â€™â€

â€œLook, Sonny, he didnâ€™t necessarily mean heâ€™d kil her. Maybe he meant to get a lawyer and sue the A-List. Or get Carlucci to throw her out. Hel , maybe he meant to put a dead blueï€sh in her bed.â€

â€œNow that sounds like fun! Can I play, too?â€ I looked up to see Noel smiling above us.

â€œHey, Noel, sit down,â€ Sonny said. â€œWe could use a little cheer.â€

â€œDid you say beer?â€

â€œThat, too.â€ Sonny stood up and waved for Joeâ€™s attention. â€œHey, Joe, three Buds please. And a pastrami and fries for Noel.â€ He turned and asked belatedly, â€œThat okay?â€

â€œAbsolutely. I apologize for interrupting your lunch, but your ofï€ce said you would probably be here, Sonny. I have a couple of things to tel you. They may not be important, but . . .â€

I picked up my sandwich and beer. â€œIâ€™l ï€nish eating at the bar so you two can have some privacy.â€

â€œNot for my sake,â€ Noel said. â€œThey arenâ€™t anything secret as far as Iâ€™m concerned.â€

Sonny waved me back to my chair. â€œStay here. Youâ€™ve been making bril iant comments al morning. I canâ€™t wait for more.â€

Noel looked as if he wished heâ€™d picked another time, but began bravely. â€œI cal ed my ex-wife when we got to the motel. I like her to know exactly where I am, because of the kids. She has my cel number, but Iâ€™m just overcautious, I guess. Karen,

my ex, is a good friend of our wardrobe mistress, Diane Hoskins. They had been speaking on the phone yesterday. Do you know Diane?â€

I shook my head, Sonny nodded. â€œSlightly.â€

Noel smiled his thanks as his lunch and beer arrived. â€œWhen Terese ï€rst got involved with Paul and being embedded up here, she wrote a sidebar on the duties of the wardrobe mistress and how important she and her assistants are to any stage

production. Keeping costumes fresh and clean, mending, getting the right costumes to the right dressing room for every performance, etc. It was a wel -done article.â€

Noel dragged a french fry through some ketchup and chewed for a moment. â€œDiane wanted to do something to thank Terese. Diane and her husband George own a farm just over the border into Connecticut. One of those farms where you can go

and pick your own tomatoes or pumpkins and whatever. Itâ€™s a great place. Iâ€™ve had the kids there. Wel , Diane cal ed George and asked him to bring up a bunch of produce for Terese, enough for al of us, actual y. George and the three kids came up

yesterday morning.â€

â€œWhat did Terese do?â€ I asked. â€œI know it was something awful.â€

â€œYes, worse than you can imagine, and Iâ€™l bet youâ€™d never guess. As George was unloading the stuff from the truck, Terese asked if he didnâ€™t get lonesome with Diane away so much. He said he did, but that the kids kept him company. Terese

said they were certainly beautiful children, but wasnâ€™t it strange not one of them looked like him, or with Diane traveling, was that to be expected? Then she laughed and walked away.â€

â€œShe never missed a chance, did she?â€ Sonny shook his head in disbelief.

â€œIt may not al have been her fault,â€ Noel said. â€œTerese had a single mother, father unknown. As a kid, she interfered with momâ€™s â€˜socialâ€™ life, so mom farmed her out to a grandmother, whose coat of arms was, Do unto others before they can do

unto you.

â€œTerese thought any sign of kindness was a sign of weakness that would be used against her later.â€

I lit a cigarette and left the pack on the table. It would save Sonny asking. â€œThatâ€™s sad. She did goof once, though. At the cemetery the other day she told Harmon she was sorry about his brother. Of course, she made up for it later.â€ I was curious.

â€œHow did you know al this?â€

â€œKaren worked with her years ago at Variety before Terese got so thoroughly nasty. But thatâ€™s not the ï€nish. Yesterday morning, when she made that crack, George got more and more pissed, ï€nal y threw al the produce back in the truck, left the

kids with Diane and went looking for Terese. He said he was going to drive her to Hyannis and put her on a bus for New York, and sheâ€™d damn wel better not show up anywhere near him again. And one of the kids says he thinks thereâ€™s some kind

of gun in the glove compartment.â€

Sonny had a notebook and pencil out before I even thought of it. â€œHis ful name? Do you know the make and color of the truck? Connecticut plates, I guess. Where was he staying?â€

â€œGeorge Hoskins. Otherwise, I donâ€™t know. I think he was just going to make a round trip. Oh, the truck was blue, I think.â€

Sonny was already muttering into his cel phone. â€œPick up Diane Hoskins . . . . Wardrobe mistress for Hamlet . . . husband, too. George . . . careful . . . may be carrying. Make sure his kids are with their mother. ASAP. Let me know.â€

â€œThis gets worse and worse,â€ Noel said. â€œIt never occurred to me the kids might be a problem. You think he just hung around and came back and kil ed her? But wouldnâ€™t he have shot her? You think he would use his own kids to help him get

away?â€

Sonny grimaced. â€œProbably none of the above, but I donâ€™t want some hostage situation arising out of this. He was most likely just in a snit and is home or off drunk somewhere. I hope. Look, sorry to run, but Iâ€™d better get back. Noel, can you walk

back with me? Alex left her car at the police station and sheâ€™s hobbling on a bad ankle. Could you play chauffeur? I donâ€™t want my mother accusing me of police brutality.â€

Sometimes he bordered so closely on being nice.

Chapter 21

After dropping Noel off at the Marshes, I pul ed in our driveway to ï€nd Cindy backing out of it.

â€œWhither goest?â€ I got out of the car, did my Quasimodo hobble over and kissed her through the open window of her car.

â€œIf you canâ€™t guess, you real y need help. Where would I go if I couldnâ€™t concentrate at work, couldnâ€™t ï€nd you, couldnâ€™t stand the sight of a police car and plan to write a whole new song about yel ow ribbons?â€

I rested my foreï€nger delicately on my chin and pretended to think.

â€œIf youâ€™re real y stuck, thereâ€™s a note on the kitchen table.â€

â€œAha! Could it be that lovely little cottage by a homey little pond?â€

â€œYour adjectives are reversed, but yes. I real y want peace and quiet. If youâ€™ve been running around al day, you must be ready to go hide, too. Why are you limping?â€

I was embarrassed to mention it. â€œOh, when I was playing Superman this morning, I tripped on my cape and turned my ankle. Iâ€™l get an Ace bandage at some point.â€

â€œLike now. It canâ€™t be good to walk or drive with it not supported.â€

â€œI donâ€™tâ€”â€

â€œIn that little cabinet in the half bath. Go get it.â€

The thing that amazed me was not so much that Cindy could tape an ankle as wel as Lainey, but that she knew exactly where the bandage had been. Honest, could you walk right to a certain spot and lay your hand on a bandage you use maybe

once every two years?

Anyway, I then drove to the cottage while Cindy went off on a spree to Evansâ€™s Market where delicious things awaitedâ€”al ready, or very nearly ready, to eat. Later, we sat on the deck, where Aunt Mae had joined us, the three of us nibbling a

smooth Stilton and sipping a smooth bourbon, tea for Aunt Mae, and at least two of us listening to our nerves loosen up with almost audible twangs.

I was working slowly up to a nap, when a car came to a noisy halt in the gravel in front of the cottage. Two doors opened and closed, one normal y, one in a manner that made me listen to see if it dropped to the ground.

My brother stomped onto the deck, fol owed by an anxious-looking Trish. Leaning against the railing, he spread his arms like an evangelist in ful swing. â€œSing hal elujah, everybody. The murder is solved! Solved by none other than our own genius,

Captain Anders.â€

â€œAha!â€ I laughed. â€œLet me guess. It was a transient who broke through the French doors to get out of the rain. He just happened to fal down the basement stairs and into the closet where the silver was stored. Coming back to the kitchen, he spied

Terese, didnâ€™t want her to give him a bad write-up, stabbed her and ran away with the loot, wearing Harmonâ€™s boots because his own were wet.â€

â€œYouâ€™re closer than you think,â€ Sonny snarled. â€œThe only big difference being he kept stabbing Terese until she told him where the valuables were kept. And the entire household slept right through it.â€

Captain Anders had an IQ almost up there with the speed limit, and blamed every crime in town on an unknown and therefore virtual y uncatchable transient. There were many of us who could tel you his age right to the day. His retirement party

would be a crowded affair.

â€œWel , that could be good in a way,â€ Aunt Mae teased Sonny gently. â€œNow you can just relax and refer everyone to the clever Captain.â€

I saw Trish wince, as Sonny slammed his ï€st down on the railing. â€œYou got it, Aunt Mae. You fu . . . darn wel got it. Thanks to Anders, Iâ€™m relieved of the Segal case. Relieved!â€

â€œWhy?â€ I managed to ask.

â€œBecause Anders went to Chief Franks with very good reasons I should recuse myself,â€ he said. â€œCould I please have a drink? Yours looks good.â€

â€œIâ€™l get it,â€ Cindy said and stood. â€œWhat about you, Aunt Mae? Trish?â€

Trish asked for iced tea, Aunt Mae said sheâ€™d stand pat and Cindy returned moments later with two drinks, both about the same color. Sonny had some hefty comfort in his glass.

He took a swal ow and his eyes watered slightly. Clearing his throat he explained, â€œAunt Mae, if you recal , you gave Ophelia a plant which Terese destroyed. That angered you, so if you had any information about her, you might not report it.

Doubtless you wil be rigorously interrogated shortly. Mom has been out with Noel a few times. In case it isnâ€™t our transient, it is one of the actorsâ€”perhaps Noelâ€”and Mom is protecting him. Alex is friendly with the whole bunch, plus Harmon, and

was one of the ï€rst on the scene, possibly changing various evidence to shield them al . I kid you not.â€

Aunt Mae set down her glass. â€œI donâ€™t know whether to laugh or go slap the old fool sil y.â€

â€œHe ought to be retired as being mental y impaired,â€ Trish snapped. â€œThis is the dumbest thing I ever heard of. Why did Chief Franks go along with it?â€

Sonny was now calm enough to snake a cigarette off the table. â€œWel , he did and he didnâ€™t. Anders would have been quite capable of stirring up the Board of Selectmen, although I doubt they would have done anything. But he could have caused

some talk that might possibly affect a later trial. This way, Mitch is publicly running the investigation, but he reports quietly to me, and I report quietly to Franks. Probably no real harm done.â€

â€œBut there wil be talk.â€ Aunt Mae sighed.

â€œOh, yes, some,â€ Sonny said. â€œBut everyone wil know who started it. I guess I shouldnâ€™t have been so upset. Chief Franks is the guy who ï€l s out my efï€ciency reports, not Anders. Now, whoâ€™s this?â€ Another car door slammed.

It was Mom. â€œIf itâ€™s a family reunion, shouldnâ€™t I have been invited? Oh, what gorgeous cheese! Sonny, youâ€™re bright red. Have you a got a fever?â€

We ï€nal y got her updated and provided with some white wine, and then we were al suddenly quiet.

Final y, Mom set her glass down ï€rmly. â€œWel , I think we are al as smart as Anders and Mitch. So whoâ€™s the kil er? What about Harmon, ï€rst? I think we can cross him off. The thought of Harmon stabbing and robbing is beyond comprehension.â€

â€œMother,â€ Sonny said, â€œPeople can snap, even for only a few minutes, and do things they would never ordinarily do. You know better than I how he adored Rob. The older brother, the hero, the medals, the big military funeral. And now, even though

he knows itâ€™s just another Terese lie, he has this tiny little doubt. Was Rob a coward? Was it al a sham?â€

He took a cautious sip of his drink. â€œSo he ï€‚ips. He kil s her then covers up as best he can. Itâ€™s even possible he doesnâ€™t remember what he did.â€

We al began to speak at once. Aunt Mae rattled her ice cubes loudly for attention. â€œI know al you say is correct, Sonny. People may indeed slip out of character under stress, but not usual y in the

smal things.â€

â€œWhat do you mean?â€ Trish asked.

â€œIâ€™ve known Harmon al my life,â€ Aunt Mae said. â€œI never knew him to enjoy discomfort or have much patience, except with animals. Itâ€™s hard to think of him standing in the cold rain for at least an hour, hoping Terese might come back downstairs,

and then going through al that brouhaha of broken glass and tracked-in mud and broken locks. Heâ€™d have forgotten why he was there. If he were going to stab her, it is likely to have been in the middle of Commercial Street at high noon, after three

beers.â€

I laughed. â€œAnd donâ€™t forget the missing boots. Harmon would never throw away boots less than a year old. Hel , some of his overal s are older than I am! If Harmon had worn those boots, youâ€™d have found them under his bed. And the Brownleesâ€™

silver. If you assume Harmon hasnâ€™t gone truly crazy and real y stolen it, thatâ€™s under his bed, too. He would never just toss it where a passerby might ï€nd it and keep it. If he was using it for a ruse, itâ€™s somewhere safe and close to him, til he can

return it.â€

Sonny nodded reluctantly. â€œYou may have something. I hope so. If itâ€™s Harmon, let Anders arrest him. I donâ€™t think I could do it.â€

â€œYou wonâ€™t have to, darling. Heâ€™s as innocent as a lamb!â€ Mom gave him that motherly assurance that means absolutely nothing and yet somehow makes you absolutely sure everything wil be okay. â€œHow about Nick Peters? He certainly loses no

love on Terese.â€ She looked coyly at her empty glass. I started to get up, Cindy pushed me back and took the glass, and Mom continued.

â€œI went over to the Marshes to give Noel a ride out to the amphitheater. We were waiting for Hamlet to get dressed so he could ride with us. Nick was explaining Terese to me. I thought it was quite insightful.â€

â€œIn what way?â€ Sonny asked. â€œHe never seemed the philosophical type to me.â€

â€œItâ€™s amazing what I bring out in people.â€ She grinned. Actual y that was true, but I donâ€™t think she knew it.

â€œYeah?â€

â€œYeah,â€ she mimicked. â€œNick was saying that no matter who took the silver or why, Terese was the real thief in the bunch. I ï€rst though he meant she literal y stole things, but his interpretation was quite different. He said she liked to steal things of

no intrinsic value, but that people loved. Oh, look!â€ She pointed to the pond where a pair of rare saddleback ducks had just landed in their migration trip. â€œFargo, donâ€™t you dare chase them!â€

â€œNick mentioned Diane and George Hoskins,â€ she added. â€œAfter Tereseâ€™s crack about Georgeâ€™s kids not resembling him, every time he looked at one of them in the future, heâ€™d have just the tiniest doubt it was his child. Terese had stolen a little

piece of Georgeâ€™s trust in Diane. And Harmon. Wouldnâ€™t Harmon always have the tiniest doubt that army medal heâ€™s so proud of displaying means nothing? Nick mentioned some other incidents, like Opheliaâ€™s little plant, destroyed because it was a

thoughtful gift to a girl not used to receiving presents with no strings attached. He said he had suffered a similar loss as a boy, and he knew the hurt never went away. I was real y quite touched.â€

Sonny and I swapped a fast quizzical look. Had Nick known Terese before Ptown? I quickly interjected, â€œWel , you never know what sensitivity lurks in people, do you? I mean, take me, right now Iâ€™m getting very sensitive on the subject of food.â€

â€œTry not to cry.â€ Cindy patted the top of my head. â€œTrish and I just ordered a bunch of goodies from the Chinese place. We are on our way to go and fetch it, if it wil al ï€t in the car.â€

While they were gone, Aunt Mae and Mom went inside to arrange plates and ï€‚atware. Sonny took this opportunity to tel me that two apparent untruths had turned up in Elaineâ€™s story. I wasnâ€™t surprised. Her nervousness and her unwarranted

anger at me indicated she was afraid of something or someone. I wondered what she didnâ€™t want known.

â€œFirst,â€ he said, â€œWas her comment about the maids warning Harmon not to track up the kitchen with his boots. Remember, Elaine made a point of cal ing attention to it? Wel , I asked El ie and Betts about it. They both deny ever yel ing at him

about his boots, said he was always super careful about wiping his feet. How does that grab you?â€

â€œLike Elaine wanted you to remember it. But why?â€

â€œI donâ€™t know.â€ He shrugged. â€œBy the way, do you know for sure where Harmon kept his boots over there?â€

â€œAbsolutely, by the mower in the garage. He always brought them out and sat on the back porch to change from sneakers.â€ I sucked on an ice cube. â€œEverybody knew,â€ I said.

â€œGreat. And there was another thing. Remember Elaine said she took a sleeping pil and was aware of nothing til Ophelia started screaming yesterday morning?â€

God, was it only yesterday? It seemed like a month ago. I nodded and he continued. â€œEl ie and Betts are like maids the world over, I guess . . . curious. They say that except for Noel and Elaine, al the people in the house have regular pharmacies

stocked in their bathrooms. You name it, they got it. Carlucci in particular. But Noel only has some acid reï€‚ux stuff and some al ergy pil s and Tylenol, and Elaine has an antidepressant and something for urinary tract infections. No sleeping pil s, not

even nonprescription ones. Yet she said she took one.â€

â€œMaybe she got one from someone else.â€

â€œMaybe. I wil â€”pardon meâ€”Mitch wil check that out.â€

â€œLittle cracks are beginning to show here and there. Theyâ€™l lead to big ones at some point.â€ I sipped my drink. â€œI liked Elaine so much. Now, Iâ€™m afraid she may have done something sil y, trying to protect Bobby, and she certainly has got it in for

me al of a sudden.â€

â€œHmm. Wouldnâ€™t you think sheâ€™d be intel igent enough to know you couldnâ€™t keep that family tale quiet once Terese was kil ed? In a way, it doesnâ€™t matter. Hamlet and Paul are the frontrunners, so far, anyway.â€

â€œI think sheâ€™s hoping youâ€™l blame it on Paul, assuming Hamlet doesnâ€™t crack and confess.â€ I heard the car in the drive. â€œThe caterers are here!â€

â€œGood. I just realized Iâ€™m running on empty. One quick thing.â€ He looked around to see that we were stil alone. â€œWhen we were walking down to get your car this afternoon, Noel told me something. He had said nothing in front of you, because he

thought it might lead to something dangerous, and he didnâ€™t want you to know it.â€

That irritated me. â€œWho is this guy, Sir Lancelot, the white knight?â€

â€œCould be. Or Merlin, whoâ€™s manipulating this whole scenario to go the way he wants. Anyway, he said he was lying down resting this afternoon, sort of dozing, and seemed to recal a voice from last night. Tereseâ€™s he thought. Apparently after she

went downstairs, he thinks she laughed and said to someone, â€˜What are you doing in that crazy getup?â€™ And then she may have said something like â€˜Oh, God, no! Donâ€™t! No!â€™ And then silence. Or, he said, he could have dreamed it.â€

â€œOh, hel , he dreamed it, Sonny. Or it was something on TV he halfway heard in his sleep. What does he think she saw, somebody dressed up like Henry VI I, carrying an executionerâ€™s axe, chasing Tereseâ€”made up like Anne Boleynâ€”around the

kitchen?â€

â€œMy thoughts exactly.â€ He kindly offered me a cigarette from my pack. â€œExcept for one thing. Back to El ie and Betts. They noticed right after the Brownlees departed that they had left one of those cheap, see-through plastic raincoats and hats

hanging in the hal closet. Probably left it there on purpose for anyone to use in a pinch. The maids say almost everyone in the house has borrowed it at one time or another. Either one of those tal male suspects would have looked pretty sil y al

zipped and hatted up in it, maybe naked underneath, wouldnâ€™t they? And it would have worked wonders protecting a kil er from Tereseâ€™s blood, wouldnâ€™t it?â€

He paused and smiled. â€œAnd itâ€™s gone.â€

â€œOh, shit.â€

Chapter 22

I donâ€™t think I had ever been aware of time in quite the same manner I was during the days that fol owed Tereseâ€™s murder. Heretofore, I guess my idea of time had pretty much been: Christmas comes slowly when you are a kid, quickly when you

are an adult and havenâ€™t done your shopping. Or, you need to keep an eye on the clock because you have to pick your mother up at two thirty. It moves slowly until you get busy doing something. Then suddenly itâ€™s quarter of three.

As I drank my eleven oâ€™clock coffee, I recal ed the old Einstein anecdote explaining relativity. An hour, he said, felt like a minute when you were leaning against the garden wal talking with a pretty girl. A minute felt like an hour when you

accidental y backed up against a hot wood stove.

At the moment, time seemed to be racing and standing stil simultaneously. The players were going ful tilt toward Sunday, when they would present their murderous drama. The town was making ready for an inï€‚ux of playgoers. We al wondered

just who the kil er might real y be. And was he or she dangerous in any way that would further affect any of us? Did one kil ing end it, or were others in danger?

The actors al seemed as sane as they ever had, which wasnâ€™t saying much. But one of them just about had to be guilty. Which one of them would be out there on stage secretly giggling, â€œI got away with it! Sheâ€™s dead and they havenâ€™t the foggiest

idea that Iâ€™m the one! And even if they do, they canâ€™t prove it.â€ Sunday seemed to loom closer by the minute.

It seemed to be taking an ice age to put together any kind of viable case.

Where was the silver? Where were the boots, the raincoat and hat? Why was there no blood in any of the drains at the Brownleesâ€™? The kil er had to have needed a serious washup after his/her attack.

How could the entire group have slept so wel on that particular night? Theyâ€™d certainly gone out of their ways to explain why they al slept so deeply! Were their stories preplanned? Could Dr. Gloetzner be right? If they hadnâ€™t al participated in

Tereseâ€™s death, had they al at least agreed to it and selected one of their braver number actual y to do the deed? And who would that be? Blustering Hamlet? Quiet, chubby Nick? Big, strong, good-natured Noel? Tense and jangled Paul?

Hotheaded Teri? Deeply angry Elaine? The ubiquitous transient? And there were other questions.

Who had deleted al the data on Tereseâ€™s laptop computer? Had she done it herself for some reason? Had the murderer done it? And when? And would Nacho ever be able to salvage anything from the hard drive? Her faxesâ€”al gone. Had she

scrapped them? Hidden them somewhere?

My bet was Elaine. Her room was next to Tereseâ€™s. She would have known when Terese was in or out. The locks were ï€‚imsy. A screwdriver would have easily popped any of them. She could have taken the faxes and tossed them in a trashcan

almost anywhere.

Only one fax was available. It had come in early Wednesday afternoon, long after Terese had ceased to care, from her assistant, reading, â€œGot it pretty wel nailed here. Going north now. (signed) Wil ie.â€ The number traced back to a motel outside

Philadelphia, where no one named Wil ie or Wil iam or Bil or whatever, had been registered.

I knew that one of Sonnyâ€™s unofï€cial chores today was to chase down the editor of the A-List, who had been unavailable yesterday. Among Sonnyâ€™s many questions would be: who and where was Wil ie?

And when would Sonny have the DNA data from the semen from the state lab? He wanted deï€nitive information in hand before he confronted Carlucci and/or Hamlet.

But one thing Sonny had accomplished last night was pure genius. Word was out that the media had lost one of its own, no matter how obnoxious, and the vultures were circling. Sonny had convinced Chief Franks to appoint Captain Anders

Press Ofï€cer for the duration of the case. He had persuaded the chief that Anders would keep the nosy reporters so busy and confused, theyâ€™d be glad to leave the cops alone to do their jobs.

I was stil smiling over various imaginary Anders vs. Media scenarios, when Fargo ran to the back door, barking. Looking up, I saw Marvin Goldstein peering in the back door, with someone standing behind him. Marvin was the forensics guru, a

slight man always nattily dressed and looking more like an affable CPA than a man who reveled in drops of blood, ï€bers in strange places and ï€ngerprints at odd angles. Behind him was a woman with a lovely not-quite-young face, a gorgeous cap

of curly hair and a build that told me sheâ€™d have trouble getting into tight corners before too long.

As I shushed Fargo, the two came into the kitchen. â€œHi, Alex, beautiful day out there! Meet my assistant, Arlene.â€

â€œHel o, Arlene, nice to meet you. Howâ€™s it going, Marvin? What can I do for you? You two out bumming coffee and Iâ€™m the closest place to invade? Youâ€™re in luck. I just made some.â€

â€œWel , maybe later.â€ Marvin looked slightly il at ease. â€œRight now we need to check the drains plus your rugs and upholstered items and clothing.â€

â€œWhat?â€ I was on my feet, rather towering over the two technicians, who might have been shrinking slightly under my roar. â€œYou think Cindy or I kil ed Terese? Maybe it was a neighborhood effort. Maybe we al got together. Have you checked every

house on the damn block? You better have, or theyâ€™l be taking your bodies out of here in a smal shopping bag!â€

â€œNow, Alex.â€ Marvin spread his hands placatingly. â€œItâ€™s just routine. You did know her and had reason to dislike her. And that whole acting crew was here right afterward.â€

â€œAha! Do you ï€gure one of them came in covered in blood and asked to use the shower and the washing machine? Donâ€™t you think Cindy or I might have considered that a little odd?â€

â€œActual y, Alex, we think itâ€™s pretty sil y, too,â€ Arlene added, â€œBut Captain Anders ordered it, and we real y donâ€™t have much choice.â€

I smiled at her sweetly. â€œMay I see your warrant, please?â€

Arlene studied the ï€‚oor, the table, the ceiling as if wondering just where she had placed that pesky warrant. â€œWel , to tel the truth . . . wel , Captain Anders said youâ€™d understand.â€

â€œOh, I do, completely.â€ I set my mug down. â€œI understand that Anders is the biggest fool this town can claim. You have entered my home and attempted a search without a proper warrant. Go back and tel Captain Asshole I am suing the Ptown PD

for il egal entry, harassment, false accusation, threatening an il egal search and frightening my dog.â€ Fargo, sensing dangerâ€”or at least agitationâ€”was now in my chair, nudging me furiously to get rid of these people. â€œGood-bye, Marvin. Nice to

have met you, Arlene. Next time weâ€™l have the coffee.â€

They sidled out, and then Arlene stuck her head back in. â€œIâ€™m a tea drinker.â€

â€œGood, me too.â€ I grinned.

She winked and was gone. I knew I was going to like her.

I couldnâ€™t stay mad at Marvin or Arlene. Anders was a captain. He gave an order. They went. But I could sure lay him out in spades, and loudly, the next time I saw him.

In my imagination, I had him backed up against a ï€le cabinet in his ofï€ce . . . â€œYou featherbrained moron, sending people into my house with no consent to search and no warrant. When my lawyer gets through with you Iâ€™l own your house and al

those stocks youâ€™re always buying! My lawyer wil â€”â€ The phone rang.

â€œHel o.â€

Sonnyâ€™s voice sounded almost lyrical as he sang, â€œOh, what a loverly morning. Oh, what a perfect new da-a-ay!â€

â€œYou solved the case!â€ I squealed.

â€œNot quite. But Godâ€™s in His Heaven! Itâ€™s looking better for Harmon. Meet me at the park by the bank, and bring Cindy, sheâ€™l love this! See you in ï€fteen.â€ As he banged the phone down, I heard him murmuring to himself, â€œSometimes it is so

good!â€

I couldnâ€™t wait. It was about time something good happened! I cal ed Cindy and told her to meet us in the park. She was as happy as I. This murder was getting us al down.

I freshened up by tossing some water at my face and a brush at my hair. On the way out of the yard I broke off two rather overblown roses and took them along.

At the park, Fargo, Cindy and I waited for Sonny. When he came from the parking area, we ran up to him. We then went backward along in front of him, bent over, tossing rose petals in front of where he walked. Fargo helped by barking and

jumping at him. Sonny smiled, nodded from side to side and made gracious little bows, hands outstretched. Most people grinned at our antics. The lone kil joy snapped, â€œAre you al crazy in this town?â€

â€œYes!â€ We laughed al the harder.

We found an empty bench. Cindy and Sonny sat on that, while Fargo and I settled for the grass . . . wel , we didnâ€™t have to go back to work. â€œSpeak, genius,â€ I directed Sonny.

â€œOh, I did nothing special. But hereâ€™s what happened. I heard the whole thing. My ofï€ce door just happened to be open.â€ He gave me a syrupy smile. â€œThis morning a fel ow came in the front and asked to speak to the detective handling the Segal

case. Mitch was out, Anders was in, so the lucky man was turned over to him.â€

Sonny took a generous swal ow of a soda he had with him. â€œHe said his name was Webster Dermott, from Meriden, Connecticut, where his wife and he own a real estate business. She was at a realtorâ€™s seminar in Boston and would join him

here tomorrow. Average looking man, wel dressed, around ï€fty, Iâ€™d say. He was staying at the Voyager Motel. Anders had been giving him bored, polite nods, until Mr. Dermott began to hem and haw a little bit. Final y, even Anders realized he was

holding something back and closed in on him.â€

I pointed a ï€nger at Sonny. â€œDonâ€™t tel me. Anders ï€nal y has his transient!â€

â€œHis transient plus Ptownâ€™s most unlikely local!â€ He laughed. â€œMr. Dermott backed and ï€l ed and eventual y got it out that he had literal y run into a lady while making a purchase in a liquor store last night. Apologies and conversation ensued, and

she came back to his room for a drink. And whatever. About three a.m. he was looking out the window of their darkened room, waiting for her to ï€nish dressing so he could drive her home, when he saw a car with no lights pul into the parking area

and go up to the dumpster parked back behind the restaurant.â€

He lit a cigarette and graciously offered one to me. Did that one count? Was it one of the ï€ve I al owed myself daily, if I didnâ€™t initiate the smoke? I thought not!

â€œNext Dermott saw someone tal and, he thinks, rather slim, get out of the car, reach in the backseat and pul out two cardboard cartons, which he put in the dumpster, and then drove away. The person, by the way, had on a regular tan raincoat,

some kind of hat or cap, and may have been barefoot.â€

â€œCarlucci, Hamlet or Elaine,â€ Cindy breathed.

â€œThat would be my guess.â€ He nodded. â€œAnyway, Dermott took the lady home and came back to the motel. He said the cartons bothered him. Of course, we al know people put things in dumpsters that arenâ€™t theirs, mostly harmless junk that wonâ€™t ï€t

in their own garbage cans, but Dermott said these got to him for some reason. He kept worrying there might be a baby in one of the boxes. Maybe even alive. He couldnâ€™t bear the thought that it might survive if only he would do something about it.â€

â€œDecent man,â€ I said.

â€œYes. He sneaks out to the dumpster, climbs up and manages to wrestle the cartons out. Seeing they do not hold a child, but various silver itemsâ€”and apparently he knows enough to realize they are expensive piecesâ€”he takes them to his room,

catches a little sleep and brings them to the station this morning.â€

â€œDid he ID the car?â€

â€œNo, heâ€™s not into cars. It was a dark color, period. So, at this point, I badly wanted to look at that dumpster, while poor Dermott was stuck with an increasingly suspicious Anders. So I drove over there, and my timing was perfect! Pul ing into the

Voyager right in front of me was the truck bringing in an empty dumpster to replace the ful one! And guess what was lying right on top, ready to be carted away?â€

â€œWhat?â€

â€œHarmonâ€™s boots. At least I assume theyâ€™re his.â€ Sonny looked happier than I had seen him in days. But he wasnâ€™t ï€nished. â€œHarmonâ€™s boots stuffed with torn up faxes!

â€œAnd since whoever put them there was tal and slender, that eliminates our ï€ve-foot-nine, rotund Harmon. Thank God! I take it Marvin and Arlene are deep in the odiferous dumpster and the smel y boots, looking for prints.â€

â€œYeah, why?â€ He looked confused.

I told him of their visit and he laughed. Nothing was going to bother him today.

We sat in silent satisfaction, until I remembered a question Iâ€™d been meaning to ask. â€œOh, Sonny, any news on George Hoskins, or the kids?â€

He shrugged irritably. â€œAl a lot of nothing. The kids are with their mother having a bal . We had a local police car check Hoskinsâ€™s house in Connecticut. He was at the kitchen table, curled around a bottle of Seagramâ€™s, so hammered he couldnâ€™t

even talk. They took his car keys and put him to bed.â€

â€œWhat about a gun?â€

â€œBig artil ery.â€ He grinned. â€œAn air pistol with rock salt to discourage rabbits and squirrels and hedgehogs from his crops.â€

â€œAre you going to tel Harmon?â€ I asked.

â€œI shouldnâ€™t. Itâ€™s evidence and itâ€™s stil not my case.â€

â€œSonny, I think heâ€™s literal y dying. He looks ten years older than he did last week.â€

â€œHeâ€™s in the bank,â€ Cindy said. â€œPainting one of the ï€le rooms. Shal I go get him?â€

â€œNo,â€ I said. â€œSonny, you go bring him outside by the fountain and cal Fargo over when you get him there.â€

â€œWhy?â€ He stood up.

â€œHeâ€™s going to cry. Heâ€™l need to hug Fargo so you wonâ€™t see.â€

As we sat that late afternoon, having iced tea in a yard that was stil warmed by a summery afternoon sun, Cindy was as happy as I about Harmon. Theoretical y, Harmon could stil have stabbed Terese, but his odds had dropped dramatical y.

Even Carlucci was not the semi-favorite he had been on the kil er tote board. Cindy and I agreed that Hamlet was the kil erâ€”Bobby gone berserkâ€” and Elaine his accomplice. Perhaps not accomplice in the usual sense. Maybe misguided

protector was a better phrase.

Our pleasant silence was broken by the sound of a car, fol owed by the arrival of Sonny. I was surprised to see him again today. He seemed much in evidence lately, and I was doubly surprised at the way he looked. My usual y wel -groomed

brother was wearing no jacket. The top button of his shirt was undone, and I could see sweat stains under his arms. His tie was askew and his chinos wilted and baggy. And, horror of horrors, the shiny black boots had a sizeable smudge on the left

toe! Something serious had happened.

He looked so longingly at the pitcher of iced tea, I thought he was going to pick it up and drink it. I hurriedly ï€l ed my glass and gave it to him. He nodded thanks and downed about half of it before he even sat.

â€œWould you like a real drink? Or some food?â€ Cindy was eying him with concern.

â€œNo, thanks. Iâ€™m going home to shower and col apse butâ€â€”he turned to meâ€”â€œI thought you would want to hear the rest of the day.â€

â€œSure.â€ I gave him a cigarette and took number four for myself. From the way he looked, number ï€ve might not be far behind.

â€œI got back to the police station after lunch to discover that Anders had decided Mr. Dermott was our transient kil er/robber. Anders said Dermott had turned in the silver, which he had stolen from the Brownlee B&B, because he feared someone

had later seen him taking it out of the dumpster, where he had temporarily left it, to give to the woman with him who was real y his local accomplice in the robbery, if not the murder. So he arrested Mr. Dermott and demanded to know who the woman

was.â€

â€œProbably the town managerâ€™s wife.â€ Cindy giggled.

â€œDamn near as good!â€ Sonny took another swig of my tea, and I snuck a sip of Cindyâ€™s. Cindy stared at the empty pitcher. Soon, I guessed weâ€™d al be into Fargoâ€™s water bowl. â€œWhen Dermott ï€nal y got browbeaten enough to admit who he was

with, he said he only knew her name was Cleo and she lived on Alerton Street.â€

â€œCleo McKinley Smith!â€ Cindy and I shrieked together and burst into laughter. Cleo Smith was a not very attractive woman in her late forties with a stiff hairdo, a tight mouth and pale blue eyes that didnâ€™t miss a trick. She left no stone

uncriticized and had been my personal candidate for Provincetownâ€™s last living virgin over twelve. Oh, yes, she was Choate Ellisâ€™s personal secretary at the bank.

The fact that she had been in a liquor store and then in a motel with a strangeâ€”and marriedâ€”man struck me as about as likely as my Aunt Mae opening a massage parlor complete with handcuffs and whips. Sometimes my record in judging

people real y worried me. Would I have considered Attila the Hun the Teddy Roosevelt of the Dark Ages?

Even Sonny managed a weak grin. â€œOur beloved Cleo in the ï€‚esh. Al ninety bony pounds of it. And by the time I got there, Anders had already sent a car with Hatcher and Jeanine to the bank to arrest her and bring her in.â€

By this time Cindy and I had col apsed halfway out of our chairs and into each otherâ€™s arms in complete hysteria.

â€œThey brought Cleo in, weeping, with Choate El is and the bank attorney sputtering right behind them, demanding to speak to Chief Franks, who was up in Hyannis testifying at a trial. Dermott was alternately screaming for a lawyer and begging

us not to tel his wife about Cleo. That seemed to bother him a lot more than being arrested for murder. Cleo took up the cry, saying she had never done anything like this in her life. Whether she meant kil ing Terese, robbing the Applebeeâ€™s or

getting picked up for a rol in the hay, I donâ€™t know.â€

He ground out his cigarette. â€œAnd Anders had already cal ed a press conference for four oâ€™clock.â€

â€œLord, help us,â€ Cindy managed to gasp. â€œWas he going to put those poor people in little cages and show them as trophies?â€

â€œJust about, I guess. We ï€nal y got Franks pul ed out of the courtroom and on some phone. You have to turn your cel phones off in court. I told him what happened and that we now had less than an hour to face the press. I suggested releasing the

two prisoners and putting Anders in a cel . I think Franks actual y considered it. There was a long silence. Then Franks said he couldnâ€™t make it back in an hour. Of course he could have but, wel , you know how he hates the media people.â€

â€œLike you like â€™em.â€ I grinned.

â€œNot always, but they can be helpful. Anyway, Franks chews out Anders, right on the speakerphone, and tel s him heâ€™s on unpaid leave. Then he tel s me to straighten things out and go play meet the press and hangs up.â€

â€œWhat on earth did you do?â€

â€œTold Cleo it was al a terrible mistake, that Anders got the wrong name, and then sent her off with Choate patting her shoulder, saying, â€˜There, there, my dear. We al knew it could never be you shacked up in a motel with some picked-up John from

a liquor store.â€™ I thought that was a nice delicate way to comfort her. Oh, and I had Nacho send her two dozen roses with apologies from Anders.â€

He stretched, the fatigue showing. â€œDermott was a little trickier. I told him Anders wasnâ€™t wel and apparently forgot his pil s. I gave Dermott my two tickets to Hamlet and told him he and his wife could have a lovely pre-theater luncheon at the Inn,

courtesy of the Ptown PD.â€

â€œNot bad for a rush job,â€ Cindy said. â€œDid he buy it?â€

â€œYes, especial y after I asked him to be with me at the press conference. I introduced him and announced that he couldnâ€™t sleep last night and happened to look out his motel window and saw the dumpster caper. Then I real y expounded on how

he worried about a baby being alive in one of the cartons, and then how honest and what a help he was in turning in the silver. He was grinning and bowing by that time.â€

â€œWhat did you tel the media about the boots?â€ I was right. Cigarette number ï€ve met its match.

â€œNothing. I just said that ï€nding the silver and other items had put us much closer to a solution, and weâ€™d keep them posted.â€

â€œAre you going to talk to any of the cast about this discovery? Especial y the boots?â€

Sonny yawned. â€œIâ€™m not sure. Maybe Elaine. Iâ€™d almost bet sheâ€™s the one who staged the whole robbery thing, footprints and al , to lead us away from baby brother, but it doesnâ€™t make much sense to accuse her of that when weâ€™ve yet to accuse

Bobby of anything.â€

â€œBe nice to ï€nd the plastic raincoat and to get the DNA results on the semen. Not to mention ï€nding Wil ie, whereverâ€”whoeverâ€”he is.â€

My answer was a light snore. Diplomat Peres was asleep.

Chapter 23

Some people thrive on a certain amount of stress. I know I do my best work when thereâ€™s some amount of pressure. Cindy does wel when sheâ€™s got several bal s in the air at once. Cassie and Lainey both do wel when a nice neat schedule starts

fal ing apart here and there. Sonny usual y wal ows in stress like a pig in mud, the worse it gets, the wider he grins.

But not this time. I think the whole situation was somewhat foreign to him. God knows it was to the rest of us.

While any of us might occasional y read a scandal sheet like the A-List, we simply took the stories as gospel if we were naÃ¯ve, or as so much scurrilous amusement if we were not. The real threats it could impose on the subjects being pil oried

throughout its pages had probably never occurred to any of us before now.

And the sheer, gleeful y malicious investigators and writers who turned out the smoking pages were a breed completely alien to most of us.

It seemed that no one in the cast of Carlucciâ€™s play was left untouched. From Hamlet on down there was a little something for everyone. Even the young man who played Laertes apparently had a juvenile recordâ€”a record which is supposed to

be sealedâ€”for assault and robbery. And one of the electricians had an entire bedroom in his home turned into a Katharine Hepburn shrine of photos and artifacts, including a threadbare terry robe stolen from the set of Adamâ€™s Rib, which he used

as a bath towel.

These appetizing tidbits were Tereseâ€™s current notes and had come to Sonny via the A-Listâ€™s editor, whom Sonny had at last reached Saturday morning, at his Long Island home. The editor had solemnly declared that the public â€œhad the right to

know.â€ And when Sonny had asked â€œWhy?â€ had seemed genuinely confused.

Fortunately, the publisher either had better sense or had come under some pressure from high places, however, for after speaking with Sonny, he had ordered the editor to dump al the Hamlet printed ï€les plus any other of Tereseâ€™s ï€les or notes

already transferred to the main ofï€ce computer, right down to any stray grocery lists. The editor was then to write a brief, but praise ï€l ed and fact sparse obituary of that dedicated journalist for next weekâ€™s issue. When Tereseâ€™s body was released,

A-List would provide a private funeral. Terese was being gently erased.

Wil ie, he added, was on extended vacation in the South Paciï€c and could not be reached. And whoever had blanked out Tereseâ€™s laptop was stil unknown. My bet was stil Elaine. Before or after the murder, she stil was the one with the best

opportunities before the murder. After the murder, quite possibly, she was awake early, found Tereseâ€™s body, went back upstairs and erased the hard drive, made her trip to the dumpster and then waited patiently for someone else to â€œï€ndâ€ the body.

She would have taken the risk in a heartbeat to protect Bobby and, perforce, herself from Tereseâ€™s account of their lives.

While Sonny, like the rest of us who knew of his conversation with the publisher, was relieved that next weekâ€™s published A-List would contain no spurious anecdotes for Ptown, its citizens or visiting players, the editorâ€™s information simply

broadened the ï€eld of those with reason to kil Terese.

Sonny was keeping this information quiet and urged us to say nothing. He was hoping the worry of what they feared might be published the fol owing week would cause one of the players to reveal information. Either accidental y or to incriminate

someone else.

We agreed not to tel anyone, whomever that might be, but personal y, I thought he was being overcautious. The players were now concerned about presenting a play to a large audience, hoping for good reviews and eager for a reasonable run in

New York. Murder came second.

Stil , they were a nervous group. I estimated, among actors, chorus, technicians, stagehands and musicians, they had at least thirty-ï€ve people who were total y innocent of murder and had the usual reasons for wishing the show to be a success.

They had one, and probably two, people involved in Tereseâ€™s death, who had an extra reason for hoping for a triumphal presentation. They wanted to look innocent.

After al , if they dressed and acted their parts to perfection, who would dream of thinking them capable of bloody murder only a few days prior? If they were relaxed, handled their lines and songs or other activities with obvious competence and

ease, who would ever think they carried the weight of a brutal kil ing on their conscience?

Thereâ€™s an old superstition among theater people that a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening show, and vice versa. Paul had scheduled the ï€nal dress rehearsal for Saturday afternoon.

Mom drove Noel and a couple of the other men out to the amphitheater for the rehearsal and, at Paulâ€™s invitation, stayed to watch. According to her, if the old fal acy were correct, Sundayâ€™s version of Hamlet should be the greatest success ever

produced, up to and including the original opening night at the Globe Theater some four hundred years earlier!

Rehearsal was a disaster. Lines were forgotten, music cues were missed, the mike for Opheliaâ€™s swan song didnâ€™t work at al , and her voice carried to about the second row. Noel and Elaine messed up their love song. Again. The pistol with

which Hamlet was to kil Polonius was not in the table drawer, so Hamlet casual y pointed his ï€nger and said Bang! which broke up Polonius, causing him to forget his dying lines. Elaine came on stage for a formal soiree in tennis shorts meant for

the next scene, and ï€nal y everyone was draped in sudden darkness as the electrician skipped a cue and cut the lights before the end of the act.

And that was what Mom remembered offhand. We ran into her and Noel at the Oceanâ€™s Bounty having dinner, and joined them for a drink. At least Mom was having dinner. Noel seemed to be pouring down drinks, pushing an appetizer around his

plate and trying not to scream. Final y, he could stand no more of our light, bantering conversation meant to make him feel better, and announced that he was going back to the Marshes. No, thank you, he did not need a ride, the walk would do him

good.

He stood and gave us al a wobbly little bow. â€œGood night, dear ladies. Enjoy your evening.â€

â€œGood night, dear Duke,â€ Cindy said. â€œBreak a leg.â€ He turned deadly white and walked unsteadily away.

Cindy looked stricken. â€œWhat did I do? I thought that meant â€˜Good luckâ€™ in theater talk.â€

â€œPerhaps it isnâ€™t used when someone is upset about their play and about to take a long walk in the dark and has had several drinks,â€ I replied gently.

â€œHeâ€™s just got a bad case of nerves,â€ Mom said. â€œHeâ€™l be ï€ne tomorrow when itâ€™s the real thing. Theyâ€™re al an inch away from hysteria right now. Ophelia is stil screaming about the mike. She wonâ€™t have a voice left if she doesnâ€™t quit. Elaine says

if Noel screws up tomorrow on that song, sheâ€™s walking off the stage. Nick says Hamlet reached in the wrong drawer for the gun. Hamlet just laughed and said to put a gun in each drawer to avoid problems. Heâ€™s about the only one just going with

the ï€‚ow.â€ Mom ï€nished her clams casino.

â€œHeâ€™s probably guzzling Xanax.â€

â€œQuite possibly,â€ Mom said. â€œEveryone else is. Wonâ€™t you two join me for dinner? Iâ€™ve already ordered, and I hate to eat alone in a restaurant for some reason.â€

We looked at each other and nodded. â€œLove to,â€ Cindy said. â€œWeâ€™re meeting Walter and Bil y at the A-House later, but weâ€™ve loads of time.â€

We enjoyed our threesome dinner and appreciated Momâ€™s treat as wel . When we parted outside the restaurant, I thanked my mother and then asked. â€œMom, do you think Noel is al right? Should we check on him?â€

â€œI think he wil be perfectly ï€ne. Heâ€™s probably on my answering machine as we speak, apologizing. Remember, heâ€™s an actor. I think he feels he must over react or heâ€™s not doing his part for the team. Theyâ€™l al get together and weep and moan

and drink too much and blame everyone but themselves. And tomorrow they wil be gorgeous and letter-perfect. And I donâ€™t need to spend a boring evening being part of the chorus. Worry not, darling. Heâ€™s not about to put his head in the oven. See

you tomorrow for the big event.â€

We kissed goodnight, and as Cindy and I walked out of earshot, I said. â€œWel , you heard that little speech. I must say, my romantic one, that didnâ€™t sound to me like anyone who is dating. Donâ€™t you agree?â€

â€œAbsolutely, I agree. Sounded much more like a wife to me.â€

I hadnâ€™t had enough sleep, and what I had was laced with strange dreams, but what did Fargo care? He wanted out. My mouth was dry, my head slightly achy, my humor unhelped by my bedmate sleeping soundly at my side. But what did Fargo

care? He wanted the beach, and he knew who took him there. It wasnâ€™t Cindy he was nudging with a cold nose and begging with those big brown eyes.

I made the mistake of meeting his look. He grinned and the tail wagged faster.

â€œOh, al right.â€

I let him out, got dressed and picked up his leash. When I went out the back door, I found him sitting by the garage door looking angelic. How could you stay grumpy?

The cool, salty air helped. Finding the beach virtual y deserted at this early hour helped. Watching Fargo chase imaginary foes in and out of the surf helped most of al .

By seven oâ€™clock the beach began to ï€l with people. Wel , it was the last big summer weekend. In a few days children would be back in school. There would be slowly diminishing crowds for another month or so, but then the Atlantic would begin

to show its stern autumn face, and nights would replace their soft caress with a harsh nip. The days would stil be pleasant, but even their warmth would be tentative. So people were going to enjoy every minute available to them. And why not?

Fargo and I headed toward home via the newsstand. In the backyard we found the omnipresent Sonny, with three containers of Costa Rican coffee on the table, plus a bag that obviously contained pastries.

He walked over to the car and spoke softly. â€œI think Cindy is stil asleep, the house is quiet.â€

â€œProbably.â€ I yawned. â€œOnly idiots are up at this hour. And dogs.â€

â€œAnd cops bearing good news. And naughty actresses.â€

â€œOh? Tel al . Especial y about naughty actresses.â€

â€œI think the boots have told us who took them, or more to the point, who wore them to the dumpster.â€ He took the newspapers and we walked back to the table.

I popped the lid on one of the coffees. â€œLike who?â€

â€œArlene found a drop or two of fresh blood in the heel of one boot. She also noticed that the laces were pul ed out of the top two holes of both boot tops. She made a quantum leap and decided that someone with considerably smal er feet than

Harmon had worn the boots and kept them from slipping off by tying the laces tight around their lower legs. The boots had evidently moved up and down some and caused a blister on the left heel. The blister broke, and a little blood is in the boot,

along with a smal piece of skin. Clever, what? Al buried under the pieces of fax paper, which the whole ofï€ce is now trying to ï€t back together.â€

â€œVery clever.â€ I tried the coffee and approved. â€œCan you get a match on the blood?â€

â€œNot sure thereâ€™s enough, but the skin looks good,â€ Sonny said. â€œBut Iâ€™ve been busy spreading the joy. I cal ed Paul and Hamlet. You canâ€™t imagine how happy they were to hear from me. Hamlet wears the same size shoe as the boots. Carlucci

wears one size smal er. Not enough to make any difference in the short run. Get that, the short run? Neither of them would have had to tie the boots on. That left Elaine.â€

I groaned at the pun, Sonnyâ€™s were invariably awful. Then I informed him, â€œI can assure you, Elaine does not have feet the size of Harmonâ€™s.â€

â€œNo,â€ he said and sipped his coffee. â€œI went by the Chambered Nautilus and got her up. She was simply thril ed to see me and ï€‚atly refused to lend me or even show me any of her shoes so I could look for a size, not that I would know how to

compare them with a manâ€™s without just placing them side by side.â€

â€œSo get a warrant and let Arlene handle it,â€ I said.

â€œI wil .â€ He grinned. â€œBut since Elaine was barefoot this morning, I saw the big Band-Aid on the back of her heel. I asked her how she got the wound. She said Noel accidental y kicked her while they were dancing on stage.â€

â€œWel , itâ€™s possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. Noel canâ€™t sing worth a damn, but he isnâ€™t clumsy.â€

Sonnyâ€™s cel phone played a couple of bars of â€œMe and My Shadowâ€ as he pul ed it from his shirt pocket.

â€œPeres.â€ Big wolï€sh grin. â€œGreat, Nacho, read it to me.â€ Silence. Grin faded. â€œRead it again.â€ Pause. â€œShit. Bal s! Fuckit!â€

He threw the phone violently to the ground, where it hit a stepping stone and bounced impressively skyward before fal ing back to earth in three pieces. Cindy ï€‚ew through the back door nightgown-clad, eyes wide, hair wild.

â€œWhatâ€™s wrong? What happened? Whatâ€™s al the noise?â€

Sonny gave a logical answer to three il ogical questions. â€œI just got the report. The semen is Hamletâ€™s, al right, but the clear ï€‚uid is Paul Carlucciâ€™s. So Terese was not attacked during or after her death. She just had sex with two drunks. One

couldnâ€™t pul the trigger and the other couldnâ€™t wait. Dammit al to hel ! From what Noel said, and what Carlucci himself implied, I assumed Paul had good old canâ€™t-get-it-up problems and didnâ€™t have sex with Terese at al . It seems he did, in some

manner or other.â€

Cindy looked at him long and unbelievingly. Final y she spoke. â€œYou made al that racket and demolished a perfectly good phone over somebodyâ€™s semen? Men.â€

She walked back inside.

â€œMaybe you could arrest Elaine for obstruction,â€ I said. â€œMaybe then sheâ€™l tel you what she real y knows about al this.â€

â€œYeah.â€

â€œMaybe by now Paul has remembered more of what happened between them. Maybe he real y is the kil er . . . or maybe even Hamlet, later that night.â€

â€œMaybe.â€ He was trying to ï€t the pieces of his phone back together. â€œDammit! I was sure the leaker was the kil er!â€

â€œJust relax for awhile, youâ€™l work it out.â€ I pul ed the Sunday Times closer and found the Book Review section. I reached in the paper bag and settled down with a French crul er. But it was not to be.

â€œGood morning, children! I do hope thereâ€™s an extra donut. I walked over and Iâ€™ve worked up an appetite. Ah, wel , I burned some calories walking. I guess I can just put them back and no harm done. Oh, is that an extra cup of coffee? Could I?â€ My

mother was being noisily, obnoxiously and very falsely cheerful. And what was she doing here at this hour, anyway?

â€œHi, Mom,â€ Sonny and I chorused. â€œHelp yourself to whatever,â€ Sonny added.

â€œThank you. Iâ€™m glad I happened to catch you both together. Save me explaining twice.â€ She sipped the coffee and didnâ€™t even seem to realize that it had to be stone cold.

â€œExplain what?â€ I asked. â€œIs anything wrong?â€

â€œFar from it,â€ she said. â€œAs you know, Paul Carlucci plans to send everyone back to New York Wednesday for a few days rest, and then go into a couple of weeks rehearsal for the Broadway version of Hamlet. Itâ€™s just slightly different, being an

indoor and smal er stage adaptation. And, of course, there are always a few script revisions after the ï€rst performance.â€ She was beginning to sound like a pro herself.

â€œWel , Noel has asked me to come down to New York and let him show me his nativeâ€™s-eye view of the city during the time heâ€™s off, and then stay for the opening night performance. Iâ€™ve accepted his invitation, and to top it off, Cassie wil ï€‚y us

down Wednesday morning, along with Paul and Elaine. Iâ€™m so excited! I canâ€™t wait!â€

I was suddenly and deeply in shock. I looked at Sonny, whose mouth was literal y open. I saw Cindy in the doorway again, this time with her face screwed up and eyes tightly closed. Pain? Prayer? Anticipating an explosion? And I knew I could

never, ever ask my mother the question that had been forming on my tongue. I managed somehow to make a seamless transition by leaning across the table and bringing her hand lightly to my lips.

â€œMom, how wonderful! Iâ€™m absolutely envious. Seeing New York with a real New Yorker for your guide. Youâ€™l see al the great little nooks and crannies the rest of us miss. You lucky dog, you!â€

Mom smiled, and I saw her whole body relax. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cindy slump against the doorjamb and blow me a kiss. I kicked my brother under the table and he pul ed together a smile.

â€œGreat, Mom! Arenâ€™t you turning into the cosmopolite! Chartered planes, Broadway openings. Gee, Alex, think sheâ€™l give us her autograph when she gets back?â€

Cindy appeared with a bottle of champagne and glasses. â€œItâ€™s a little early, but you look like a champagne-for-breakfast-lady! Hereâ€™s to a divine vacation, Jeanne, you deserve it.â€

And indeed she did.

But with an actor?

Chapter 24

The entire area surrounding the amphitheater sported a festive atmosphere, if a confusing one. Bright ï€‚ags ï€‚ew in a circle around the parking lot, as they had ï€‚own around the Globe, and Paul had provided groups of costumed strol ing minstrels

playing Elizabethan airs, while some people enjoyed folk dances and others tailgated and made the rest of us hungry. There were booths with free soft drinks and non-alcoholic punch. I think there were many beers tucked away in coolers and

harder stuff concealed in numerous pocket ï€‚asks.

Cassie and I taught one group of minstrels what we considered an appropriate addition to their repertoire. It was a sardonic takeoff on a Medieval ditty about Mayday and the dance around the maypole, welcoming summer.

The minstrels quickly set it to some catchy rhythm and Cassie and I did our own little folk dance until Cindy and Lainey suggested we sit down and have some black coffee. So much for careful y concealed ï€‚asks.

Then a ï€‚ag with a giant comedy/tragedy mask ï€‚uttered up the high center pole, and three musicians blew a stirring fanfaronade on those long, gorgeous silver trumpets to announce play time.

And we ï€led down to our seats. Fortunately, Cindy and Laineyâ€”along with most other playgoersâ€”had remembered to bring cushions to soften the unforgiving concrete construction, and we comfortably awaited . . . what? A triumph? A mess? A

sleep-inducing drone?

The conductor brought the orchestra to life with a heart-lifting crescendo, and the overture was underway. What is it about overtures to musicals that rouse one so?

Iâ€™m the audience any cast would love to have, doubtless an inheritance from my mother. Iâ€™m up, Iâ€™m trembly, Iâ€™m excited. Iâ€™m with them al the way. I expect great things from them. Sometimes Iâ€™m disappointed, but not because I started with a blasÃ©

attitude. I was always entirely ready to be entertained and pleased. Despite al the things I knew about these players and this play itself, that ï€rst orchestral chord had stil invoked its familiar magic.

And I was entertained and pleased. Iâ€™ve seen better shows, but God knows Iâ€™ve seen worse. If mistakes were made, they were not obvious. Queenie and the Duke were dutiful y married and their reception party was lively with dancers and

romantic with their wedding waltz and touching duet. Both perfectly done.

Tension grew as Hamletâ€™s suspicions around his fatherâ€™s death deepened and his indecision grew more debilitating. Laertes duly outed Horatio and Hamlet, effectively ending Hamletâ€™s â€œromanceâ€ with Ophelia. Opheliaâ€™s ï€nal songâ€”perfectly

mikedâ€”was a sweetly sad bal ad about a tree which fel in the forest, mourned by the birds and wildlife that had enjoyed its fruit and shelter, but leading her to ask: Will I fall alone and ungrieved ? Will anyone cry when they say goodbye to me?

Will a sparrow weep on the day I die? And she, having swal owed her lethal potion, fel graceful y dead, alone on the stage, to long and loud applause.

Laertes wasnâ€™t too popular at this point, and Polonius ï€gured heâ€™d better get his kid out of town for a while, so he sent him to the Caribbean with a bunch of stolen KustomerKing money, ripe for the laundry. Polonius showed a surprisingly subtle

comedic talent as he answered his sonâ€™s questions of what to expect on his ï€rst trip as an il icit courier:

Son, you can sell shares in companies that will never be

Just donâ€™t come to the attention of the SEC

As long as you have a million or two

Anything that you do

Will be quite all right

Youâ€™ll ï€nd ladies and gents all quite fond

When they see your sheaf of bearer bonds

When youâ€™ve got a million or four

Any way you care to score

Will be utterly all right

The IRS? Donâ€™t give them a worry!

Just fuel your Gulfstream in a hurry

When youâ€™ve got a billion or so

You can be happy wherever you go!

And any little thing you do

Will be positively . . . perfectly . . . superbly all right!

Made me kind of sorry the old fraud went and got himself kil ed.

I thought the cast was doing a hel uva job, considering the various stresses they must be under. Much as I hated to admit it, I was most impressed by Hamlet. He must have simply coasted through the few rehearsals I had heard or seen, saving

himself for the performance itself. And if he were indeed our kil er, youâ€™d never know it.

His timing was perfect. He neither trampled other actorsâ€™ lines nor lagged. He seemed young and vigorous and vacil ated between uncertainty and arrogance, as so many of us do in young adulthood. He managed to come across as both a

know-it-al and a boy/man confused and devastated by his fatherâ€™s death and his motherâ€™s behavior. I could easily visualize him charming his way right past a jury and into an acquittal.

Queenie was playing wel , too. Elaine managed to be sexy and conniving and a respectable southern lady, al at the same time. And doubtless with big personal worries and an aching foot.

We had reached the ï€nal scene, where Paul Carlucciâ€™s direction would revert to pure Shakespearean tradition, carried out by a bunch of vengeful people littering the stage with corpses, with only Horatio left standing for his â€œGoodnight, Sweet

Princeâ€ soliloquy, which he would deliver as written by the original playwright.

Gathered on stage in the living room for the ï€nal scene were Hamlet, his mother, Duke and Horatio. The CFO of Big Mart was expected in half an hour for a ï€nal answer: Would KustomerKing sel or not? And stil the family could not reach a

unanimous decision.

Duke and Queenie were a deï€nite â€œSel .â€ The absent Laertes, everyone knew, would wish to keep the shares he had inherited from Polonius.

Hamlet stil worried about how Big Mart would treat the KustomerKing employees they would inherit, and whether they would effectively put the smal stores in various towns out of business. On the other hand, a summer in France with Horatio and

a permanent escape from smal town Georgia beckoned enticingly.

As they hashed and rehashed, the screen door ï€‚ew open and Laertesâ€”just back from his offshore tripâ€”crashed in, drunk and waving a pistol. He screamed at Hamlet, â€œYou murdering bastard! You kil ed my father, and you might as wel have

shot my sister! You think your family owns this county, but you wonâ€™t get away with this!â€ He ï€red.

A squib went off under Hamletâ€™s shirt, and apparent blood soaked through the cloth. Hamlet grabbed his chest and staggered back. â€œMaybe not, Larry, but thereâ€™s blame to go around. Your father was complicit in the death of mine, and stole

mil ions from him to boot. After al my father did for him!â€

Hamlet reached into the end table drawer and pul ed out the pistol, this time in its proper drawer, and shot Laertes.

And then strange things began to happen.

The front of Laertesâ€™s shirt spouted some blood as programmed. But instead of lurching around and spewing out al the crimes and faults of the Hamlet family, Laertes grabbed his shoulder, sat down abruptly on the ï€‚oor and screamed, â€œYou shot

me, you stupid son of a bitch!â€ And I could have sworn I saw something red oozing between his ï€ngers.

Hamlet ral ied. Laertes had obviously forgotten his lines, but Hamlet would cover for him. â€œI know you think no one in our family should survive, and you may have a point.â€

I looked at Noel, seated beside Queenie on the couch. He was staring with deep interest at Laertes who was staring with equal interest at his shoulder. Noel took a clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket and tossed it to Laertes, who

pressed it against his shoulder, where it began to streak with red.

Horatio, making a move I was pretty sure was not in the script, crawled behind the dubious shelter of a little coffee table and curled up in a smal er bundle than one would think he could make, with his eyes tightly closed. He reminded me of Fargo

going to the vet.

Hamletâ€™s meandering ï€l -in speech wobbled to a close. And he turned, pointing the gun at Duke, and bawling something about Duke murdering old King Hamlet. As he raised the pistol, Noel made a surprisingly agile leap for a guy his age and

disappeared over the back of the sofa.

From behind it came his voice in a desperate bel ow. â€œDavid, donâ€™t shoot, man! Youâ€™ve got real bul ets!â€

Final y, it dawned on me that indeed he had. David/Bobby/ Hamlet had gone entirely round the bend and intended to strew the stage with real corpses!

I fought my way to the end of the aisle and ran down the slanting ramp toward the stage. The ramp was fairly steep and I was running out of control as I crashed through a frightened and cursing orchestra and up the smal access steps to the

stage.

I tripped over a footlight and skidded to a stop on a knee and an elbow in front of Hamlet. Meantime, Noel was trying to wrestle Elaine over the back of the couch into some kind of safety, but she wouldnâ€™t move. She seemed as stiff and

unemotional as a cigar-store Indian, but I had no time to help Noel.

Managing to stand and brieï€‚y to wonder why skinned knees hurt so much and garnered so little sympathy, I grabbed at Hamletâ€™s pistol.

â€œGive it here, you idiot, before you kil somebody! Those are not blanks!â€

â€œOf course theyâ€™re blanks,â€ he hissed. â€œGet off the stage. Youâ€™re ruining the ï€nale! Look, Iâ€™l show you.â€ He yanked the pistol away and ï€red in Elaineâ€™s general direction. Noel dived back behind the couch again, and an enormous pil ow burst to

send a seemingly endless cloud of feathers wafting across the stage in the light afternoon breeze.

The audience had become understandably bewildered. Was this al part of the play? Or had some crazy woman in the audience decided to run up on stage and save the potential victims?

When the pil ow exploded there was laughter and cheering and applause. Someone cal ed out, â€œRun for it, Duke.â€ Someone else yel ed, â€œGet â€™im, Hamlet!â€

Final y, a movement in the corner of stage left told me I was not alone in realizing something was terribly wrong. Sonny had come onto the stage from that side and was running toward us. Jeanine had come through the screen door in center

stageâ€”in uniformâ€” and was trying to sidle around to the other side of Hamlet. Some people were stil laughing and cheering as the cavalry entered. A few were beginning to leave.

I looked at Hamlet and am sure my expression turned to one of horror. He now had the pistol pointing toward his own eye, staring down the barrel as if trying to spot the problem.

â€œHamlet . . . David . . . Bobby . . . Whoever,â€ I almost whispered. â€œTake your ï€nger away from that trigger. If that thing goes off, youâ€™re hamburger.â€

Did Bobby plan to kil himself, too? Could wel be.

Hamlet did his foot stomping routine and shrieked, â€œOh, you sil y dyke, youâ€™ve ruined the whole last act. Thereâ€™s nothing wrong with the gun!â€

He threw the gun from him. It hit the concrete ï€‚oor and went off. Sonny grabbed his leg and went down, screaming, â€œO-oh, shit!â€ Since he landed right beside one of the ï€‚oor mikes, his shout seemed to echo round and round the theater. There

was heavy applause, mingled with a few catcal s.

A nanosecond later a womanâ€™s voice screamed from the audience. â€œHarry, Iâ€™m hit in the behind. I tel you Iâ€™m fucking shot!â€ That earned her cheers and loud clapping, plus several scatological suggestions.

A woman nearby in the audience squealed, â€œDid you hear that, Frank? Did you? I swear that was Mama. Mama says sheâ€™s shot!â€

â€œShe canâ€™t be shot too bad, making al that noise. Just sit down! I want to see the end of this thing. For the life of me, I canâ€™t ï€gure what theyâ€™re at.â€

He wasnâ€™t alone.

I was quite anxious to get to the end of this maelstrom also, before we were al dead. I lunged for the gun and got it before Hamlet could change his mind and pick it up again.

I noticed that Nick, the stage manager, had come out of the wings onto the stage, speaking sternly and calmly to Hamlet, apparently unaware that I now had the gun.

â€œGive me that gun, David. Somehow you got the wrong kind of bul ets in there! I swear you canâ€™t get anything right. You used real cartridges!â€ He shook his head in exasperation.

â€œNo, I didnâ€™t!â€ Hamlet was practical y spitting with petulance.

I thought he was going to stamp his foot again. â€œI loaded it with the ones from the new box, just like you told me.â€ I couldnâ€™t believe this conversation, casual y taking place in front of a thousand people, a few of them bleeding badly.

â€œI didnâ€™t say the new box.â€ Nick shook his head again impatiently. â€œI said the blue box . . . blue! Youâ€™re shooting al the wrong people.â€ He smiled ironical y. â€œNow give me the gun before we have somebody accidental y dead.â€ He extended his left

hand.

At this point, I became aware of two things. Nick was holding a thirty-eight revolver in his right hand, and I knew there was no question what kind of ammunition its cylinder held. I knew because suddenly, ï€nal y, I saw him. I grasped that I was

actual y looking at Bobby.

Not Hamlet. Nick. Nick Peters, stage manager with revolver, was Bobby Leonard, grown up little boy.

His childâ€™s skinny body had not grown tal and wil owy like his motherâ€™s, but had stayed short and become thickset like his fatherâ€™s. The tight blond curls had darkened to light brown waves, and only the beautiful blue eyes and ful mouth had

remained the same.

Jeanine was stil angling here and there on stage, trying now for a clear shot at Bobby, and not having any luck there, either, because everyone seemed to keep moving. I now had Hamletâ€™s gun. Should I try a shot? My path was clear. If I missed, I

wouldnâ€™t hit anyone in the audience. I hated to shoot. He wasnâ€™t real y threatening anyone. At least, not at the moment.

â€œBobby . . . Nick,â€ I tried to speak calmly. â€œHow about giving me that gun youâ€™re holding? Weâ€™ve got way too many people with guns out here. As you indicated, itâ€™s getting dangerous.â€

â€œStay out of this, Alex. I like you. Anyway, this is strictly a family affair. None of your business. Remember Hamletâ€™s line . . . she doesnâ€™t deserve to live? Keep it in mind.â€

Bobby was now turned toward Elaine. â€œWel , Elaine, nothing to say? I thought youâ€™d have a lovely soliloquy for us, tel ing everyone how good and noble you were and how awful everyone else was.â€

He leaned nonchalantly against the back of a chair and continued. â€œAnd I real y should thank you for that dramatic red herring you dragged al over town to make Tereseâ€™s demise look like a robbery gone bad. I assume it was to make people think

you were protecting your crazy little brother. You had to know the cops would ï€gure out it was phony. Didnâ€™t you? They arenâ€™t morons.â€ He paused and leaned forward slightly, obviously expecting a reply.

But Elaine had no words. She was staring stolidly into space, seeing . . . what? A little boy? A young girl? A crazed woman and a dismembered man? She looked like someone waiting for . . . for the lights to go off.

â€œSilence, Elaine? Wel , you know you never deserved to live after al the lives you ruined. So I guess itâ€™s time.â€

I saw his arm start to straighten and I ï€red. I was rewarded by the click of an empty chamber. Hamlet hadnâ€™t been playing with a ful clip.

That ï€gured.

But at least the sound threw Bobbyâ€™s aim off. When he shot, Elaine hardly moved. She lifted her lower left arm across her breast and looked disinterestedly at the ï€‚eshy part of her upper arm as a thin stream of blood began to trickle.

Jeanine had ï€nal y worked her way around to a clear shot, and she cal ed out, â€œOkay, you, drop the gun or I shoot! Drop it now!â€

Bobby smiled almost sweetly, shook his head and raised his arm again toward Elaine.

Jeanine ï€red.

At ï€rst I thought she had somehow managed to hit Hamlet, as he col apsed at my feet, but then I saw that he had simply fainted.

At the same time, Bobbyâ€™s white T-shirt blossomed into an obscene red rose. He took a slow step back . . . and fel .

If there was a hero in the fol owing chaos, it was the conductor of the orchestra. People now realized that actual shooting was going on, and that real blood was being shed al over the stage and even into the audience. They were pushing to get

up the aisles and out.

Pandemonium was seconds away, with al the injuries and even fatalities that could cause. Maestro got his people out of their terriï€ed crouch, and seconds later, his ï€rst trumpet sounded the high, sweet notes of â€œThe Star Spangled Banner.â€

It worked. As other instruments joined in, some people stopped running, faced the ï€‚ag ï€‚ying above the theater and placed hands over hearts, or came to attention and saluted. Some began to sing. Most continued their exit, but in march-time and

without panic.

When the anthem ï€nished, â€œColonel Bogeyâ€ fol owed. The large oval emptied, briskly and safely, of an audience which would doubtless claim to have seen the strangest Hamlet produced in four centuries.

Chapter 25

The waiting room at the clinic strongly resembled Grand Central Station at ï€ve p.m. on Christmas Eve.

We were al gathered nervously there to receive medical bul etins and, hopeful y, eventual y to see those we loved who had fal en in the Battle of the Amphitheater. From the number of people mil ing about, the casualty list would seem to be right

up there with Gettysburg.

Mother, Aunt Mae, Trish, Cindy, Noel and I were waiting for news of Sonny.

Two stagehands and the electrician were waiting for Horatio, who, they said, should be released shortly. He had simply cut his head diving under the coffee table and needed a few stitches.

Another man waited quietly for information on Laertes, whose name, I had discovered from consulting Cindyâ€™s Playbill, was Michael Novak.

221

And al of us, I was sure, were wondering at Bobbyâ€™s fate. From where I had stood on the stage, it did not look hopeful.

Carlucci paced the ï€‚oor, genuinely concerned for al , I thought. He was a basical y decent man with big dreams and an amazing facility to drum up the money to ï€nance them. He was blessed with an imagination that made them somehow work,

and had even more talent at not knowing when to shut up.

I heard him a few moments earlier, expounding to Mother that this whole event, while desperately tragic for the injured and their loved ones, was manna from heaven for the future of the play to a New York audience.

Mom and al the rest of us in earshot, looked bewildered, and he explained. The New York theater would be SRO for at least a year with people from al over the country who would want to attend the play where attempted murder for real had

occurred right on stage, and to see the actors who had so bravely performed, even as the people around them had been cold-bloodedly shot down. The play would stand on its own, of course, but the publicity around it now was priceless and could

be kept timely with occasional updates, such as ongoing physical recoveries, recurring nightmares, claims to have seen Bobbyâ€™s ghost, should he have passed on, etc.

Mom favored him with a dazzling smile and said she hoped Sonny and the others currently lying on operating tables would be as pleased at their contribution to the playâ€™s success as Paul. Personal y, she would be thril ed to trade her sonâ€™s leg to

sel an extra block of tickets to Hamlet.

Carlucci turned beet red, muttered something about going out for a smoke and practical y ran to the exit.

He caromed off Dr. Gloetzner, who was coming in from the parking lot, where he had just informed the ever-increasing number of media people that under no circumstances would any of them be al owed inside the hospital. If they caused any

further disturbance outside, they would have to leave the premises entirely and that he, personal y, would make only one statement: The staff were busy doing what hospital people do. Treating patients.

He looked at me and made a fol ow me motion. We went through the ER, which was busy with its ordinary nightly casualties of bar ï€ghts, fal s, migraines, women going into labor and chest pains. In his smal ofï€ce, he motioned me to a chair.

â€œWel , Ms. Peres, again and again we meet under arcane circumstances. Have you ever consulted a spiritualist? Do you perhaps have some special wiring that places you here on evenings like this?â€ Before I could answer, he picked up a

buzzing phone and asked, â€œAnything new?â€ He listened and looked strangely at me. Then he said, â€œOkay, sheâ€™s right here. Weâ€™l be there shortly.â€

Hanging up, he turned to me. â€œLt. Peres is just now coming out of surgery. Weâ€™ve been like a MASH unit here tonight. Had to practice some triage, you know. As you are aware, our facilities are neither large nor heavily staffed. Sonny was in no

danger and could wait a little while. The bul et ricocheted off the concrete ï€‚oor and lost a lot of pizzazz. It hit the ï€‚eshy part of his calf, with no bone damage. There is minor muscle damage, and he may need a little therapy, but one hundred percent

recovery is probable. Heâ€™l be our guest for a day or so.â€ He made a little tick on the notebook he held.

I breathed deep in relief. â€œMom wil be glad to hear that. Has anyone told her?â€

â€œAs we speak.â€ He nodded. â€œThe surgeon is entering the waiting room. Iâ€™m glad itâ€™s good news.â€ He made a thumbs-up sign.

â€œMrs. Fields, a member of the audience,â€ he continued, â€œCaught the piece of concrete that Sonnyâ€™s bul et dislodged, and it penetrated her . . . ah, sizeable gluteus maximus. Not seriously. She is already on her way home, counting up the

numbers of people she can cal to tel of her great adventure.â€ He took a drink of some coffee that was frighteningly black and thick.

â€œAlso released is that young man who played Horatio. In an attempt to occupy a space much smal er than himself, he cut the top of his head, four stitches worth. Three of his raucous friends have rescued him and were last known headed for the

Crown and Anchor. Not wise, but perhaps they celebrate life.â€

â€œIâ€™m glad heâ€™s okay,â€ I said. â€œSo heâ€™l have a headache. He would anyway.â€

â€œGood thinking. Now, Ms. Edgewood has a slight ï€‚esh wound on the inside of her upper arm and can leave tonight if she wishes. Thatâ€™s a tender spot and itâ€™s going to hurt, but we can give her something to help that. Sheâ€™s lucky it missed her

breast. She must have been sitting crooked.â€ He checked his little book again.

â€œMr. Novakâ€™s shoulder is a mess. We are doing al we can, but at some future date, he wil probably require additional surgery. He also lost quite a bit of blood, but we expect him to recover without incident.â€

â€œBy the way, Ms. Peres, what say we give that knee and elbow of yours a little wash up and some ointment and bandages?â€

I sighed. â€œWonderful! With everything thatâ€™s going on, I didnâ€™t have the nerve to ask anybody. But the damn things hurt!â€

â€œOh, thereâ€™s nothing like a good scrape to hurt. I sometimes wonder how children survive so many of them. Come over here.â€

I managed not to scream when he doused my knee and elbow with some solution I swear was Clorox. Then he put some soothing antibiotic ointment on them both and applied bandages. â€œBetter?â€

â€œYes, much, thanks.â€

â€œChange those bandages tomorrow, then the next day, leave them off to let it dry up. Do you have antibiotic ointment at home or do you need some?â€

â€œNo problem, Iâ€™ve got some Panalog,â€ I replied.

â€œA wonderful medicine. Is your dog injured? Here.â€ He handed me the partly used tube.

â€œOh, God.â€ I laughed. â€œIâ€™m so dicey I donâ€™t know what Iâ€™m saying. Thanks.â€ I shoved the tube in my pocket. â€œDoctor, you havenâ€™t said anything about Bobbyâ€”Nick Peters.â€

â€œBecause you are on the way to see him. He regained consciousness several minutes ago and has asked for you. That was the phone cal .â€

â€œMe! I hardly know him. His sister is Elaine Edgewood. Isnâ€™t she well enough to go to him?â€

â€œYes,â€ Gloetzner said, â€œBut he told Lainey speciï€cal y to keep her away from him. He wants you, and frankly, I donâ€™t know how long we have with him. He might make it, or he could go any second. So letâ€™s go.â€

As we went down the corridor to an intensive care room the doctor explained, â€œThe bul et hit the sternum and fragmented. The largest portion of it has rough edges and is resting right against the abdominal aorta. That kind of surgery is beyond

the experience of any doctor here. Weâ€™ve cal ed in Dr. Weeks from Hyannis, who wil arrive shortly, although he doesnâ€™t sound too optimistic after my description of the wound. Maybe we can get him stabilized sufï€ciently to transfer to Boston. I just

donâ€™t know yet.â€

He shrugged. â€œMeanwhile. If Bobbyâ€”Nicky?â€”moves wrong or gets agitated, the bul et could puncture the artery and I doubt we could control the bleeding. So try to keep it calm.â€

â€œChrist. You donâ€™t want much, Miss Scarlett. I donâ€™t know nothinâ€™ â€™bout birthinâ€™ babies or keeping aortas at peace. Are you sure this is wise? Surely there is someone else!â€ I was feeling shakier by the second.

â€œIt could be the last request of a dying man. We try to honor those,â€ he answered simply.

I felt my palms grow sweatier and my throat tighten. Suddenly we made a sharp turn into a room draped with cables and framed with various TV-type screens, one of them quietly beeping as smal lightning strikes marched across its face. A

seemingly shrunken Bobby lay on the bed, head slightly raised, with tubes going here and there about his body. I hated the smel of hospitals. The antiseptics, sickness, pain, fear. They al had a combined odor that made me want nothing more than

to run outdoors, look at a live tree and breathe deeply.

â€œHiya, Nick, itâ€™s Alex. Is there anything I can do for you? Theyâ€™re taking real good care of you, my friend. But if I can help . . .â€

He looked up at me for several seconds, as if remembering who I was. He spoke softly. â€œWanted to say . . . knew you would believe me . . . sorry about the mess on stage. It real y was Davidâ€™s screwup. I had no intention of anyone getting hurt,

except Elaine. But I shouldâ€™ve checked. Elaine was the one. My plan was . . . when Hamlet shot her with a blank, I would ï€re live from offstage. Lots of confusion later when they discovered she was real y dead. Had a good place to hide the gun . . .

didnâ€™t much care, as long as she got hers. She sold me out to Terese. Iâ€™m thirsty.â€

I turned to a nurse. She held a glass with a straw to his mouth, â€œEasy, pul easy on that, young man, donâ€™t be greedy.â€ After two sips she took it away.

â€œMore,â€ he said irritably. â€œMore!â€

â€œMore in a minute or so,â€ I said placatingly. â€œNick, donâ€™t worry about David and the bul ets. We al know that was truly an accident. And everyone is going to be okay. But what do you mean Elaine sold you out?â€

â€œTold Terese al about me. But the article would say they never could locate Elaine. Water, dammit! I heard â€™em talking . . . Tereseâ€™s room. Water now!â€

The nurse gave him another careful y monitored sip while I steadied the straw. I wondered what we were al trying to save him for, a lifetime in a mental hospital? In prison? I felt a deep stab of sorrow for a rough-tongued, gentle man who could

understand a young girl who mourned a dil plant.

He cleared his throat and stared at a space where no one stood. When he spoke, his voice was strangely childish.

â€œ . . . said you bled down there sometimes and it was gross . . . said he loved me, loved me best, man to man . . . If you hadnâ€™t told, she wouldnâ€™t have . . . now sheâ€™s gone, too . . . gone . . .â€ Tears ï€l ed his eyes and started slowly down his cheeks.

Then he looked back at me with recognition. He was stil crying quietly, but his voice was his own.

â€œItâ€™s funny, now sheâ€™l get away . . .â€ He gave a soft laugh. â€œThey wil al think that I . . .â€ Suddenly he choked and a gush of blood shot from his mouth.

I backed away and ran from the room. I found my way back to Gloetznerâ€™s ofï€ce and lit a cigarette. Screw hospitals, there was no oxygen in here. I was shaky and cold and pul ed my jacket around me. I felt something hard against my chest and

tugged a ï€‚ask from an inner pocket. Thatâ€™s how Gloetzner found me, on my second cigarette and nursing an almost empty ï€‚ask of bourbon.

He ignored my various infractions and said gently. â€œHeâ€™s gone. We couldnâ€™t help him.â€

â€œWel , I sure didnâ€™t help much.â€

â€œYou reassured him about the bul ets and the wounded. That had to help. What else was he trying to say? Did you know?â€

â€œNot real y,â€ I lied. I polished off the contents of the ï€‚ask and stowed it in its pocket. â€œSomething about his mother and father, I think. A family feud.â€

â€œWel .â€ The good doctor took my arm to steer me out. â€œLetâ€™s go give everybody the happy news and the sad.â€ At that, his phone rang again. He listened, smiled tiredly, and once again just hung up.

â€œSorry, I got waylaid. Ms. Edgewood is checking out. She seems to be alone. I hope sheâ€™l be al right.â€

â€œSheâ€™s staying at the Chambered Nautilus. Iâ€™m sure theyâ€™l look in on her and give her dinner. Theyâ€™re nice people.â€

He nodded with relief. â€œGood. Glad there are a few left. They wonâ€™t need to feed her. She had dinner here.â€

I laughed. â€œThen theyâ€™l deï€nitely need to feed her. Have you eaten here?â€

â€œRarely,â€ he admitted. â€œWe also got a phone cal from Mrs. Wil em in New York. She and a nurse wil be up in the Wil emâ€™s private plane to pick up Hamlet in the morning if he stops crying and thrashing around and yel ing that none of it was his

fault. Weâ€™ve given him enough medication to knock out a bul . But he keeps tel ing us how sensitive he is. Heâ€™d better desensitize by morning. Iâ€™ve had about enough of his hysterics.â€

â€œItâ€™s his big scene, how can you deny him? He missed the one on stage.â€

â€œA-ah. Okay. Letâ€™s go tel the visitors to go home. No one whoâ€™s had surgery wil be awake before morning. Wish I could say the same.â€

I huddled with our little group with the good news about Sonny, the unhappy news about Bobby and the news about Hamlet.

I turned to Noel. â€œIs that for real? He has a private plane? Then why was David so worried about Tereseâ€™s article? I thought his family lived in a tenement on the Bowery or something.â€

Noel laughed. â€œNot hardly! The family has been here since the Bowery was an uptown street, however, and they own very large chunks of Manhattan and Long Island. Now there was a rumorâ€” a rumor, I sayâ€”that when David went to the RADA,

he met this English stripper, fel madly in love, got her pregnant and married her. His family had a ï€t, but he wouldnâ€™t give her up, so while he went to one acting school, she went to another.â€

â€œTo be a real actress, you mean?â€ Aunt Mae asked.

â€œNo, to be a real aristocrat instead of a Cockney stripper. And she learned wel . She eats, speaks, walks, dresses and probably dreams high falutinâ€™. She real y is a great gal, though. I like her. But obviously, none of the Wil ems wanted her

youthful career publicized by the A-List. Thatâ€™s what was worrying David.â€

He got a good laugh, and we separated for the night. Mom was chauffeuring Aunt Mae home. Cindy and I took Noel back to the Marshes.

Poor Fargo thought weâ€™d al fal en off the planet. He pushed past us out the door and to the closest shrub. And then to another. And ï€nal y to a third. Only then did he come to us and whine his sad tale of abandonment. Wel s disappeared into a

dark, far corner and stayed a while.

The four of us had had no dinner. It was only a little after nine, but it felt like next week. I fed His Nibs and Her Majesty and then started making my famous gril ed cheese sandwiches while Cindy changed to pajamas.

Dinner was neither gourmet nor festive, but served to make us al sleepy. So after another outing for the dog and cat, we packed it in.

Chapter 26

Fargo was snoring lightly within seconds. Cindy was breathing deeply within minutes. Wel s was a silent dark blob on the windowsil . I was abruptly wide-awake and apparently going to stay that way. I tried my left side and then my right. I tried

counting backward from a hundred. I tried naming al the states alphabetical y. I got up, slipped into some sweats and mocs for the cool night and headed back to the kitchen. Looking at me in sad reproach, Fargo sighed and padded down the hal

behind me, whufï€‚ing irritably.

I made myself a bourbon highbal , gave him a biscuit and sat down at the kitchen table with a cigarette. Thoughts were circling in my brain in some sort of jumble that I couldnâ€™t turn off. They were bothering me badly. I was sure some of them were

wrong, felt that some of them were backward, and others were escaping me entirely. An example? I wasnâ€™t sure I even had an example. I wished I had Sonnyâ€™s blackboards.

Lacking them, I went into the ofï€ce and brought back two fairly large pieces of cardboard I used in matting my photographs. I propped them on the kitchen table.

On one I wrote: Elaine, relatively famous leading lady. Charming and warm as long as things go her way. Threatened by Terese.

On the other I wrote: Bobby, failed actor, excel ent stage manager, not famous at al . Growly but appealing. Lonely? Afraid of being hurt by Terese?

Funny, how I had changed the wording. Then I remembered something Elaine had said the evening she told us her whole sad tale in the backyard. She told us Bobby had sworn his father abused him, had touched him intimately and made him

feel uncomfortable, had done things that had hurt. Yet Elaine was adamant her father had never abused either her or Bobby.

If true, how would a seven-year-old boy know certain kinds of sex with a grown man could hurt? And how come the shrink hadnâ€™t managed to get him to admit he had lied? Surely the shrink could get the truth out of a seven-year-old! What if it was

not Bobby who lied, but Elaine?

I remembered a book of Sonnyâ€™s on child abuse that I had read once, when we had a man on the prowl for kids here in town. I had been quite surprised to learn that over time, abused children could be quite ï€‚attered by the attention and feeling of

importance and adulthood, even though they knew it was wrong, even though it might be painful. They could even be jealous of other children the abuser paid attention to, if they knew about it.

Recal ing the book further, I remembered that abusers usual y grew tired of their male or female victims when they reached certain ages, usual y puberty, when they lost the cuteness and sweet softness of the young child. In a girl, perhaps when

â€œshe began to bleed down thereâ€ and the abuser found it â€œgross.â€ Then perhaps a father might turn his sights to his young son and explain to him the special â€œman-to-man loveâ€ they could share.

Then I mental y ï€nished off another sentence that Bobby had tried to utter a few hours back, and wrote it on my cardboard. â€œIf youâ€”Elaine?â€”hadnâ€™t told . . . sheâ€”mother?â€”wouldnâ€™t have . . .â€ I ended it for him: â€œwouldnâ€™t have taken Daddy away,

and then they took her away, too.â€ Maybe it was not Bobby who squealed to his mother that Daddy was abusive, but a jealous Elaine who decided to get even with both ï€ckle father and the new love object son.

Obviously, she wouldnâ€™t have counted on her mother kil ing her father, but Elaineâ€™s hatred may have been deep enough to make the act seem justiï€ed when she did. And being unsaddled from an unstable mother after the murder would have been

okay, too. Young Elaine was already a pretty good actress! She was just a sweet young girl who ï€nal y convinced the authorities nothing had happened, because, batting her big dark eyes, nothing could possibly have happened with her loving,

normal father.

And Bobby, poor little brother, was imagining things, mental y unhinged like his mother.

Then Elaine had charmed her way into a nice adoptive family and never looked back.

When she visited Bobby once in Pennsylvania, she did him in again, purposely or accidental y. When she bragged of being an actress, he immediately sought her approval by saying he would be an actor. And when his adoptive parents couldnâ€™t

afford tuitions, Bobby took it as one more abandonment episode in his rocky life and ï€led his sil y, but hurt-ï€l ed lawsuit. Failing at that, he went to New York to seek out the one person stil standing from those few years when he had had his own

family, and when they had al loved each other.

I drained my highbal and put on a pot of coffee. I needed to stretch my legs, so Fargo and I took a turn of the yard, which we found safe from two- or four-legged intruders. Back inside, coffee was done, and we shared a pastry left from breakfast.

With an apologetic lick, Fargo left my side and retreated across the kitchen to the cozy warmth of his bed, and I was left with my jigsaw puzzle.

But the pieces were becoming easier to ï€t now, and I could see a deï€nite picture.

My cardboards were becoming ï€l ed with abbreviated notes.

Elaine could have subtly sabotaged what acting jobs Bobby did get, and this could have triggered the antagonism he displayed if at al threatened or opposed. I had seen examples of that in the last few weeks. His personality was not geared to

smoothing troubled waters. But eventual y he gave up acting and became a capable stage manager. So he no longer comprised competition for Elaine. She had once again gotten him out of her way, and further away from the possibility anyone

might tie them together and dig up the woodchopper scandal.

Then up pops nosy Terese Segal, far from an imaginary menace! Bobby, I thought was mainly scared of being back in a lurid spotlight. He seemed a retiring soul who liked his work and simply wanted to be left alone with whatever life he had

managed to cobble together for himself. He may have had a few friends but probably was fairly content just being quietly alone most of the time. Now the whole thing might wel surface again, with him in the painful heat of the limelight.

But Elaine had more to lose than privacy. She was pretty much a household name. A good actress with feature roles on stage and on TV. Perhaps not the brightest star on the marquee, but deï€nitely up there and shining. And her lover was a

teacher. Scandal was a no-no for teachers. Now Terese was threatening to revive the whole disgraceful event, from child abuse to a dismembered father and a lunatic mother, to a lesbian affair, with the two lesbians raising a child, and one of them

a teacher. A plum, a big juicy plum for the star reporter of the A-List.

That couldnâ€™t appear in type. They simply couldnâ€™t let it. To paraphrase Harmon, action had to be taken.

That night in our backyard, I think Elaineâ€™s tears, while very wel done, were al of the crocodile variety. Maybe our al igator gave acting classes. I think she told that tale with the ful knowledge that she was prepared to kil Terese, knowing I would

have to tel Sonny the entire screed at some point. And of course, it would be slanted just the right amount in her favor. Because thatâ€™s the way I had heard it, that was the way I would remember it. I would inadvertently put Sonny ï€rmly on Elaineâ€™s

side.

According to Noel, Elaine tried several times the next day to talk with Terese, unsuccessful y and almost certainly growing more freaked out with each refusal. And the events of Tuesday offered one good opportunity after another. The messed up

rehearsal had the entire company irritated, frustrated and tired. The heavy rains added to their misery.

The two people Elaine most needed not to be thinking clearlyâ€”Terese and Paulâ€”were drunk. The others staying at the Brownleesâ€™ had either had several drinks or taken a pil to help them sleep.

After two frustrating bouts of unsuccessful sex, Terese was in a drunken rage. In al probability she went downstairs to scrounge a ï€nal nightcap. Possibly, having had little dinner, she went for a snack. Either way, when Elaine heard her go down

the front stairs, Elaine went down the back, stripped, donned the plastic raincoat and hat, and stabbed Terese.

Elaineâ€™s ï€rst red herring was the six stab woundsâ€”implicating Harmon, Bobby, the household members or the ever-handy transient robber. The Hicktown cops could take their choice.

Her second was the entire robbery scene, complete to suggesting that even the maids knew Harmon was careless of boot tracks. Although, the police could stil have thought it was our visiting robber, after the silver, which Elaine careful y â€œstole.â€

The third was Carlucciâ€™s car. Elaine had doubtless stayed sober and appointed herself designated driver so that she could keep the car keys after driving home from the restaurant. She could easily deny keeping the keys, since the next morning

they were on the hook by the back door with al the van keys, as usual.

At some point, she had to discard the raincoat and hat and redress in her own clothing. She could most safely have done that outdoors, perhaps behind the garage, letting the rain wash both the coat and her body and hair. If the police ever found

the plastic raincoat and hat, it would certainly help . . . but much less so if they were washed clean by the downpour.

Right now, I needed help, and something told me Sonny would not be answering his phone. Fortunately, Mitch was, after a number of rings, and not happily. Fol owing a lengthy conversation, he agreed to meet me at Elaineâ€™s room at the

Chambered Nautilus at eight thirty.

I went back to bed, certain I would be unable to sleep. Iâ€™d be happy just to get horizontal and try to relax for a few hours. Fargo had no such problems. He simply came back into the bedroom, ï€‚opped on the ï€‚oor and was gone.

I set the clock and steeled myself for the sleepless hours. That was my last thought for the remainder of the night.

Chapter 27

The next morning the clock sounded at six thirty. Fargo leaped eagerly onto the bed, ever hopeful of a beach run. Wel s mewed and nestled deeper between Cindyâ€™s shoulder blades. Cindy emitted a bear-like growl and burrowed deeper into the

pil ow.

I nobly headed for the shower. In the kitchen later, I took a look at the clock and decided to nuke the coffee left from last night. Wel , it certainly woke me up.

But then, I wanted to be wide-awake when I spoke with Elaine. I was hoping for a confession, natural y, or at least an informative slip or two.

I thought my chances of getting either were better if I could be alone with Elaine, and I hoped to arrive at her room before Mitch and his backup did. I ï€gured Elaine would tend to have more of a relaxed conversation with a woman she knew, even

one she disliked, than a police detective and a uniformed ofï€cer she did not. And maybe I could lead her down the primrose path to tel ing me more than she realized.

I got to the Chambered Nautilus at eight sharp, using the back door as a concession to any guests that might be around this early, and went upstairs. I left Fargo in the kitchen, assuming Martha or Bil would be there soon and wouldnâ€™t mind.

Knocking on Elaineâ€™s doorâ€”Ophelia had obligingly taken a room at the Marshes to give Elaine some privacyâ€”I got Elaineâ€™s musical, â€œCome in.â€ Obviously she didnâ€™t know who it was yet.

I entered.

â€œGet out!â€ Now she knew. No musical tones in that request!

â€œIâ€™m afraid that wonâ€™t be possible,â€ I answered, making my voice as cold as hers. â€œWe have a number of things to talk about. Is Ophelia at the Marshes?â€

â€œYes. She, at least, was courteous enough to know I might wish to be alone after Bobbyâ€™s death. I have much to adjust to. I stil cannot believe he would have kil ed me.â€

â€œOh, I can. A lifetime of lies, subtle undermining of his already difï€cult life. Tel ing Terese his deepest secrets in order to protect your own.â€ I gave a smal but dramatic Queen Elizabeth hand wave. â€œI can think of several very good reasons for kil ing

you, myself.â€

â€œAlex, I spent a bad night. I am in no mood for you and your sil y gracious lady character or your tough detective act. Now, if you must say something, say it and get out!â€

I lit cigarette two and blew out a cool Humphrey Bogart puff. â€œDoesnâ€™t much matter. Do you want to tel me how you kil ed Terese, or do you want me to tel you?â€

â€œYou canâ€™t smoke in here. The Meyers donâ€™t al ow it.â€

â€œIâ€™l send them an exhaust fan.â€

There was a knock at the door I had left half open behind me, and Mitch stepped into the room, fol owed by Ofï€cer Mendes. Ofï€cer Oliver Mendes was Provincetownâ€™s newest rookie cop and looked about twelve. He also looked unhappy to be in

a ladyâ€™s bedroom at this early hour, especial y with the lady clad only in a ï€lmy nightgown and favoring him with an ominous glare. Poor laddie, he broke al too easily in the daunting presence of a pro.

â€œGood morning, maâ€™am.â€ He actual y gave a short bow. â€œIâ€™m Ofï€cer Mendes, of the Provincetown Police. We hate to intrude upon your privacy in this manner, but there are certain questions we must ask in the line of duty. You see, Ms. Peres thinks

you offed the Segal broadâ€”â€

â€œJesus Christ, Oliver! Talk about subtlety!â€ I barked.

â€œMendes, for Godâ€™s sake, stop babbling like an idiot!â€ Mitch looked unhappy at Mendesâ€™s taking over the opening statement he had probably spent the early morning rehearsing.

Mendes looked unhappier stil , at the public reprimand.

If anyone had cared to notice, I almost certainly looked the unhappiest of al .

While Mitch, Mendes and I had had our little family squabble, Elaine had stepped over to the bed, reached in her purse and pul ed out a tiny little derringer-like pistol. Said pistol was at the moment pointed about two feet from my stomach. Even

Elaine couldnâ€™t miss from that distance.

The fancily engraved pistol looked like something ridiculous and for show that an actress would have. On the other hand, I recal ed, one very much like it had worked quite wel for actor John Wilkes Booth.

Of course, unless she ï€red it, we now had a hostage situation, where I was the costar. It was a bil ing I would gladly have relinquished.

I cleared my throat. â€œElaine, you real y donâ€™t wantâ€”â€

â€œDonâ€™t tel me what I donâ€™t want. Iâ€™d as soon shoot you as not. Things canâ€™t get a hel uva lot worse.â€ She waved the pistol in the general direction of my face.

â€œYou.â€ She pointed at Mitch. â€œYouâ€™re a sergeant or something. Listen to me. You wil ï€‚y Alex and me to Boston. You wil have a plane waiting to ï€‚y us to Belize. When we reach there, I wil let Alex go and we wil forget al this sil iness ever

happened.â€

Gosh! Vacation time at last! I wondered if the IRS knew Elaine must have some big bucks squirreled away there?

â€œMs. Edgewood, this is not Law and Order! We donâ€™t have helicopters in the parking lot. And this â€˜sil inessâ€™ of yours is murder.â€

Mitch was coming on tough.

â€œItâ€™l be more than that if youâ€”â€

â€œWhy Belize?â€ I asked. â€œNot that it doesnâ€™t sound lovely.â€

â€œNo extradition treaty, I think,â€ Mitch answered. â€œBut it is great. My mom was there last . . .â€

God knows what travelogue we would have been treated to, but at that moment Lexus tore into the room with Fargo in hot pursuit. Lexus bounced off a chair, onto Elaineâ€™s shoulder and then to the top of an armoire, where he crouched, growling

and hissing. Elaine stood screaming and waving the gun. â€œGet him out of here. Get him away from me! I hate cats!â€

Fargo made a furious attempt to run through Elaineâ€™s legs to get to Lexus, got tangled in her nightgown, and took them both down in a heap. Terriï€ed she would shoot him or Lexus, I fel on top of her and managed to anchor to the ï€‚oor the hand

holding the gun, at least for the moment. She was moaning something about her bad arm, but I didnâ€™t care.

â€œMendes! Cuff her!â€ I yel ed.

Martha raced into the room. â€œWhat the hel is going on? It sounds like mating time at the zoo in here. Be quiet, al of you. We have guests sleeping!â€

I doubted it. Then she yel ed, â€œWhat are you doing? You canâ€™t do this! Take your hands off me, you little prick!â€ Now I real y doubted it.

I looked over my shoulder to see Mendes putting handcuffs on Martha.

â€œNot her! Her!â€

â€œOh, sorry.â€

Throughout most of this segment of our Keystone Kops movie, I had heard a soft thudâ€”thudâ€”thud in the background. I wondered if it were poor Bil , beating his head against the refrigerator. But no! It had been Sonny making his slow and

doubtless painful way up the stairs on crutches.

He came through the door, blessing us with the ful wattage of the Peres smile.

â€œGood morrow, gracious people! My, what an interesting scene.â€

And in ten seconds he was in charge.

â€œMs. Edgewood, you are under arrest for the murder of Terese Segal. Mendes, cuff Ms. Edgewood to yourself by her right arm to your left and show her your dramatic ability in reciting the Miranda warning. Have Sgt. Mitchel drop you both at the

clinic. That left arm is bleeding slightly, and we want no mistreatment.â€

Elaine saw a slight opening and leaped at it. â€œPolice brutality. I shal sue you for police brutality.â€

â€œThe cat knocked you off balance, and Fargo got tangled in your gown as you fel . Alex held you to the ï€‚oor. None of them are police ofï€cers. There was no police brutality. You, on the other hand, were waving a gun around and yel ing threats. And

youâ€™ve already kil ed one person. Now run along.

â€œMartha perhaps if you could coax Lexus down, Fargo would quit hurtling himself against your antique armoire and stop barking. Wouldnâ€™t that be loverly?â€

â€œIndeed it would.â€ Martha kissed Sonnyâ€™s cheek and ï€nal y laughed. She got the cat down. I got Fargoâ€™s col ar. Peace reigned.

â€œSonny,â€ Martha said, â€œAre you supposed to be out and around yet?â€

â€œNo. Have you ever seen a hospital breakfast?â€

â€œAh. I understand. That gives me a thought. Why donâ€™t I make a big luscious breakfast for the two heroes? Iâ€™l just bet theyâ€™ve worked up a gigantic appetite by now.â€

Sonny and I tried to look modest and hungry, and succeeded at least in the latter.

We al went down the back stairs into the kitchen. Martha said with some embarrassment, â€œWould it be okay to stay out here to eat? Weâ€™l have guests coming into the dining room any minute. Poor Bil .â€

â€œOf course, the kitchen is ï€ne. But why poor Bil ?â€ I asked.

â€œHeâ€™l be out there trying to pretend nothing happened. Heâ€™s convinced De Nile is a river in Egypt. Now, you two just sit here at the table and excuse me while I go to work.â€ She set glasses of fresh, cold juice and mugs of hot, wonderful smel ing

coffee in front of us, and moved to the business end of the kitchen.

As we addressed our juice and coffee, Sonny said, â€œLet me update you, my little sleuth. You were the ï€rst one of us to get it right. Sometimes you amaze me. You get into unbelievable mix-ups, and you do everything ass-backward, but somehow

you turn up with the right person in the end.â€

â€œAw, shucks.â€

â€œYeah, wel , ï€rst things ï€rst, strictly personal. Remember Harmonâ€™s problem with Terese saying his brother was a coward?â€

â€œSure.â€ I laughed. â€œHas he taken action yet?â€

â€œYes, he cal ed the President.â€

â€œOf what?â€

â€œOf the United States. He ï€gured he was commander in chief and ought to know if Rob deserved those medals or not.â€ He leaned back in his chair and then came forward quickly as he forgot and put weight on his wounded leg. I smothered a

smile. It served him right.

â€œHe real y talked to the President? I canâ€™t believe it.â€ I took a sip of coffee. It tasted like heaven after my sleep deprived night.

â€œNo, he got shufï€‚ed around to about six people. Final y, some colonel said she would look into it and get back to him. She actual y did. Surprise, surprise! It seems al Robâ€™s medals are in order. He was indeed a hero. Conï€rming letter fol ows,

and Harmon is dancing on air. He is also drunk.â€

Sounded good to me. â€œCan you blame him? Thatâ€™s splendid! The President, who would think to cal the President?â€

â€œHarmon would. He said it was an army matter, so he cal ed the commander of the army. Makes perfect sense, doesnâ€™t it? If youâ€™re Harmon.â€

â€œI guess it does. What else is new?â€

â€œMarvin found the hat from the plastic raincoat set, pushed down in the corner of the dumpster. No blood on it, but lots of prints, including Elaineâ€™s. Also, two of Elaineâ€™s hairs.â€ He sniffed, and closed his eyes in rapture. â€œSmel that, Alex? Thatâ€™s

sautÃ©ed kippers. Oh, gracious Fate!â€

I wasnâ€™t crazy about kippers, but somewhere in the olio of delicious aromas ï€‚oating around, I caught a whiff of a broiling breakfast steak, doubtless reaching a perfect medium rare just for me. I decided against a cigarette, breakfast obviously

being near. â€œAnything on Tereseâ€™s computer?â€

â€œNo. We ï€gure that when Elaine got back from her tour around town, she deleted everything on the hard drive. Iâ€™m sure any of the cast would have been happy to do it, but sheâ€™d be about the only one who had opportunity. We took charge of it

pretty quickly.â€

â€œWhat about the plastic rain coat?â€ I asked.

â€œNothing yet. Hatcher is talking to the Voyager kitchen staff. Maybe theyâ€™l help.

â€œAnd one of Elaineâ€™s prints is on a piece of silver. She must have taken it out to admire it and forgot to put her gloves on.â€

â€œYeah.â€ I wasnâ€™t happy. â€œYou think the DA wil go for murder? Everything is circumstantial.â€

Sonny polished off his orange juice to the sound of beaten eggs being poured into a hot iron skil et. â€œMaybe. Plenty of cases are won on circumstantial evidence. And at least we have her nailed on obstructing justice and abetting a crime.â€

â€œYes, at least we have that,â€ I said. â€œI just hate to see poor Bobbyâ€™s last sentence come true. I think he was trying to say, â€˜Itâ€™s funny. Now sheâ€™l get away with it, and everyone wil think I kil ed Terese.â€™ Thatâ€™s an injustice in itself.â€

â€œI know one thing, Alex, Elaine may not be convicted of murder, but nobodyâ€™s going to think sheâ€™s innocent.â€ He straightened in his chair and looked down the kitchen, smiling broadly. â€œHere it comes!â€

Martha approached us, carrying two bowls. â€œFor my heroes, my two brave heroes! Come here, my darlings!â€

She walked right past us and set the smal er bowl on the kitchen counter, where Lexus immediately jumped up and began eating his kippers and scrambled eggs, delicately, but quickly.

She set the larger bowl on the ï€‚oor, where Fargo already waited. â€œYour steak and eggs, big boy.â€ Delicacy wasnâ€™t in Fargoâ€™s vocabulary, but speed was. He was demolishing that food even faster than I think I could have.

Martha stroked one and then the other. â€œArenâ€™t they sweet? Bon appetit! Dig in, my heroes.â€

Sonny and I smiled at each other sourly and managed a weak duet.

â€œBon appetit!â€

Afterward

In the wee hours of the Thursday after Labor Day, a throbbing molar ended Betty Atwoodâ€™s sleep for the night. Final y, after feeling it with a ï€nger and pushing at it with her tongue for a while, she could lie stil no longer, and got out of bed so as not

to disturb her husband. When he arose at seven, she was at the kitchen table, on her second cup of steaming hot coffee and deep into the Tylenol bottle, anxiously awaiting the time when she could cal her dentistâ€™s ofï€ce in Orleans.

Betty dialed her dentist promptly at eight and was told they could â€œï€t her in at eleven.â€ Her husband, Alan, cal ed his ofï€ce to say he would not be in until after lunch. Then he cal ed Bil y Madeiros, a fourteen-year-old boy who often babysat for

them, and was a favorite of their eighteen-month-old daughter, Tina. Could Bil y oblige them from ten this morning to around one oâ€™clock in the afternoon? Bil y could.

Betty bathed and dressed Tina for the day. While Alan straightened the house, she set out some junior foods and other tidbits Bil y might feed Tina for lunch, and left him a note tel ing him to help himself to whatever was in the fridge. Final y, it was

time to go. Alan brought their car out of the garage just as Bil yâ€™s mother dropped him at the end of the rather long driveway, which curved prettily up the smal hil from a brackish pond across the road.

Tina was fussing about her parentsâ€™ departure, and Bil y took her for a little toddle around the yard, pointing out different ï€‚owers and letting her pick one for herself. The sun was hot, so at the end of their walk, he placed her in her shaded outdoor

playpen, and went into the house to get them both something cool to drink and to check what Mrs. Atwood had left for Tinaâ€™s lunch.

He poured some juice and a little water into a bottle for Tina and popped a soda for himself. Then he glanced out the kitchen window onto a scene so horrifying he knew it could not be true, even as he realized that it was.

A large al igator was waddling up the driveway toward the playpen where Tina awaited her bottle.

Whom could he cal ? Where could he run to get help? Al of a sudden, Bil y grasped the truth that it al came down to him. There was no time for explanatory phone cal s or running to the neighbors and convincing them to grab some sort of

weapon and run back with him. So he did a most courageous thing.

He scooped up everything in the kitchen he could carry. A couple of pans, a skil et, the toaster, the coffee carafe, surprisingly heavy jars of baby food, a bowl, two plates, the blender jar. He took them al in his arms and burst through the back

screen door, yel ing and running down the driveway toward the ever-nearing al igator.

Bil y had a pretty good throwing arm. Most of his homegrown artil ery shel s were landing on or quite near the al igator, and they were making a lot of noise. They crashed, they shattered, they rattled and rol ed. They werenâ€™t doing the gator any

serious injury, but they distracted him. The hefty whomp! of the blender jar on his nose stopped him for a moment to reassess his approach. And that gave Bil y just enough time to grab Tina and sprint for the house.

They made it inside and he dropped the baby unceremoniously to the ï€‚oor, howling. He ran around the house, closing and locking al the doors and windows. Then he shut himself and Tina in the bathroom and dialed 911 on the walk-around

phone he had snatched from the hal .

He was terribly frightened and shocked and winded, and by then almost total y incoherent. The 911 operator couldnâ€™t be sure just who he was and who, or what, was about to kil the baby she could hear screaming in the background, but she

managed to get the name Atwood and the address out of him. In seconds, patrol cars were on their way, fol owed by a ï€re truck and an ambulance, just in case.

Either the bop on the nose or the approaching sirens sent the reptile back to the temporary safety of the pond, for there was no sign of him when police ï€nal y coaxed a white and shaking Bil y and a red-faced, hiccupping toddler from the

bathroom. But the cops didnâ€™t doubt his story. They didnâ€™t think anyone could have made this up. There was stuff thrown al over the driveway, and the boy was a wreck. And, they soon recal ed, there had been that naked lady up in that tree, and

Harmonâ€™s rabbits, and the old tomcat . . .

The Atwoods arrived home to this nerve-shattering scene and were told what had happened, and what would doubtless have happened except for a very brave fourteen-year-old. They found themselves crying and laughing and trying to hug Tina,

and each other and Bil y, al at once.

And Provincetown had a new hero.

By afternoon the media had arrived. The Atwoods were cooperative at ï€rst, posing with the pretty little girl, tel ing and retel ing the event, praising Bil yâ€™s courage. But by a little after four, with Bettyâ€™s tooth beating like a drum, they got the police to

give them an escort out of town and went down to Bettyâ€™s motherâ€™s place in Sandwich for a few days.

The Madeiros family soon found their yard surrounded by a myriad of TV and newspaper cameras and reporters, cal ing out a battery of questions. Bil y had a hard time of it, stil shaken, losing his composure, trying not to cry. Final y, his father

had enough and ordered everyone off his property. He then latched the gate and let out the family Rottweiler, an aging and docile old lady who snufï€‚ed and grumbled al around the fence line, in ever-fading hopes someone would offer a treat. But

the media didnâ€™t know that, retired, and left the Madeiroses to a peaceful evening.

The al igator was also getting considerable attention. Provincetown Police sent out a cal for help with their voracious visitor, and people eventual y arrived from the Mystic Aquarium in Connecticut and, less helpful y, the stateâ€™s Department of

Environmental Protection, on hand to guard the al igatorâ€™s rights. The local Coast Guard station sent over some hefty young men and women who were good-humored and wil ing and quite adept with ropes. Wel -meaning volunteers and not so wel meaning riï€‚e toting hunters were restrained with difï€culty.

The pond was baited with large chunks of raw, slightly smel y meat, and the al igatorâ€™s would-be captors retired a fair distance back from the pond, where they waited silently. Around midnight, the gator ï€nal y came forth to dine and was, after a

great scramble, many misses with various nooses and many suggestions by the DEP, successful y roped onto, of al things, a surfboard. He was then placed in a temperature and humidity-control ed box truck for his ride to Mystic, where he would

be careful y tended until a Florida home was found for him.

Unofï€cial y, he measured ï€ve feet, four inches in length. Mrs. Withersâ€™s guess hadnâ€™t been so far off, after al .

The person or persons who brought the reptile to Provincetown, their reasons for doing so and how they accomplished the feat, have never been discovered.

Unless, of course, Harmon was right.

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WHEN LOVE FINDS A HOME by Megan Carter. 280 pp. What wil it take for Anna and Rona to ï€nd their way back to each other again? 1-59493-041-4 $12.95

MEMORIES TO DIE FOR by Adrian Gold. 240 pp. Rachel attempts to avoid her attraction to the charms of Anna Sigurdson . . . 1-59493-038-4 $12.95

SILENT HEART by Claire McNab. 280 pp. Exotic lesbian romance.

1-59493-044-9 $12.95

MIDNIGHT RAIN by Peggy J. Herring. 240 pp. Bridget McBee is determined to ï€nd the woman who saved her life. 1-59493-021-X $12.95

THE MISSING PAGE A Brenda Strange Mystery by Patty G. Henderson. 240 pp. Brenda investigates her clientâ€™s murder . . . 1-59493-004-X $12.95

WHISPERS ON THE WIND by Frankie J. Jones. 240 pp. Dixon thinks she and her best friend, Elizabeth Colter, would make the perfect couple . . . 1-59493-037-6 $12.95

CALL OF THE DARK: EROTIC LESBIAN TALES OF THE SUPERNATURAL edited by Therese Szymanskiâ€”from Bel a After Dark. 320 pp. 1-59493-040-6 $14.95

A TIME TO CAST AWAY A Helen Black Mystery by Pat Welch. 240 pp. Helen stops by Aliceâ€™s apartmentâ€”only to ï€nd the woman dead . . . 1-59493-036-8 $12.95

DESERT OF THE HEART by Jane Rule. 224 pp. The book that launched the most popular lesbian movie of al time is back. 1-1-59493-035-X $12.95

THE NEXT WORLD by Ursula Steck. 240 pp. Annaâ€™s friend Mido is threatened and eventual y disappears . . . 1-59493-024-4 $12.95

CALL SHOTGUN by Jaime Clevenger. 240 pp. Kel y gets pul ed back into the world of private investigation . . . 1-59493-016-3 $12.95

52 PICKUP by Bonnie J. Morris and E.B. Casey. 240 pp. 52 hot, romantic talesâ€”one for every Saturday night of the year. 1-59493-026-0 $12.95

GOLD FEVER by Lyn Denison. 240 pp. Kateâ€™s ï€rst love, Ashley, returns to their home town, where Kate now lives . . . 1-1-59493-039-2 $12.95

RISKY INVESTMENT by Beth Moore. 240 pp. Lynnâ€™s best friend and roommate needs her to pretend Chris is his ï€ancÃ©. But nothing is ever easy. 1-59493-019-8 $12.95

HUNTERâ€™S WAY by Gerri Hil . 240 pp. Homicide detective Tori Hunter is forced to team up with the hot-tempered Samantha Kennedy. 1-59493-018-X $12.95

CAR POOL by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Soft shoulders, merging trafï€c and slippery when wet . . . Anthea and Shay ï€nd love in the car pool. 1-59493-013-9 $12.95

NO SISTER OF MINE by Jeanne Gâ€™Fel ers. 240 pp. Telepathic women ï€ght to coexist with a patriarchal society that wishes their eradication. ISBN 1-59493-017-1 $12.95

ON THE WINGS OF LOVE by Megan Carter. 240 pp. Stacieâ€™s reporting career is on the rocks. She has to interview bestsel ing author Cheryl, or else! ISBN 1-59493-027-9 $12.95

WICKED GOOD TIME by Diana Tremain Braund. 224 pp. Does Christina need Miki as a protector . . . or want her as a lover? ISBN 1-59493-031-7 $12.95

THOSE WHO WAIT by Peggy J. Herring. 240 pp. Two bril iant sistersâ€”in love with the same woman! ISBN 1-59493-032-5 $12.95

ABBYâ€™S PASSION by Jackie Calhoun. 240 pp. Abbyâ€™s bipolar sister helps turn her world upside down, so she must decide whatâ€™s most important. ISBN 1-59493-014-7 $12.95

PICTURE PERFECT by Jane Vol brecht. 240 pp. Kate is reintroduced to Casey, the daughter of an old friend. Can they withstand Kateâ€™s career? ISBN 1-59493-015-5 $12.95

PAPERBACK ROMANCE by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Carolyn fal s for tal , dark and . . . female . . . in this classic lesbian romance. ISBN 1-59493-033-3 $12.95

DAWN OF CHANGE by Gerri Hil . 240 pp. Susan ran away to ï€nd peace in remote Kings Canyonâ€”then she met Shawn . . . ISBN 1-59493-011-2 $12.95

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE by Lynne Jamneck. 240 pp. Is a kil er holding a grudge against FBI Agent Samantha Skel ar? ISBN 1-59493-012-0 $12.95

SEASONS OF THE HEART by Jackie Calhoun. 240 pp. Overwhelmed, Sara saw only one way outâ€”leaving . . . ISBN 1-59493-030-9 $12.95

TURNING THE TABLES by Jessica Thomas. 240 pp. The 2nd Alex Peres Mystery. From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggity beasties . . . ISBN 1-59493-009-0 $12.95

FOR EVERY SEASON by Frankie Jones. 240 pp. Andi, who is investigating a 65-year-old murder, meets Janice, a charming district attorney . . . ISBN 1-59493-010-4 $12.95

LOVE ON THE LINE by Laura DeHart Young. 240 pp. Kay leaves a younger woman behind to go on a mission to Alaska . . . wil she regret it? ISBN 1-59493-008-2 $12.95

UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS by Claire McNab. 200 pp. Lee, an American travel agent, goes down under and meets Australian Alex, and the sparks ï€‚y under the Southern Cross. ISBN 1-59493-029-5 $12.95

SUGAR by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Three women want sugar from Sugar, who canâ€™t make up her mind. ISBN 1-59493-001-5 $12.95

FALL GUY by Claire McNab. 200 pp. 16th Detective Inspector Carol Ashton Mystery. ISBN 1-59493-000-7 $12.95

ONE SUMMER NIGHT by Gerri Hil . 232 pp. Johanna swore to never fal in love againâ€” but then she met the charming Kel y . . . ISBN 1-59493-007-4 $12.95

TALK OF THE TOWN TOO by Saxon Bennett. 181 pp. Second in the series about wild and fun loving friends. ISBN 1-931513-77-5 $12.95

LOVE SPEAKS HER NAME by Laura DeHart Young. 170 pp. Love and friendship, desire and intrigue, spark this exciting sequel to Forever and the Night.

ISBN 1-59493-002-3 $12.95