way at al to make them come true. I realized there was not, and felt absolutely no better. I thought of her comment about my needing a longer rope and appreciated what she meant. I decided I was sort of like a paraphrased St.

Augustine: Tie me to someone, Lord, but not too close.

Final y, I slept. So, of course, the next morning I resented getting up. But I turned off my alarm and grumpily arose. Unsurprisingly, I got shampoo in my eyes and managed to put my finger through my hose as I dressed. I must

say I have never given much thought to witches in my young life, but I never thought unkindly of them. Why was al this happening to me?

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Turning the Tables

Jessica

Thomas

2005

CopyrightÂ© 2005 by Jessica Thomas

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543 Tal ahassee, FL 32302

Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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

Editor: Karin Kal maker

Cover designer: Sandy Knowles

ISBN 1-59493-009-0

For the Jimenez/Dravida Group. You are right, Jacquesâ€”itâ€™s a heart thing.

For Ronnie, with thanks for making so many things easier and more fun.

And for my editor, Karin Kallmaker, whose iron fist always wears a lovely velvet glove.

Chapter 1

â€œFrom ghosties and ghoulies,

And long leggity beasties,

And things that go boomp

In the night . . .

Mae the guid Lord protect us.â€

I recited the medieval prayer with great feeling and gestures, watching my partner out of the corner of my eye. â€œYouâ€™d better pay attention to that prayer, partner. Hal oween is only two days away. Times are getting parlous.â€

He stirred slightly and blinked one expressive brown eye, just to let me know he was awake and listening but unimpressed by my warning of supernatural activities.

â€œThere could be witches and black cats riding on broomsticks,â€ I added. He grinned to show strong white teeth and closed his eyes again. Nothing much frightened my partner.

I continued my dressing routine as he lay on the bed. Getting dressed involved more than the usual thought today. I had an appointment with the senior vice-president of the bank and thought it might be wise to look the part of

a solid citizen, especial y since I didnâ€™t know what the meeting was about. Yesterday the vice-presidentâ€™s secretary had cal ed and asked if I could make a two oâ€™clock appointment with her boss, Mr. El is. I said Sure, why? She

said she didnâ€™t know, she had merely been asked to make the date. I was curious. I didnâ€™t think I had an overdraft and doubted El is would know or real y care if I did.

I had, however, applied for a home improvement loan the week prior. My roof had molted a bunch of shingles in the last storm and I knew the time was nigh for repairs. I figured while they had the roof off, it might be time to add

that â€œmaster suiteâ€ the contractor had been suggesting. While no work would be done til spring, I had approached the bank to find out what I could spend and had not yet heard from them.

Stil , I saw no reason why someone of El isâ€™s exalted rank should be involved in that either. But I would visit those august hal s and find out.

Even as a child I had been fascinated by the big old bank, and my mother had sometimes entertained me with stories of its history. It had been established in Provincetown, Massachusetts, in the early 1800s and cal ed itself

the jaw-breaking Fishermenâ€™s, Widowsâ€™ and Orphansâ€™ Savings and Loan Association Bank and Trust. An enterprising Boston businessman had secured a banking charter, and sent his younger son across the bay to set up the

bank and run it.

Jericho El is had proven perfect for his assigned mission. A plump, friendly young man, he loved to strol Provincetownâ€™s streets and waterfront and engage in pleasant conversation. He never forgot a name or a face, he was

honest and he was shrewd. He soon discovered that the Portuguese bakerâ€™s daughter was as sweet and warm as the rol s she sold, and he got her into bed the only way he couldâ€”he married her, although I donâ€™t believe my

mom had phrased it quite that way. Thus cementing Provincetownâ€™s English and Portuguese populations, he could but prosper. The young El isesâ€™ mutual pleasures produced enough heirs and spares to guarantee a succession

of officers at the bank, and a series of sons and sons-in-law and nephews appeared on schedule over the years to run it. It remained a private family business up to the present, with no attempt to open a lot of branches and

snappy refusals for offers to merge. Even in these days of 800 numbers and fax numbers and electronic requests to Press 1 nowâ€”the Bank stil knew its customers wel enough for loans and mortgages to be issued more on

personal information than col ateral and credit ratings.

As time passed, the name reduced itself to a more easily handled Fishermenâ€™s Bank. Now that the fishermen themselves, thanks to various quotas and shortages, were an endangered species, I wondered if the name would

be reduced to a minimalistâ€™s delight: Bank. I hoped not.

The current building for Fishermenâ€™s Bank had been erected in the late 19th century and was probably the most impressive edifice Provincetown could boast, if you didnâ€™t count the rococo phal ic symbol of the Pilgrimâ€™s

Monument. The bank was located in the East End, in what had been suburbs when it was erected. In addition to the imposing building itself, there had been world enough and time in those days to include a pocket park with a

couple of now-large oaks and a smal fountain with pond, with nearby benches for those who wished to rejoice over or recover from their recent banking activities. Much of the park had later been paved to accommodate those

newfangled motor cars, but the fountain and trees and a patch of grass remained to give the il usion of space and serenity, although the benches were now usual y occupied by footsore tourists.

I loved the bank with its massive granite exterior and heavy doors, its polished marble floors and interior supports, the gleaming real brass tel ersâ€™ gril es, the thick vault door that stood open al dayâ€”reassuring you that the

bank was wel and truly solvent.

Somewhere in there, I was sure, lay bags of old English shil ings and Portuguese escudos.

I liked the way that voices seemed hushed in the high expanse, as if only important business was to be discussed, and soberly so, in those noble environs. After al , the business of a bank, whether yours or theirs, was money.

I liked the fact that it took itself seriously and required that you do, alsoâ€”unlike most of todayâ€™s banks, where you feel you could be in the waiting room of an upscale car wash. Final y, I was ready to keep my appointment. I added

a raincoat to my nifty ensembleâ€”the morning mist had lifted, but it was stil cloudy. While the forecast had not cal ed for rain, I decided to drive, just in case. I didnâ€™t want to arrive looking like a misplaced muskrat.

When I picked up the car keys, my partner jumped off the bed and went into his act. My partner is Fargo, my best friend and the absolute love of my life: a large black Labrador retriever with a heart the size of New Jersey, a

beautiful deep bel of a bark and a talent for acting that would put him up there with Olivier and Branagh in any match.

He began by nudging my hand that held the keys and wagging his tail in a frantic sweep, then he moved to stand between me and the door. Final y, he lay down in front of it, head between paws, eyes rol ed sadly back,

whimpering. My â€œOh, come on,â€ as I opened the door brought him scrambling to his feet and running for the car.

Traffic was light as I circled to go down Bradford Street, partly due to the weather, but also the month. October was transitional in Provincetown. Most stores were stil open, but merchandise was thin. Restaurants were cutting

back on hours and help. The larger motels were closing off rooms or wings. Some cottage units would stay open, hoping for winter rentals, and B&Bs were open for as long as it paid to heat the guest rooms. Tourists, our

col ective raison dâ€™Ãªtre, were thinning out.

They werenâ€™t yet gone. Weekends stil saw considerable influx. Two weeks ago had been Womenâ€™s Week, when what appeared to be the entire lesbian populace of the East Coast had arrived on Ptownâ€™s welcoming

doorstep. There were daytime seminars on subjects ranging from how to handle male advances to adoption procedures to portfolio diversification. There were special nightclub acts, and various parties, culminating in the

Saturday night prom, when al the locals came out to cheer the lesbians as they entered the Town Hal in their fancy dress or tuxedos or ubiquitous jeans. Weâ€™ve come a long way, baby.

Usual y I prefer groups of six or less, and I donâ€™t tend to be a parade marcher or sign carrier, but I must admit, I loved this weekend. There was a feeling of sisterhood, a focus on the positive side of lesbianism and a united

activism that moved me more than I cared to admit. Of course, there were some women who drank too much, some who became publicly obnoxious, a few who got into fights and doubtless many who found their way into beds

where they didnâ€™t belong. But al in al it was a very satisfying time.

The last big weekend of the season would be Hal oween, which conveniently occurred this Saturday. The costumes for the parade rivaled Greenwich Vil age in originality, if not in quantity, and both the private parties and the

bar scenes had the raucous intensity of â€œlive tonight for tomorrow we leave the trenches.â€ But it was a great season finale.

After Hal oween, Provincetown pretty much cleared itself out and cleaned itself up and shut itself down. People either went away or settled into a winter siege mentalityâ€”which was actual y kind of cozy. There were more year round people than there used to be, but after the seasonal throngs one stil felt a very welcome sense of space and quiet.

Like other businesses, mine slowed in the off-season months. My business? Iâ€™m a private investigator. My name is Alexandra Peres, but if you have any instinct for survival, youâ€™l cal me Alex. Like most PIâ€™s, I deal with lifeâ€™s

less blissful side. Most of my business involves insurance fraud. An amazing number of tourists decide to finance their vacations by falsely claiming to have gotten food poisoning or been injured in some motel or store, or

clipped by a â€œspeedingâ€ car in Commercial Streetâ€™s endless stream of turtle-paced traffic.

Several insurance companies keep me on retainer to sort out these claims, separating the possible from the merely frivolous. I also track down heirs named in wil s, people who have used creative pseudonyms on checks and

teenagers who have run away from home. These last assignments are usual y sad. Most times the kids are never located. Once in a while there is the joyful, tearful reunion, where al involved promise to do betterâ€”a promise

unlikely to last past next Tuesday. And final yâ€”occasional yâ€”as my least favorite part of my occupation, I snoop around some spouse whose affections would seem to have wandered afield.

Anyway, private investigation, thatâ€™s my main occupation. My secondary one, which gives me great satisfaction, pleasure and surprising income, is nature photography. Nothing spectacular, just things that happen to catch my

eye . . . like a dog curled up, safe from the wind inside a coil of rope on a trawlerâ€™s deck. Or a rain-wet starling on a fence, scowling mad at the world. Maybe a cat looking pleased under a sign saying, â€œBait for Sale.â€ I shoot them

in black and white mostly, blow them up, mat them and put a simple frame around them and voila! Several local art gal eries take them on consignment and sel them for absurdly high prices. But I donâ€™t complain.

I reached the bank and left Fargo sitting importantly in the driverâ€™s seat, while I headed for the side entrance. Inside, I made my way to a secretary perched behind a desk on the main floor. â€œHi, Florence, Iâ€™ve got an

appointment with Mr. El is. Is he in?â€ The question was unnecessary. I could see him through the glass door of his office, going over papers with the head tel er.

â€œSure, Alex. Heâ€™s expecting you. Let me just tel him youâ€™re here.â€

She returned a moment later, fol owed by a tel er, who sloped off to his cage with a preoccupied nod, and El is himself, who greeted me with a paternal pat on the shoulder and led me to his office. â€œAlexandra! How good to

see you! Come in, come in. You donâ€™t mind if I cal you Alexandra, not Ms. Peres, do you, dear?â€

Actual y, I minded Alexandra a lot less than I did dear, but I merely smiled. I stil didnâ€™t know why I was here. I sat down, then realized he was stil standing, looking down at his desk, and I started to get up again. He sat down,

looked up to see me standing, and started to rise. By then I had sat down again. It reminded me of those films where Americans meet Japanese and nobody can quit bowing. Final y, we both managed to stay in a chair.

â€œWel now, Alexandra, how are you? I canâ€™t remember the last time we were together, though of course Iâ€™ve known you since you were a baby. Your brother, too. How is Sonny?â€

What the hel was this trip down memory lane? â€œIâ€™m fine, sir, and so is Sonny. Mom, too,â€ I threw in for good measure. The only family members left were my Aunt Mae and Fargo.

â€œGood, good. Of course I see your mother frequently at church and other functions. A lovely lady, dear to my heart, a truly lovely lady. I cannot tel you how I admire her.â€

What was he babbling about? I remembered El is was a widower and for one insane moment wondered if he were going to ask me for my motherâ€™s hand in marriage. Fortunately, before I could make a total ass of myself, I

realized I was about two hundred years out of date (this bank did that to you) and the wrong gender for him to be asking my permission anyway. I managed to mutter some sort of thank-you and final y he got down to business.

â€œI understand youâ€™re planning some additions to your house and have asked us for a little help.â€

So it was about the loan. Al that blabber about my mother. Had he just been leading up to wanting her to put her house up for col ateral? I had a good bit of equity in my own and didnâ€™t like the idea of involving her. What was

going on here? â€œUh, yes, I did. I brought in the application last week with al the details.â€

He nodded and gestured toward a stack of papers. â€œI have it right hereâ€”somewhere. Anyway, thereâ€™s no problem with the loan. We can handle that for you. Youâ€™l hear from the loan department at some point. Youâ€™re not in a

rush, are you? You know how they are.â€ He gave me a rather wicked grin. â€œNow, another reason I asked you to stop by. We are going to be doing some redecorating ourselves here. I believe the last time we did that was in

1948.â€ He flashed that grin again. Who said bankers have no humor? â€œIn the big conference room weâ€™re going to purchase and display paintings by several local artists. In the smal one, we figure to use some of your more

sizable photographs, probably five or six of them.â€

I took a deep swal ow. What luck! Not only a nice chunk of money, but the exposureâ€”you should pardon the expression. I had visions of writeups in the local papers, other decorators using my photos, visitors asking, â€œWho did

the photos?â€ and â€œAre others available?â€

â€œThank you!â€ I breathed. â€œThatâ€™s extremely kind . . . thril ed to be selected . . .â€ I murmured on.

â€œJust tel ing you now, my dear, so when our decorator cal s to look at what you have available, youâ€™l know what itâ€™s about. And nowâ€”heh, hehâ€”we always like to make sure we get at least a few payments back on our home

loans, so I have a little assignment for you.â€

He shuffled some papers meaninglessly around his desk. â€œWe bil ourselves as a ful service bank, and nowadays that can mean anything, including a self-serve gas pump out by the ATM. But the one place I have always

thought us to be remiss was in financial planning, and I have final y convinced the board to change that. We are going to have a Financial Planning Service, wherein we can offer expert advice on retirement needs, estate

planning, savings for col ege expenses, etc. Weâ€™l be able to suggest securities, mutual funds, annuities, et al. And the customer wil be able to purchase them right here through the bank.â€

â€œThat sounds great,â€ I said, and meant it. â€œMy financial planning right now is a couple of CDs, some low-interest savings and a mutual fund recommended by one of the local bartenders.â€

â€œExactly. And Iâ€™m sure many of our customers havenâ€™t even had the benefit of Joeâ€™s financial acumen.â€ How the hel did he know I was talking about Joe at the Wharf Rat? Talk about knowing your customers!

He looked at me with a smal , astute smile and continued. â€œTo begin with, our new department wil have a couple of clerks, a secretary and a young man with a brokerâ€™s license to handle actual purchases. Weâ€™ve got them lined

up already. What we donâ€™t have yet, to head up the department, is a Financial Planner. Weâ€™ve narrowed the applicants down to one man and two women. Weâ€™d like you to check them out for us. Oneâ€™s in Boston, one in

Providence and one in Norwalk, Connecticut, so youâ€™l be running around a bit, I guess. And, of course, now that weâ€™re final y going to do this, everyone is in a hurry. Whatâ€™s your schedule?â€

I thought for a moment. â€œWel , tomorrowâ€™s Friday. I canâ€™t get very far in one day, and I doubt if Iâ€™d find people I need to see over the weekend. If I leave Monday I can probably have a report to you by the next Friday. Would that

be al right?â€

He nodded and handed me a folder. â€œI canâ€™t see how you could do it any faster. Thatâ€™s about what I had figured. Hereâ€™s the pertinent information on the three of them. Take a look at it and cal me at home this weekend if you

foresee a problem. Otherwise, weâ€™l hear from you in about a week.â€ He stood and I fol owed suit. â€œOh,â€ he added, â€œdonâ€™t bother getting deep into their personal finances. I do believe we may be slightly better equipped for that

than you, heh-heh.â€

Obviously he expected a return laugh, so I lobbed one over his desk and said good-bye. â€œThank you again, Mr. El is, for everything. Iâ€™l be in touch.â€

Fargo woke up and yawned as I approached the car. I let him out to stretch his legs, and he stood a moment, undecided. Then he trotted to a nearby tree and took care of fluid output. Next he walked over to the fountainâ€™s pool

for a gulp of fluid input. I cal ed him back to the car and put him in.

I tousled his marvelous big wide head. â€œFargo, my angel dog, we may not be among the rich and famous, but we are definitely among the solvent and may even become local y renown! If you wil let me have a beer at that

classy spa, the Wharf Rat Bar, I promise you your very own hamburger for dinner!â€

He sealed the pact with a great slurp of my face and we drove away. If there were clouds in the sky you couldnâ€™t prove it by me. I couldnâ€™t stop grinning. And I had total y forgotten any medieval Hal oween warnings. As it would

turn out, neither Fargo nor I would encounter a single ghostie or ghoulie over Hal oween weekend. As for long leggity beasties, my good friend Cassie was definitely long-legged, and God knows she was in a beastly mood by

Saturday nightâ€™s end, if that counts. Not a single thing, however, would go boomp in the night within my hearing.

On the other hand, we would have a few unusual occurrences. Peter Pan would fly into a rosebush. A good-looking blonde would have me using the guid Lordâ€™s name in resounding tones. Judy Garland would sing again. I

would receive a witchâ€™s curse. And the entire town, especial y the gay community, would wince over a particularly brutal murder that looked as if it had been committed by one of our own.

Chapter 2

I leaned on the bar and waited for Joe to see me. He straightened and spun a beer down the gleaming mahogany with a â€œHi, Alex. This Budâ€™s for you!â€

I caught it with a grin, replying, â€œYouâ€™re three m.p.h. under your usual speed, my man.â€ Great barroom wit taken care of by both parties, I had put money on the bar and begun to climb onto a stool when I noticed my brother

sitting at a back table with a pile of colorful brochures spread out in front of him like a giant game of solitaire. I walked back for a closer look.

Sonny, a.k.a. Lieutenant Edward J. Peres, pride of the Provincetown Police Department, glanced up from his travel flyers and smiled. â€œItâ€™s the decisions that kil you.â€

â€œEvery time,â€ I agreed. â€œLa Costa del Sol? Montmartre? The Lido? Buckingham Palace? Whither goest?â€

â€œGatlinburg, Tennessee.â€

â€œOh, of course. Where else? Are you serious?â€

â€œI didnâ€™t col ect al these for my scrapbook. Of course Iâ€™m serious. Paula and I are going down in a couple of weeks. Iâ€™m just picking out where to stay, and Iâ€™ve about settled on this one. What do you think?â€ He passed me a

folder.

The picture was of a large attractive building cal ed the Riverside Crest. As I opened the folder and glanced at the photos and text, I thought about my brother. Sonny was bright, ambitious, wel trained in his profession, an

excel ent cop, general y a nice guy andâ€”in a smal townâ€”regarded as quite successful. That is, until it came to women. There, he was an unmitigated idiot. In his stil -young life, he had managed to become involved with an older

woman, a married woman and numerous young single womenâ€” from which pool he had acquired two ex-wives, each now rearing one of his children at his expense and with as much time as he could give them.

At the moment, he lived at home with Mom, that being about what he could afford under the circumstances. The arrangement also included great meals, laundry, housekeeping and no questions asked about his weird hours

â€”which were usual y, but not alwaysâ€” a part of his job. Now, it seemed, he was involved with Boston-based Paula Wagner. She wasâ€”according to Sonnyâ€”beautiful, gracious, charming, great fun, uh-sexy, smart, friendly and

good humored. And probably, I thought, had praying mantis tattooed on her forehead for al but Sonny to see. Sonny was looking at me expectantly.

â€œWel ,â€ I enthused, â€œthis looks just great! Private decks overlooking the Little Pigeon Riverâ€”sounds like a fresh, bubbly mountain stream! And rooms with real fireplaces. Youâ€™l love that, Iâ€™l bet. Dining and dancing, how elegant!

Unless of course, itâ€™s square dancing. Uh, but tel me, Sonny, why Gatlinburg?â€

â€œItâ€™s the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains,â€ he poeticized. â€œEverywhere you look it has beautiful mountain peaks and crags, with al the leaves turning this time of year. They have al sorts of great old mountaineer and

Cherokee Indian craft places, and horses to ride and hiking trails and trout fishing out of this world and helicopter rides and a golf course andâ€”â€

â€œYou donâ€™t play golf,â€ I pointed out.

â€œPaula does. I imagine we can rent some clubs. Hey, I can bat a bal around, it canâ€™t be that hard.â€

â€œNo, I imagine Tiger Woods picked it up in no time.â€

â€œOh, you know what I . . . Anyway, weâ€™re not going al the way down there just to play golf.â€

â€œIâ€™m sure youâ€™re not,â€ I smirked over my glass of beer. Sonny blushed, much to my sisterly satisfaction.

â€œDammit, Alex, you know ful wel â€”â€

â€œSonny!â€ A breathless, raspy, beer-and-garlic-tainted voice floated between us. It was Harmon, uncontested winner for the title of Town Character. He drove a battered red-turning-pink pickup truck, somehow supported himself

doing odd jobs, occasional y helped out on a fishing boat and had cast himself as a grizzled, overal -clad Hercule Poirot in an ongoing crusade against drug dealers.

â€œSonny, Iâ€™m glad I found you! Thereâ€™s a boat down to the docks youâ€™d better go see. Itâ€™s one of them cigarette boats, looks like she could go a hundred miles an hour! Al painted black with lotsa brass al over. Now donâ€™t that tel

you something?â€

Sonny deliberately misunderstood, hoping to turn off the fountain. â€œSure sounds like a beauty! Thanks, Harmon, Iâ€™l try to get a look at her.â€

â€œNo, Sonny, that ainâ€™t it. These two fel as got off her, along with two womenâ€”al dressed fancy. Theyâ€™re gonna freeze later. And the men was wearinâ€™ them blazers with gold buttons and shirts with them ashcats tucked in the

col ar . . .â€

I managed not to laugh but didnâ€™t dare look at Sonny, who erupted with a sort of gargle. â€œYouâ€™re getting to be a regular fashion expert, Harmon. Are you going somewhere with this style show?â€

â€œYeah. See, I knew right off they was suspicious characters, so I walked straight up and asked real casual-like where was they from and why was they here. The one guy points at the boatâ€™s transom and says, â€˜Taking a ride in

the Black Duck out of Boston.â€™ â€˜Sheâ€™s a beaut,â€™ I say, to take him off guard. And he says, â€˜Yep. Sheâ€™s a repal ecate of my great-grandfatherâ€™s boat by the same name, which was a famous rum-runner back in the twenties.â€™ There it

is, Sonny.â€

â€œThere is what?â€

â€œWhy, there ainâ€™t any need of rum-running these days, but thereâ€™s other kinds of running. The boatâ€™s even named after a runner, and itâ€™s a family business! So then I asked them if they was leaving soon. The older man, he says,

no, they aim to walk around some and then have dinnerâ€”I reckon just kil ing time til they rendezvous with the mother ship and pick up the drugsâ€”and was there anything else I wanted to know. One of the women, she giggles

and says maybe Iâ€™d like her motherâ€™s maiden name. But I figured you could find that out easy enough, so I just said I hoped they had a nice evening in our lovely town . . . so as not to make â€™em suspicious, you know, and I came

looking for you.â€

â€œOkay, Harmon, thanks. Iâ€™l look into it.â€ Sonny had his head bowed over the brochures. â€œYou run along and donâ€™t worry about it.â€ Harmon left to join his cohorts at the front table, and Sonny shook his head. â€œNot make them

suspicious! â€˜In our lovely town!â€™ God, if theyâ€™ve even got an unpaid parking ticket, theyâ€™re headed ful -throttle to Bermuda by now! But you know, truth to tel , Iâ€™d kind of miss Harmon if I left.â€

His statement startled me. â€œI hope youâ€™re not planning on leaving,â€ I said. â€œI might even miss you.â€

â€œWel , you know, my paycheck is pretty wel gone before I even see it, between taxes and child support. And col egeâ€”the thought of col ege for two kids is a nightmare. With the way things are now, anybody with fairly good

police experience can do pretty wel in the security business.â€

â€œSonny, I canâ€™t see you guarding a parking lot or pacing hotel hal s.â€ I made a circle of my thumb and finger and pretended to peer through a keyhole.

â€œMe neither,â€ he laughed. â€œNo, Paula and I have talked about it. Her father and his partners own some big condo complexes and office buildings around Boston. There could be a job coordinating al the security departments. A

good job . . . three or four times what Iâ€™d ever make here. And you know, Iâ€™m pretty wel equipped to do it. Iâ€™ve gone to every police seminar the state gives. Iâ€™ve taken courses in criminal law and psychology, disaster response,

etc. Iâ€™m not entirely the dumb vil age cop.â€

â€œFar from it.â€ I smiled. â€œThatâ€™s what worries me. Wel , just make sure youâ€™l be happy wearing a double-breasted suit every day.â€ Sonnyâ€™s job did not require that he wear a uniform al the time, nor suits and ties. Today, he had

on tan slacks, a forest turtleneck and a tweed blazer, looking more like a young professor than a cop. Only the spit-shined low boots gave a clue to the cowboy who lurked inside. The colors looked good on him. He took after our

Portuguese father in coloring, with a complexion that always looked just slightly tanned plus dark, wavy hair and big brown eyes to kil for.

â€œBy the way, how old is Paula?â€ I asked innocently.

â€œAround your age, give or take.â€

That put her in her early thirties. Very definitely time to be getting married, if that was her game plan. Paula began to sound like a wealthy young woman who wanted/needed a husband but couldnâ€™t possibly marry a smal -town

cop and move to the boonies. She could, however, move the husband to the big city, get him a cushy job with Daddy and ease him gently into the country club setâ€”where he might or might not be happy. Of course, I had never

met this paragon. Maybe she was al Sonny thought her to be. But I doubted it.

Sonny and I had an agreement between us that was etched in steel, although we never discussed it: Thou shalt not comment upon any of my romantic partners. It was the only way we could remain friends, as wel as

relatives. Neither of us had a track record to brag about. I had about the same luck with women as Sonny, and the last thing either of us wanted was advice to the lovelorn from the other.

Of course, Sonny had bent that rule rather sharply last year when he rescued me from being shot when my lover turned homicidal, but I forgave him that trespass, since it had saved my life. I remained neutral and said merely,

â€œYouâ€™d miss the kids if you moved.â€

â€œYes,â€ he admitted, â€œThatâ€™s a definite. But, remember, my time would be pretty much my own, barring emergencies. I could come over any time, and they could come to visit me . . . us. Paula says she knows sheâ€™l love them.â€

I didnâ€™t even try to field that one. I just said, truthful y, â€œIâ€™d love to meet her.â€

â€œYou wil . Sheâ€™s coming down tomorrow. Weâ€™l have lunch or something. Iâ€™l cal you.â€ He stuck a pencil in his mouth and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. â€œYou look kind of dressed up. Something I donâ€™t know about?â€

â€œNot that kind of something, unfortunately. But, yes.â€ I told him of my visit with Mr. El is and he was genuinely pleased for me, especial y about the photographs.

Sonny had always supported my efforts in that field and treasured one particular photo I had given him of Fargo, front legs stretched to ful height against a scrub pine and laughing at a squirrel, who was poised head down,

two inches above Fargoâ€™s nose and laughing back.

â€œI have to go,â€ he added and began scooping brochures into a large envelope. â€œGot to see about reservations and plane tickets. But if you like, we can run your three job applicants through the computer for you. Probably clean

as a whistle, but you never can tel . Cal Nacho tomorrow. Iâ€™l tel her itâ€™s okay.â€

â€œThanks, I was going to ask you about that.â€ Sonny nodded, gave a half-wave and walked out. I heard Fargo give a joyous bark of greeting and knew theyâ€™d be communing for a while. One more beer, I thought, would make the

afternoon perfect.

I drank the beer and idly listened to the fishermen at the front table, conjecturing over who the people from the cigarette boat might be. Opinion was about equal y divided between bored over-rich or drug dealers who felt fancy

clothes cloaked them in respectability. I tuned out and thought about photos for the bankâ€™s wal s.

The increased noise level broke into my daydreaming. Four tourists had taken a table nearby. A cel phone rang and al four of them immediately reached for pocket or purse. Actual y, the cal was for a man sitting at the bar. I

looked more closely at the touristsâ€”two couples about my ageâ€”and wondered why on earth they bothered with cel phones on vacation.

I hated the tyranny a cel phone tried to impose. It attempted to invade my privacy anytime, anyplace, and completely forgot that its place was to be used for my convenience. In fact, mine spent most of its life safely locked in

my glove compartment where it could ring its little head offâ€”instead of my wringing its little head off. Sonny swore someday Iâ€™d be trapped in a cabin with a bear coming through a window, and Iâ€™d wish to hel I had my cel phone. I

told him when the bear came in one window, Iâ€™d just go out the other.

I became aware of three young men at the bar, giggling and punching each other as young men wil . One of them seemed to have a smal photo which was the cause of the merriment. He was a tal , nice-looking redhead, and I

thought he was a houseboy at the Old Boat Dock, a motel on the bayside catering mainly to gay men. In al probability his services there went far beyond that of sheet-shaker, and for which services he would receive sizable tips.

I doubted the snapshot was of his mother. I didnâ€™t know the other two but assumed they held similar jobs.

At the other end of the bar was retired police chief Jared Mather. He was rumored to be a descendant of Cotton Mather and I saw no reason to doubt it. He was a spare, upright man with gray hair and eyebrows and deep-set

unreadable eyes above a firm and humorless mouth. It was not hard to imagine him delivering a three-hour sermon of eternal hel fire and placing someone in stocks for mild blasphemy. He came in every late afternoon and had

two scotch and sodasâ€”never more, never lessâ€”and left. That told me he watched his drinking very careful y. Most people would occasional y go for three or be happy with one. He rarely conversed with anyone except to order

his drinks. Smiles were even more rare, and I wondered why he came.

Iâ€™d known Jared Mather forever. Heâ€™d been a good friend of my Aunt Mae and Uncle Frank, and I think she may even have dated Mather a few times after Uncle Frank died. Heâ€™d also been a good friend to Sonny. After

graduating high school, Sonny had seemed at loose ends, drifting from one no-go job to another. With both our father and Uncle Frank dead, heâ€™d had no male figure in his life, until Mather stepped in to fil the vacuum. He got

Sonny into the army and, when his enlistment ended, into the Provincetown Police. There, Mather had proved a good mentor, making sure Sonny took advantage of al special training available, providing guidance on how to

handle the people he encountered on his job, turning him into more than just a good cop . . . into a professional who took pride in his work and in himself. I think the two were very good for each other.

Yet my feelings about the chief were ambivalent. I greatly appreciated what he had done for my brother. I did not appreciate his feelings toward gays. The chief was deeply involved with some hard-nosed religious sect down in

Eastham, and the word gay to him was the proverbial red flag to the bul . He felt that homosexuality was an egregious sin against God, that being gay was a first-class ticket to literal hel fire and damnation, and that homosexuals

should at the least wear a brand to warn off innocent potential victims from their seduction.

That said, he never took his prejudices to work with him. I never heard even a rumor that he ever mistreated a homosexual in any way. I never heard any gays complaining that Mather had roughed them up, â€œframedâ€ them,

abused them vocal y or even been impolite. If you found yourself in his custody you were treated by the book, whether you were a boxer from Buffalo or a hairdresser from Harlem. I didnâ€™t like him, but I respected him.

After his retirement, when various gays had by then been elected to the Town Council, the Zoning Board and even the School Board, Mather ran for selectmen on a â€œTake Back Our Townâ€ ticket, against a young gay lawyer.

Even the townâ€™s most conservative citizens preferred the lawyer to the ex-chief and Mather had received a humiliating paucity of votes. Now he lived quietly in his smal house out near my Aunt Mae. He made wonderful y crafted

wood furniture and occasional truly striking carvings that found their way to some of our better gal eries. It was amazing to me that such a bitter man could produce such beauty.

Before long my stomach told me it was about time to live up to my promise to Fargo. I col ected him and we headed for the drive-in where I ordered a double bacon cheeseburger for him and a lobster rol , fries and coleslaw

for me. We took them home where I changed clothes while Fargo guarded the kitchen counter. I cut his burger into bites and put it into his dish, whence it disappeared with amazing speed, and took my own dinner into the living

room to watch the news.

After I ate, I realized that I must have been more keyed up about my interview than I had thought. I felt that almost overwhelming fatigue that comes with the letdown from stress. I clicked over to the History channel and propped

my feet up on the coffee table. I would have sworn I was watching a program about the development of modern battleships, but suddenly I was looking at the pyramids instead. I had just settled into learning whether or not they

had been built by aliens, when I woke to find myself in the midst of men marching toward the battle of Trenton.

The phone caused me to levitate about three feet and wonder briefly how I had got from Egypt to Trenton so seamlessly.

Sonny laughed in my ear, then said, â€œWel , Harmon was at least partly right, for a change.â€

â€œWhy? How? What happened?â€ I was coming awake.

â€œIt seems that as our boat people walked around town, they got a smal fol owing. By the time they got to the Sea Bounty Restaurant, it was a bit larger. When they final y came out, there was quite a crowd.â€

â€œWhy? What had they done?â€

â€œNothing. It developed that the owner of the boat is some rich Boston lawyer who was with his wife. The other man and woman were his guestsâ€”Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster, no less. Theyâ€™re shooting a film in Boston and

took the day off for some R and R. Instead, they damn near got mobbed. It took three of our people to clear the crowd and walk the foursome back to their boat.â€

â€œOh, God, that wil be al Harmon needs to hear!â€ â€œAlex, Harmon gets enough crazy ideas on his own. Donâ€™t help

him, or thereâ€™l be his picture in the Enquirer, pointing at an empty boat slip, and an article stating that Ptown has been invaded by people dressed as movie stars who are real y secret aliens sel ing drugs.â€

â€œIâ€™m going to bed now. My heart isnâ€™t up to al this excitement.â€ And so I did.

Chapter 3

The next morning felt chil y, although sunlight peeked disarmingly through the blinds. Fargo was a warm, welcome bal in the middle of my back. When he sensed I was awake, he sat up, yawned, stretched and thumped his tail

on the bed. Nice thing about dogs, they always awoke in a good humor. If heâ€™d had a problem yesterday, heâ€™d forgotten it; something might go wrong today, but he wasnâ€™t projecting about it. A great way to live. I was envious.

I let him out in the backyard, turned on the coffee, took a fast shower and dressed in my usual uniform of sweatshirt, jeans, crew socks and sneakers. I let the dog in and he addressed himself to the dry food heâ€™d ignored the

night before. I addressed myself to a cup of steaming Costa Rican coffee and the first of five cigarettes I al ow myself each day. I sometimes exceed that number, but lecture myself sternly whenever I do.

I was halfway through the second cuppa when Fargo began his â€œTo Beach or Not to Beachâ€ soliloquy. He sat looking longingly at his leash as it hung by the back door. He rested his chin on my thigh and rol ed his eyes. Final y,

he pawed my leg and let out a frustrated yip. Before he could cal the SPCA and report my cruelty, I stood up, grabbed my jacket and his leash and we headed for the car and Race Point.

On arriving, I parked and let him out of the car to run and fished my camera out of the compartment in the ever-present hope of a good shot. I never knew what it might be: a surf fisherman reeling in a catch, gul s fighting over a

dead clam, a little fiddler crab standing beside his hole, waving his single claw and daring the tide to cover him.

It was a top-ten morning, so fresh and crisp and sweet you couldnâ€™t help thinking of apples. It was windless and the ocean was calm. As I walked down the dune and along the waterline, tiny wavelets whispered that the ocean

was stil there, however. It might be serene today, but tomorrow it could be raging. It was always wel to be reminded of that.

Fargo ranâ€”a satiny, powerful, burnished black bundle of energy. He sported in and out of the chil water, sounding that deep bel from sheer exuberance, biting playful y at the water as it splashed him. The tide had uncovered

what looked like part of an old railroad tie, and on its upper end sat a seagul , gazing keenly about for the unwary crab. I angled slowly around him, looking for the best shot, and took one I knew Iâ€™d like. I was about to take a

second when Fargo could resist no more, and charged him.

The gul flew, complaining loudly, gaining height slowly in the stil air, and Fargo jumped hopeful y upward. I got a shot of Fargo at the ful extension of his leap, straining every muscle, as the gul flapped and struggled for

altitude. Fargo missed, but I didnâ€™t. I should have a photo that was a winner! Maybe Iâ€™d offer it as one to be used at the bank, give Fargo his place in the history of the town. It seemed like a great idea. It also reminded me that I

had work to do, and I turned for the car.

At home I settled dutiful y at my desk with the folders of the three finalists for Mr. El isâ€™s job as head of his Financial Planning Department. Two women and a manâ€”wel , ladies first. We had Nancy Whitfield Baker. Hmmm, I

thought, good power-name. It would sound impressive over a phone. Yeah, wel , Nancy, what else about you? Brought up in Weston, Mass. An only child, thirty-three years old. BS in business from Boston U. and advanced

courses for a Certified Financial Planner at Rol es. Heavy-duty stuff. Mother a housewife but â€œvery active in charitable works.â€ How nice. Father a VP at Independence Bank in Waltham. Now, that wouldnâ€™t hurt a kid going into

finance for a career.

There were no surprises thus far in Nancyâ€™s dossier. Sheâ€™d worked over a year at Dadâ€™s bank in Waltham, but then probably wanting a wider horizon, or less of Mom and Dad, she went with Fleet Boston Financial, stayed

nearly five years and moved to Merril Lynch. Now, after two years there she had worked her way up and was handling some smal er corporate 401-k-accounts on her own. It al sounded very good. Ambition, ability. Question,

Nancy: Why do you want to move to a rather smal family bank in a tourist/fishing town?

The next folder belonged to Cynthia Alice Hart, born thirty-one years ago and raised in Oak Hil , Connecticut. Two older brothers . . . sheâ€™d probably learned to defend her rights. She was also probably Daddyâ€™s little girl. Mom

and Dad owned a bookstore in Oak Hil , a bedroom town for Hartford. Cynthia took her business degree at UConn and her advanced courses at Brown University in Providence. She, too, had worked in a local bank before

returning to Providence to work as an assistant broker for Morgan Stanley. Two years later she went with a smal firm named Kudlow Investments (here someoneâ€”I assumed El isâ€”had penciled in â€œsmal old-family firm; excel ent

reputationâ€). Sheâ€™d been with them over four years now and handled most of their IRA and SEI accounts.

Cynthia had noted in her application that it was okay to contact Kudlow as a reference. That was unusualâ€”ordinarily you donâ€™t want your current employer to know youâ€™re shopping around for a new one. That bothered me a

little. Had Kudlow suggested she find a new home?

I moved on to George Hampton Mil s, a Harvard man, who said he was forty-two. I mental y added five, since he had not mentioned his graduation year. That didnâ€™t bother meâ€”people were afraid to be over forty nowadays,

sadly. They al lied. On the surface his career was impressive. Heâ€™d been with several prestigious brokerage houses, but his next-to-last job had been with Thalgrun Investors in Norwalk, Connecticut. He lived in Norwalk, and now

worked for a firm I didnâ€™t recognize in Darien. He was not a Certified Financial Planner like his two female counterparts, but â€œfelt that his long experience in, and personal studies of the market and its investors, rendered him

more than competent in that arena.â€ Thank you for sharing, George.

George hadnâ€™t put any dates on his recitation of jobs, either. That usual y meant you hadnâ€™t stayed long and/or there were some other jobs in between that you werenâ€™t mentioning. Not pertinent in a guy his age. Most people

had a skeleton or two.

His wife was a part-time real estate salespersonâ€”just the addition Provincetown needed. We already had about one real estate broker for every three buildings in town, including phone booths. I didnâ€™t need to wonder why he

thought of asking for this job; he gave his reasons forthrightly in his application. â€œMy wife and I wish to leave the hurly-burly of the New York City/Fairfield County society and return to a more value-oriented life, where we can

appreciate nature and enjoy the company of those for whom we truly care.â€

Sounded great, grammatical y, if nothing else. Of course, since they had no children, I wondered whom they were bringing along that they truly cared about and whose values concerned them. The family cat? Oh, wel .

Adhering to Sonnyâ€™s offer, I cal ed Nacho at the police station. I had gone to school with her when she was cal ed Mary Patricia Mal ey. Even then, she always had a snack in hand: nachos, chips, peanuts, popcorn, cookies.

The nickname of Nacho appeared when she joined the police force. By now, most people who ate like Nacho would be a 400-pound toothless wreck. Not herâ€”she stil slid easily into a size eight dress and had lovely straight,

white teeth. She was, in a word, disgusting.

She was also a computer whiz and a nice person. She agreed readily to â€œrun your critters through and see what floats up. Iâ€™l fax you whatever I get.â€ I knew if there was anything to float, it would do so for Mary Pat. I just had to

give her a little time.

While waiting, I began to draft a rough itinerary. It seemed that the quickest, easiest and probably cheapest way to go would be to take the first flight Monday morning to Boston, rent a car and check out Ms. Baker first, visiting

BU and Rol es and Fleet Boston. I wouldnâ€™t phone ahead for appointments. Iâ€™d learned that people found it too easy to avoid seeing you, and you ended up getting a minimum of information over the phone, from a file often in the

hands of a person who didnâ€™t even know the subject of your investigation. Anyway, I liked to see faces when I asked questions. So even though it sometimes meant waiting awhile, I preferred to arrive unannounced. Those three

cal s should about finish Monday, and Ms. Baker.

I pul ed out a road atlas to plan my remaining trip. It looked as if any way I went would be a great circle route. So I figured Iâ€™d visit the University of Connecticut Tuesday morning to check on Ms. Hart. Then Iâ€™d go down to

Norwalk to see what Mr. Mil sâ€™ stint at Thalgrun had to offer. Final y, on Wednesday I could swing back through Providence and polish off Ms. Hart. Unless I got tied up somewhere by something complicated, I might make it home

by Wednesday night! Great! Being on the road had long since lost its charm for me, even when someone else was paying.

I saw Fargo trot purposeful y across the front yard and looked to see what he was after. He went up to the gate, where the postman gave him his daily biscuit payola and then began to stuff things into my mailbox. I was not at

al interested in the bil s and junk he was delivering, but his very presence told me that it was lunchtime, and that I had little in the house to eat. It would be impractical, I told myself, to bother shopping today, when I was leaving

Monday. And there was nothing I could do for my trip until I heard from Nacho. As I tended to pack while chasing down the runway after my flight, I wouldnâ€™t do that today. So-oo, why not just whip down to the Rat for one of Joeâ€™s

delicious pastrami sandwiches? Why not, indeed?

As Fargo and I walked toward the Rat, two men approached us. Fargo moved closer to me and eyed them appraisingly. One man steered the other into the street to give us more than ample right-of-way, and both nodded

politely as we passed. Most people didnâ€™t tend to argue with a ninety-pound Labrador, and I always felt safe with Fargo in attendance. He and I did, however, have one little secret we had never shared with a soul.

In moments of great stress or alarmâ€”like the time a duck hunter fired both barrels of his shotgun as we stood nearby, or the time a little cocker spaniel bitch found Fargoâ€™s sniffs a bit too friendly and nipped his earâ€”in times

like that, Fargo tended to leap into my arms for safety. Or at least try. On two occasions I had found myself flat on my back with the dog sprawled across my chest, which had been humiliating for both of us. I had now learned to

do a quick sidestep and grab his col ar in moments of crisis.

We never discussed this one tiny fault. He was always there. He loved me. He looked impressive. It was enough. And neverâ€” neverâ€”had he asked me why on earth I was wearing that blouse with that pair of slacks.

Turning down the al ey to the Rat, we were confronted by a witch, wearing the traditional black hat and some sort of black cape over what looked to be a nightgown. At first I thought she was wearing a mask, but then realized

she real y was an old woman. A gray pigtail hung partway down her back. She had large, almost bony-looking ears, and her beaked nose and up-tilted chin almost formed a C clamp across her toothless mouth. Her liver-spotted

hands and wattled arms were outraised as she quavered, â€œBeware! Stay away! Visit not the den of Satan. Of demon rum do not partake. Your world will reel and objects break, and you will rue the day! Stay away!â€

I looked down at Fargo, pressed close against my leg, eyes rol ing to show the whites. â€œEasy, my love.â€ I chuckled at his strange behavior. â€œWe have just been cursed by a real live witch, thatâ€™s al . Tomorrow is Hal oween, you

know.â€ I stroked his head and knelt to hug him, as he was truly frightened. After a few comforting murmurs he stopped quivering and I stood up to confront the witch. â€œWel , you sure impressed my dog.â€ Where the hel was she?

Where could she have got to? She must have gone around me, up the streetâ€”funny I hadnâ€™t heard her.

I walked on down the al ey, tied Fargo to the anchor and went inside the Rat, half expecting to see the witch at the bar. As I paused to adjust to the dim light, I heard my name cal ed and spotted my friend Cassie, waving me to

her table. I walked through the determinedly nautical dÃ©cor of the room. Fishing nets were draped along the wal s, sprinkled lavishly with starfish, plus scal op and clam shel s. Lobster pots and markers dangled from open rafters,

and a couple of kedge anchors lurked in dark corners to bark the shins of the unwary. The engine telegraph from a long-forgotten ferry stood stiffly under the back window, its indicator frozen on â€œDead Slow Astern.â€ Which just

about said it al as far as the Rat was concerned.

I sat down and asked, â€œWhatâ€™s new?â€

â€œI ran away from home,â€ she answered. â€œLaineyâ€™s on a cleaning binge.â€

â€œI hear things like that and it makes me glad Iâ€™m single,â€ I answered.

â€œThere are those times, even with the best, which of course Lainey is.â€

Joe appeared to take my order. I looked at Cassieâ€™s platter of stuffed clams, sliced tomatoes and fries and immediately forgot pastrami. â€œJust ditto Cassieâ€™s order, Joe, only bring me a Bud instead of a Coke.â€

Cassie sighed, looking sadly at her glass of soda. â€œWant a beer?â€ Joe asked her.

She shook her head. â€œCanâ€™t. Iâ€™m flying.â€ He nodded and walked away.

We both knew what she meant. Cassie owned Outer Cape Charter Service, of which she was president, pilot, receptionist and mechanic. Her plane was a lovely little twin-engine Beechcraft which would carry six passengers,

seven if she let someone ride in the cockpit with her. She cared for the plane like a mother with a newborn babe, and I would have flown round the world with her in an instant.

â€œGot a busy weekend?â€ I asked.

â€œYeah. Hal oweenâ€™s always a buster. Iâ€™m picking up four guys at three oâ€™clock, another four at five oâ€™clock and five gals at seven. Hope Iâ€™m not late for that one. Then, I bring over six guys in the morning. And I get to take them al

back on Sunday, except for the six guys whoâ€™re leaving Monday midmorning.â€

Joe set a platter in front of me and I began to eat. His wife, Bil ie, made great stuffed clamsâ€”lots of clam, little stuffing. I was happy for Cassieâ€™s busy weekend. I knew her business, too, would drop off during the winter. â€œIâ€™m

going over to Boston myself Monday morning,â€ I said. â€œI just got the last seat on the Cape Air eight-thirty. I wanted to catch the early bird, but they were sold out.â€

â€œIf youâ€™ve got a problem, Iâ€™l run you over early,â€ Cassie offered.

I shook my head. I knew she meant it, but al she would charge me would be regular commercial rate, and I sometimes wondered if she charged me ful price for that. â€œItâ€™s not a problem.â€ I explained my trip and she nodded.

â€œOkay. But, anytime. You know that. Wel â€â€”she wiped her mouthâ€”â€œinto the wild blue yonder. Oh, say, you are coming to our party tomorrow night, arenâ€™t you?â€

â€œHel , Cassie, I donâ€™t know. You know, nobody I real y want to bring, yet I donâ€™t much want to come alone, either. Iâ€™m kind of a drone lately.â€

â€œOh, come on, youâ€™l enjoy it. There might even be somebody interesting. And Lainey wil be disappointed if you donâ€™t come. Oh, remember, you gotta be in costume!â€

â€œWel , yeah, I guess.â€

As Joe placed Cassieâ€™s check on the table, I asked him, â€œSay, Joe, whoâ€™s the witch spouting curses outside?â€

â€œI dunno, whatâ€™s the punch line?â€

â€œIâ€™m serious, some old lady was waving her arms around warning about demon rum and things spinning and breaking. I thought maybe youâ€™d hired your mother-in-law to provide a Hal oween scare or something.â€

â€œMy mother-in-law would make the Marines run for cover, but fortunately sheâ€™s parking her broom in Orlando these days. Iâ€™l go see who it is. Maybe scoot her down to Fishermanâ€™s Cove . . . sheâ€™d be right at home.â€

As Joe turned to leave I raised a big bite of stuffed clam, covered in sauce, toward my mouth . . . and dumped it in my lap. Joe gave his familiar sour grin and handed me his bar towel. â€œHex working already, I see.â€

We al laughed, and he and Cassie walked away, Cassie cal ing over her shoulder, â€œStay away from my airplane, lady, youâ€™re jinxed!â€

I concentrated on lunch and tried to get my good humor back, difficult with a splotch shaped something like Idaho on my pant leg. I heard Fargo give a couple of sharp barks outside. That was extremely unusual here, and I

looked up quickly. What I saw sent my good mood receding further into the background.

Ben Fratos walked in with his usual swagger. Ben was my only â€œcompetitorâ€ in town. Heâ€™d retired from the police force with an injured leg and supplemented his pension by becoming a private investigator. He was almost the

perfect caricature of a slimy PI, with sparse oily hair, a beer gut, an abrasive personality and an intense interest in anything scatological. Until a few months ago Ben had made some inroads into cases that might have been

mine, simply because he was a man and an ex-cop. That is, until a fairly famous lesbian artist had rented a condo in townâ€”complete with skylight, of courseâ€”to do some painting and, rumor had it, recover from a broken

romance. One step toward recovery is always a new hairdo, and while at the hairdresserâ€™s she met and became friendly with the town managerâ€™s wife. As time progressed, the manager began to wonder if his wife were not

participating too intimately in the artistâ€™s emotionalâ€”and possibly sexualâ€”recovery and decided to find out.

Now me, I would have set a lesbian to catch a lesbian, but the town manager picked Fratos. Ben trailed them hither and yon, subtle as an elephant behind a teacart, had they been alert, but apparently he turned up no romantic

activity. Then, the wife began visiting the artistâ€™s condo. Aha! The husband was said to be leaning al over Fratos. But poor Ben had a problem: there was no easy way to see into the second-story unitâ€”no nearby buildings with

facing windows, no nearby trees with sturdy branches. One evening the women went out to dinner and then to the condo. Ben was desperate.

He climbed the fire escape and onto the roof to peer through the skylight. He saw, doubtless to his disappointment, the wife seated demurely on a straight chair and the artist standing several feet away at her easel, brush in

hand. What the two women saw was a skylight fal ing around them, and a yel ing fat man flailing the air and thudding to the floor in front of them. Sensibly, they exited the building at warp speed, screaming bloody murder.

His fal had cost Ben some painful cuts and a nasty back sprain, so he lay there among the shards until several of his ex-comrades rushed in to investigate. The entire situation was ludicrous. The women were simply friends.

The wife was having her portrait done as a surprise for her husbandâ€™s birthday. The story took about two minutes to go al over town, providing considerable amusement to al who heard it.

Of course, it would have died down shortly, but some wit came up with the cry of, Itâ€™s a bird, itâ€™s a plane, itâ€™s Super Ben! The kids in town picked up on it, and the cal stil fol ows him from time to time. The ridicule cost him more

business than his ineptitude ever had. And most individuals, plus the insurance companies, had decided that my less dramatic approach was preferable to their needs. I, for once in my life, maintained a discreet silence

throughout. Somehow, though, Ben got it into his head that I originated the Super Ben sobriquet. I had not, and I deliberately never used it. But to no availâ€”in his mind I was guilty. I could feel his hateful little porcine eyes fol ow

my progress through the platter of food I was trying to enjoy, and decided to hel with him. He was not going to ruin my day. I was a better investigator than he was, any way you looked at it.

And if I ever decided to leap through a skylight to land at the feet of two beautiful women, Iâ€™d try like hel to handle it more like Errol Flynn than Jerry Lewis.

Chapter 4

Fortunately, Iâ€™m a simple soul. A ful tummy, a coffee and cigarette number three restored my good spirits. I leaned back in my chair and idly listened to the Ratâ€™s fishermen harmonize on their familiar screed: quotas, shortages

and price controls. Their outlandish threats to take up more profitable sidelines included running drugs, running guns and running people who wanted either to leave or to enter the country il egal y. They would do none of it, of

course, but it sounded macho. Harmon sounded the only note of caution.

â€œYou want to be careful who you deal with nowadays. Seems to me, ainâ€™t hardly nobody who acts like you think they real y oughta be, no more.â€ He was more right than any of us knew, but at the time I simply found his syntax

amusing.

People not being who they seemed turned my mind to the problem of a Hal oween costume, which thril ed me right up there along with root canals. A lot of people in town went to great trouble and considerable expense,

renting costumes in Boston or even New York. Some actual y had them tailor-made. Of course it was entirely too late for that, even had I been so inclined. And the only thing I owned that even vaguely resembled a costume was

one of those little black raccoon masks, tossed somewhere in a drawer. What a pain in the royal bootay!

Then I had a bright idea. Iâ€™d borrow Sonnyâ€™s camouflage fatigues left over from his army days. Theyâ€™d be comfortable. I couldnâ€™t stand the thought of tripping around in a sheet as a ghost or something. With the uniform cap and

the mask, theyâ€™d have to do. Problem solved.

I unhitched Fargo and we started for my momâ€™s house. Iâ€™d pick up the uniform and ask if she could keep the dog while I was on my trip for the bank. She always loved to do that. She was sort of like a grandmother with Fargo,

spoiling him rotten while she had him and then returning him to me with a comment that I real y should take him to obedience school.

Coming from the Rat, the easiest way to reach Momâ€™s house was to walk up the Francisâ€™s driveway and climb over the low wood fence that separated the properties. Or, if you were Fargo, to leap the fence graceful y and

pause for a brief rol in the stil -green grass. The house was typical for the Cape: pretty much square, two stories and an attic, with a smal ground-floor room added on long ago to accommodate things like the furnace and hot

water heater, washer/dryer and a few shelves. The house was in good repair, painted a light yel ow, with a green roof and dark green shutters . . . the color scheme it had shown throughout my memory.

Mom had seen us coming and held open the kitchen door. Everyone said I was the spitting image of her when she had been in her thirties. I hoped that comparison stil held when I was in my middle fifties!

As she leaned out the screen door to laugh at Fargoâ€™s antics, I saw a woman of some five feet eight inches, with a straight build and square shoulders and long, good legs. She had an almost-pug nose, a mouth that liked to

laugh and hazel eyes that gave away her thoughts and feelings. Her hair had been light brown with red highlights, but now held enough white hairs to give it a blondish-red cast. She looked great, my mom.

Inside, Fargo got water and biscuits. I got coffee and pie. Then I turned to the business at hand. â€œMom, Iâ€™m going to a party at Cassieâ€™s tomorrow night, and the price of admission is wearing a costume. I thought Iâ€™d wear

Sonnyâ€™s fatigues. Do you know where he keeps them?â€

â€œIn the upstairs hal closet. Is it okay with him if you borrow them?â€ Always the mother.

â€œSure.â€ I lied easily. Wel , Iâ€™d cal him later. I knew he wouldnâ€™t mind. Always the younger sister.

A few minutes later I came downstairs in my costume. The pants drooped over my shoes onto the floor, my hands were half hidden by the shirtsleeves and only my ears kept the cap from covering my eyes.

My mother looked at me critical y. â€œWel , at least youâ€™l never have to shoot anybody. The enemy wil take one look at you and die laughing. I suppose you want me to hem them.â€

I did. While she sewed, I explained my trip for Mr. El is, which pleased her greatly. She was always happy when my business didnâ€™t involve someone having done something il egal. And she was thril ed with the bankâ€™s choosing

to display my photographs. As expected, Fargo was more than welcome to visit while I traveled. She showed me how to fold some paper towels and put them in the lining of the cap to make it fit and then I asked casual y, â€œHave

you met Sonnyâ€™s new girlfriend?â€

â€œYes, I have been presented to that young lady of countless virtues. Did you know theyâ€™re going down to Gatlinburg on a vacation?â€

â€œSo I hear,â€ I answered.

â€œSheâ€™s here for the weekend, you know. She flew over this morning and Sonny brought her by for coffee.â€ Mom pushed her teaspoon around on the butcher-waxed white oak table. Something was bothering her.

â€œIs she staying here? At the house, I mean.â€ Had she plopped her suitcase down in Sonnyâ€™s room? No, heâ€™d never let that happen.

â€œWhy, heavens no, she didnâ€™t want to impose upon my gracious hospitality, and she felt the Tip of the Cape Motel would probably do for a weekend.â€

â€œDo?â€ I asked. â€œItâ€™s the best place in town.â€

â€œIâ€™m sure it beats heck out of your old room,â€ she laughed. â€œI actual y served them coffee and homemade crumpets in the dining room. Even so, she kept looking as if sheâ€™d like to turn the cup over and see if it had a â€˜Made in

Korea Exclusively for Kmartâ€™ imprint.â€

I laughed. â€œThat bad, huh? Do you think heâ€™s serious?â€

â€œI think sheâ€™s serious, and thatâ€™s worse. He wonâ€™t stand a chance if she real y means it.â€

â€œYouâ€™d miss having him around.â€ I raised my cup and looked at her over the rim.

â€œYes, I would,â€ she answered. â€œBut Iâ€™m terribly afraid heâ€™d miss having himself around. I donâ€™t think Sonny is meant for that kind of big city corporate life and country club society. And the last thing he needs is another failed

marriage.â€ Her voice trembled and then steadied. â€œShe cal s him Edward,â€ she added drily.

I didnâ€™t mention that I thought Sonny might feel he was hostage to two col ege educations and that a job with Paulaâ€™s father might be the ransom. â€œOh, God. Say, Mom, how did Edward get to be Sonny in the first place?â€

â€œJust one of those stupid things. Your Uncle Frankâ€™s father used to love to hold him in his lap when he was a baby and sing some old song to himâ€”something about climbing on my knee, Sonny Boy. Somehow everyone

started cal ing him that. I know itâ€™sâ€”what do the kids say?â€”hokey, but it stuck. By the time we realized it wasnâ€™t cute anymore it was too late.â€

She snipped a final thread and began to fold the jacket. â€œWel , hereâ€™s your costume, mâ€™dear. You wil remember to wash, starch and iron it before you bring it back, wonâ€™t you?â€

â€œWouldnâ€™t have it any other way! Iâ€™l drop it and Fargo offâ€” washed starched and ironedâ€”Monday morning.â€ She gave me a yeah-sure look and I went out the back door. I managed to catch my elbow and drop the uniform

onto the grass. Picking it up and refolding it, I muttered, â€œDamn that witch, sheâ€™s fol owing me!â€

â€œWhat did you say, dear? A witch is fol owing you? I donâ€™t see one.â€

I explained my encounter and Mother laughed. â€œProbably a disgruntled tourist. Buy some garlic and drive a stake through a head of lettuce or something. Bye, darling.â€

I grinned and felt sil y. An old woman enjoying moments of a second childhood was hardly threatening.

As Fargo and I walked home, I decided for the thousandth time I was lucky in my family. The three of us loved each other and we liked each other. We were there when it counted without being al over each other. We tried to

help, if needed, without sitting in solemn judgment. Aunt Mae completed our little family with much the same attitude.

It hadnâ€™t always been that way. When I was a kid, tension had been constant. I realized now it had emanated from our father. He was a rather bitter man who tried to cover that with strangers by being spuriously jol y. He was

assistant manager at the local A&P, and I always thought he felt he could have done better, that Mother and Sonny and I held him back in some way. He frequently drank more than he should, and while he was never physical y

abusive, he was often depressed or sarcastic and unpleasant.

When I was twelve and Sonny fourteen, the edge of a powerful hurricane hit Provincetown. My father struggled home from the store to find that we were already without electricity, the house cold, dark and dank. I was terrified,

and so was Sonny, though he tried to cover it by being loud and unconcerned. Mother tried to get some sort of cold dinner on the table. And Dad drank. It was a frightening, nervous evening. And we were al restless and uneasy

through the night.

Next morning a gale stil blew and rain stil came relentlessly down. Power remained off. In the night a tree had come down, taking power lines with it, leaving some of them draped across our driveway and blocking my fatherâ€™s

exit. He was hung over, tired, hungry and as miserable as the rest of us. He paced and snarled as the battery radio repeatedly warned listeners to avoid downed lines and stay inside until things improved.

Final y, exasperated, he donned his coat, saying, â€œI have to get to work. Those lines havenâ€™t sparked once since I got up. I know theyâ€™re dead.â€

In less than a minute, it was not the lines that were dead but our father. Dr. Marsten tried to comfort us by saying, â€œHe didnâ€™t suffer. He just touched the line and that was that.â€

That was far from that. In seconds we had gone from a family with a father, who may have been far from perfect but was present and reliable, to one without. We had changed from a family with a breadwinner to one without. It

was not easy, and Iâ€™ve never been entirely sure how Mom held it together, although Sonny and I tried to help as best we could.

Of course Sonny did not go to school to become an airline pilot. He spent a couple of years in the army and returned to become a police officer, now being groomed for a someday chief. And he would be a good one.

I didnâ€™t become a lawyer, but I did manage to go to community col ege and get my PI license. A devoted, if not particularly devout Episcopalian, Mom had gone to work forâ€”and stil worked part time forâ€”the local Catholic

Church. Both the priest and her rector regularly teased her about being a spy in the other camp and she loved it.

Over time we discovered a great pleasure in each other, in the lives we led, separately and connected. And we livedâ€”although not in the lap of luxuryâ€”at least on the knees of comfort. I looked at Fargo and realized you

couldnâ€™t real y ask for a hel uva lot more. Wel , maybe one or two things more.

As I draped the fatigues over a kitchen chair I heard the fax machine growling and walked into my office as the last of several pages came through. Nacho had not let me down. I took them into the kitchen, poured a Sprite and

sat down to be informed.

Nancy Baker seemed a young woman of true virtue. Nacho had checked police records in Boston and in her hometown. Her only â€œoopsâ€ was going forty-five in a thirty-mile zone, which ticket she had paid with a check which

did not bounce. No civil suits, past or pending. She might be dul , our Nancy, but she might be just what Mr. El is ordered. Boring, bright and hardworking. A woman you would trust with your money, even if you didnâ€™t want to sit

next to her on a long flight.

George Mil s surfaced on the next page with considerably more entries, and disturbing ones at that. Heâ€™d been pul ed over for a couple of DWIâ€™s, which had been reduced to reckless driving charges. He must have had a good

lawyer and a friendly judge to get that done. Another DWI, a couple of years later, had cost him six months loss of license.

Norwalk police had twice been cal ed by neighbors to his home on domestic incidents, no charges filed. Then theyâ€™d been cal ed to his home by neighbors again, this time for disturbing the peace during a Hal oween party

almost a year ago now. This sounded interesting. I hoped Nacho had been able to get the police report. Wel , sheâ€™d gotten at least some details and included this note:

Cops went to Millsâ€™ condo and finally got someone to answer the door. The place was a messâ€”table filled with food overturned on rug. Mills (in a toga) had accused a guest of hitting on his wife. The guest told Mills to

cool it and stuck his head in the bobbing-for-apples tub. Mills retaliated by beating the man with a violinâ€”you suppose he was Nero? Other guestsâ€”and Mrs. Millsâ€”cheering on the fight. Everybody busted for disturbing

the peace. Assault charges dropped. Some party! Nacho

I was laughing aloud by the time I finished. It certainly had been a lively little evening. It did seem, however, as if Mil s had a problem with his temper, his wife and his booze. I wondered if his ex-employer knew Mil s had a

drinking problem or perhaps if this incident had inspired him to correct it.

Just one more to goâ€”and here it was. Ms. Cynthia Hart seemed quite law abiding. Nachoâ€™s fax told me that Cynthia, too, had gotten a speeding ticket at one time and, in addition, had forgotten to renew some safety sticker

demanded by the State of Connecticut. She had paid both fines. End of story. No, not quite.

A separate page reported that Ms. Hart had been arrested for running a yel ow light, speeding, reckless driving, endangering the life of an officer, leaving the scene of an accident and resisting arrest. Good God, these

Connecticut people were a spirited group!

According to Nacho, the charges had been dropped, but somehow Cynthia had ended up cited for contempt of court. She added that the officerâ€™s notes mentioned, of al things, a stray cat. Now here was a story I wanted to

hear in detail! I hoped I might be able to pry it out of her employer when we met.

I made copies of the faxes and put them in my briefcase to take along on Monday just in case I wanted another look, placed the originals in a folder marked Ellis and filed it. Then I decided I real y had to go to the supermarket.

I needed things like dog food to take to Momâ€™s, beer, maybe some chips and at least enough food to last me til Monday. I was tired of eating out and Iâ€™d be doing more of it, so off we went.

Later that night I forewent watching a Celtics game for an educational docu-drama about Ernest Shackleton and his second trip to Antarctica. After two stark, horror-fil ed hours I was shocked to learn he returned to London to

a heroâ€™s welcome although he had lost his ship, failed in his mission, shot his sled dogs and fed them to the crew and caused at least two of his men to lose part of their feet to frostbite while he left them marooned.

So much for explorers. As I thought of it, they al seemed rather drearily alike, with a kind of heartless tunnel vision I would never understand. Maybe thatâ€™s what it takes. If they waited for people like me to explore them, places

like the polar regions, darkest Africa, the Himalayas and the Gobi Desert would al have map notations of Here Be Dragons.

Disgusted, I turned to the weather channel, where I learned that it would rain tomorrow morning, clear up for the afternoon and early evening, and rain again tomorrow night. That put the rain exactly at times I did not want it. For

tomorrow morning, when everybody else would be sleeping late or partying early, I had let myself be trapped by Mary Sloan into helping get her boat out of the water and into her garage. Twice a year Mary stalked the unwary to

assist in getting her boat in/out of the bay, always approaching those she would not have to pay. She felt free to criticize every move, and somehow remained dry while you got wet. I did not look forward to it.

Tomorrow night, of course, was the big Hal oween parade, which I real y did enjoy watching, fol owed by Cassie and Laineyâ€™s party, which mightâ€”or might notâ€”be fun. In either event, it al looked to be wet.

Sighing, I let the dog out.

Chapter 5

I made three bad mistakes Saturday morning. First, I should have cal ed Mary Sloan and told her I couldnâ€™t help her with her damned boat, that something terribly important had come upâ€” maybe flying down to Washington to

advise the President on gay issues, advice he sorely needed. Second I should have driven, not walked, down to the East End where she moored her boat. Third, I should have left Fargo home.

As it was, I put on a jacket and my old fishermanâ€™s cap, picked up the dogâ€™s leash and set off on a cloudy, chil y, but blessedly dry walk. We got to the public access way just as Mary pul ed up in her tan Hyundai Santa Fe. It

was always so pristine that I wondered if she drove home from work every night and put it in the shower. She frowned on seeing Fargo, but then, he didnâ€™t seem overjoyed to see her, either. She tapped her foot impatiently while I

took off my jacket and laid it on a nearby retaining wal .

As I straightened up, something thumped lightly against my chest and I looked down. Automatical y I felt for the locket and gold chain I always wore. It had been my grandmotherâ€™s, and the locket was engraved with her initials,

which were also mine. It was unique and opened to form three smal picture holders. In the largest was a cropped photo of my grandparents as a young couple. In the two even smal er areas were tiny headshots of my mother and

Aunt Mae as little girls. I treasured it. Thank God I had noticed it. In the activities to come I might wel have broken the chain and let it fal into the water without noticing. I careful y removed it and placed it atop my jacket while Mary

cleared and re-cleared her throat. We started to work, and the first problem was Fargo. He raced in and out of the shal ows, thinking this was a fine new game with me in the water, too! He also tried to help by jumping against

the side of the boat and then jumping on me with sopping wet legs and paws. Certain he would either cause an accident or find himself in one, I leashed him to a nearby fence. There he alternately whimpered and barked and

whined, while I gritted my teeth and Mary sporadical y cal ed out, â€œSilence! I say be silent, sir!â€ as if she were an English lord correcting a recalcitrant royal hound. I assumed she had heard it somewhere on TV.

The rest of the job went about as efficiently and pleasantly as those things usual y do, but we final y got the boat winched onto the trailer without serious incident. Mary stil looked clean and dry and terribly competent. I had

knocked my cap into the water, so it was cold and soggy on my head. I had somehow scraped my shin and it hurt. Half the bay had come in over the tops of my Wel ingtons. As I dumped the water out of them onto the sidewalk, I

realized disconsolately thatâ€”from the point of view of comfortâ€”it didnâ€™t much matter. I felt chil ed and unusual y clumsy as Fargo and I grumpily walked the couple of hundred yards to Maryâ€™s house.

It was easier to walk than try somehow to get Fargo dry enough and clean enough to ride in the SUV.

I helped her disconnect the trailer. As we pushed it into the garage, the rain startedâ€”immediately heavy. Mary looked uncomfortable. The normal thing would be either to invite us in or take us home. This was not to be. â€œI have

a dentistâ€™s appointment in a few minutes,â€ she said, truthful y or not. â€œIf you want to wait while I run in and change, Iâ€™l give you a lift downtown.â€ She did not invite us to come in while she changed. I was too discouraged to do other

than nod. Fargo and I stood in the garage doorway, watching the deluge with mutual y disgusted expressions. I was swearing never, ever to let this woman talk me into anything again. Fargo, I think, was mental y composing his

newspaper ad for a new owner. As we rode downtown (with Fargo in the back on newspapers and Mary ostentatiously sniffing), the rain obligingly stopped. We exchanged curt farewel s and Fargo and I began the squishy walk

home.

When we were stil blocks from my house, it started to sprinkle. By the time we reached the Green Mansions Inn, a gay menâ€™s guesthouse, it was a steady drizzle. Green Mansions was a marvelous old Victorian house on the

bay with green shingles and white trim and a wonderful wraparound veranda. Usual y studded with large Edwardian wicker fan chairs and smal tables, it was bare now except for a rather badly warped wooden table, with what

looked to be a broom handle serving as one of its legs. For years the inn had been owned by two gay men named Peter and the Wolf. Their real names were Peter Mel on and Frank Wolfman, but some long-ago wit had coined

the sobriquet and so they had remained. Now in their early sixties, they catered to an older crowd, and it was said their invariably pretty houseboys would do considerably more than bring you fresh towels if you asked nicely and

tipped hugely.

Wolf was on the porch col ecting the mail, and looked up as we passed. â€œAlex! Youâ€™re getting soaked! Get in here and dry off til this passes. Are you crazy? Itâ€™s cold out here! Let me give you a warm drink.â€

We had already ascertained that I was crazy and God knew I was cold. My feet felt like those of Shackletonâ€™s feckless crewmembers. Someone sounding motherly and holding out promise of hot drinks was welcome indeed. I

climbed the steps and shed my jacket and boots in the hal way. Wolf hung up the jacket and wisely left the boots alone. As Fargo and I padded damply into the living room, Wolf cal ed up the stairs, â€œPeter, Alex Peres is here.

Bring down a pair of your heavy crew socks, theyâ€™re smal er than mine. And a towel for Fargo.â€

Peter came downstairs with towel and socks in hand and a quizzical expression on his round face, took one look at me, said â€œOh, you poor thing,â€ tossed me the socks and cal ed over his shoulder, â€œLewis! Dear boy, do make

a pot of tea quicker than quick! Bring it in the living room, please. Tea for three, dear boy.â€

Fol owing Peter was an enormous gray-and-white cat named Pewter, after the cat in the Rita Mae Brown books. Fargo tensed and I muttered, â€œFar-go!â€ warningly. He seemed to sense this was not the time to rearrange this

Victoriana-fil ed room, and Pewter strol ed casual y toward the kitchen as if it had been her original plan. I began to towel the dog. One crisis avoided.

The socks felt almost sinful y soft and warm, and the tea tray made me feel better by its very appearance. Lewis set it on the coffee table and began to pour. It struck me as somewhat incongruous, as the tea set was obviously

sterling, that there were three nondescript mugs on the tray instead of cups and saucers of the Royal Doulton I was sure they possessed. Maybe Lewis figured I wasnâ€™t worth the wash-up.

He asked me if I wanted milk, and as I looked at him I realized he was one of the three young men I had seen in the Wharf Rat the other day. I asked merely for one sugar. He complied and as he handed me the mug I

observed a recent bad scar on his hand and wondered idly what had happened. It looked as though it should have been stitched.

Reaching for the mug, I noticed his bright little eyes drop with interest to the heavy signet ring I wore and then rise to stare at my breasts. Clever detective that I am, it took me almost no time to determine that he probably was

not admiring my sexy sweatshirted figure, but my locket. I looked at him sharply and he covered himself with a simpering smile on his ful , pouty mouth. â€œI was just admiring your beautiful gold jewelry, Ms. Peres. Iâ€™l bet theyâ€™re both

your favorite family heirlooms, arenâ€™t they?â€

I murmured noncommittal y and wondered why anyone would cal him dear boy . And I thought that if he were my houseboy Iâ€™d keep my jewelry in the safe, along with any cash. I realized Peter was standing over me with a

bottle of rum and extended my mug grateful y. I explained why I was wandering the streets in my soaked condition and they both laughed.

â€œMary got you, too, did she? Sheâ€™s gone through about everybody in town by now. She got Wolf a couple of years ago. He stepped in a hole and hurt his ankle and she never even drove him home! The poor baby had to

hobble to a pay phone and cal me to come and get him.â€ Wolf looked more like a fading Ashley Wilkes to me than a poor baby, and Peter was surely a chubby leprechaun with male pattern baldness. No matterâ€”they were both

white knights for my money today.

â€œYes,â€ Wolf sighed dramatical y. â€œIt was extremely painful. Now, when we see her coming, we cross the street and make the sign of the cross.â€ He held his crossed index fingers in front of him in the universal keep-the vampires-away sign. We al laughed and began to chat, of course, about the weather. Peter was afraid it would ruin the parade.

â€œAre you two going to be in it?â€ I asked.

â€œNo,â€ Peter answered. â€œThose darling people at the Crown and Anchor have asked me to do my little Judy Garland piece and I just couldnâ€™t refuse. Iâ€™l be busy getting al made up while the paradeâ€™s on. Iâ€™m getting too old, of

course, but one hates simply to give in, doesnâ€™t one?â€

â€œOne does,â€ I concurred. â€œWhat about you, Wolf?â€

He shrugged and placed his mug on the coffee table. â€œIâ€™m not much on costumes or parades. Oh, I love to see them. I just donâ€™t care about being in them. And you, Alex?â€

â€œIâ€™m with you. Iâ€™d rather watch than march. I am wearing a costume only because Lainey and Cassieâ€™s party demands it. And the costume itself is hardly inspiredâ€”itâ€™s my brotherâ€™s old army uniform.â€

â€œYou should wear a tux,â€ Peter stated. â€œHave you ever noticed how great women look in tuxes? Real y feminine women look terribly soignÃ© and sexy, and masculine women look terribly suave and sexy. Youâ€™d look good in one

â€”a little mixture of both, I think.â€ He eyed me appraisingly.

I felt myself blush and hated it. â€œWel , itâ€™s too late now,â€ I replied. â€œAnd I am taking up your day. Is the inn fil ed this weekend?â€

â€œOh, yes, every room and then next week we drop dead.â€ Wolf waved vaguely toward the two upper floors. â€œA few rooms booked in November, but I think we may cancel those and leave early for Florida. We have a marvelous

condo on South Beach that looks better al the time. We are getting tired of al the guesthouse turmoil and may just put Green Mansions up for auction to whoever wants to work more hours than a fireman. I may take Rima, here,

with meâ€”and Pewter of course,â€ he added with a grin.

â€œOh, donâ€™t leave, Ptown wouldnâ€™t be the same.â€ As I heard myself mouth the platitude, I realized I meant it.

â€œWel , we may do one more season.â€

â€œYouâ€™ve been saying that for two years,â€ Peter pouted.

I laughed. â€œWel , listen, thank you both for resuscitating me. It was truly a noble deed. I think the rain has stopped again, so Iâ€™l run while I can.â€ Somehow I set the mug down on the edge of the coaster, and it tipped over. Tea

immediately formed a growing circle on the antique coffee table and began to drizzle onto the Persian rug.

â€œOh, God, Iâ€™m so sorry!â€ I tried to wipe up the mess with a hopelessly tiny napkin.

Wolf cal ed Lewis to bring paper towels, and the young man began the mop-up with an amused glance at me. Even as he mopped, I noticed that either the heat of the tea or the alcohol was making the top of the table turn

white. That didnâ€™t help my embarrassment.

â€œWolf, Peter. What an oaf I am! Look, if you need to refinish the table . . . have the rug cleaned, please, please donâ€™t hesitate . . . bil me . . . be more than happy . . .â€

Peter rescued me from my rambling monologue. â€œDear Alex, stop fretting. A little furniture polish wil get rid of the spot, and you wouldnâ€™t believe some of the things that have spil ed on that rug with no harm done. Now just

shush!â€

â€œI think I real y am bewitched!â€™ I blurted.

â€œWhat?â€ They chorused.

â€œThis crazy old woman in a witch outfit stopped me outside the Rat the other day and screamed something about devilsâ€™ dens and demon rum, and then that things would reel and break. Scared poor Fargo half to death. And,

idiotic as it is, ever since, Iâ€™ve been dropping things and walking into doors. I donâ€™t believe in witchcraft but itâ€™s maddening!â€

â€œOh, my dear,â€ Peter chortled delightedly. â€œMaybe she real y was a witch. Dogs know! Nowâ€â€”he turned to Wolfâ€”â€œright after Hal oween weâ€™l have a smal party and do an exorcism. Wonâ€™t that be fun?â€

Wolf smiled and nodded and I took the opportunity to get out before we al sat down to make up the guest list. I went to the entryway, fol owed by the two men. â€œI real y must go before I do further damage. Peter, Iâ€™l get your

socks back to you soon.â€

â€œNo rush, sweet girl, no rush. Forgive me for rushing, Alex.â€ He consulted a spot on his wrist where a watch should have been. He looked blank for a moment and then said, â€œOh, I must have left it in the kitchen. Anyway, Iâ€™ve got

a rehearsal shortly.â€ He cal ed after me as Fargo and I reached the sidewalk. â€œStop by the Crown tonight . . . around nine!â€

â€œI wil ,â€ I cal ed back, deciding that I real y would. I had never seen his â€œlittle Judy Garland piece . â€I wondered if he would do it straight or, as he would say, camp it up.

Fargo and I made about fifty feet before the drizzle started yet again. I was quickly beyond feeling, and didnâ€™t much care when it stopped once more. I took off my sodden cap, shook it out and held it in front of me to drip as I

ran my other hand through my equal y sodden hair.

â€œPaula, you wil notice this poor woman is one of Provincetownâ€™s sadder cases, a combination of drunkenness and paranoia.â€

I recognized my brotherâ€™s voice, and looked around just as his hand reached out and dumped a bunch of coins into my extended cap. â€œYouâ€™ve been sleeping under the docks again, Alexandra. Now why donâ€™t you go home to

your poor mama and behave like the young lady you were raised to be?â€

I pocketed the coins and turned toward him. â€œThankee, kind sir, for the money which I wil spend on cheap whiskey, and for the good adviceâ€”for whichâ€”Iâ€”wil â€”kil â€”you!â€ I put my hands around his throat and began to shake

him.

He was laughing too hard to fend me off successful y, but he did manage to gasp out, â€œThe pastries! Donâ€™t make me drop the pastries!â€

I let go of him and turned to Paula, who was working on a smal , tight smile. I could hardly blame her. â€œIâ€™ve heard so many nice things about you, Paula. Itâ€™s good to meet you at last.â€ I had to admit, she was super good looking!

Blonde hair in a careful y careless cut, blue eyes and a figure that belonged on a fashion show runway. But her mouth, I thought, was the just teeniest bit hard and her eyes just a smidge close.

I put out my cold wet hand, which she took for a nanosecond and murmured something inaudible.

Sonny then took over. â€œHere, the carâ€™s right here. Get in, Alex. And you, Fargo, poor boy. You both look like tornado victims.â€ He shooed us to his car and put us in the back seat. He and Paula got in front, and she turned

partway around, graciously hobnobbing with the serfs.

â€œWe were on our way to your place anyway,â€ she said. â€œHow very fortunate we found you when we did.â€ She sniffed and rol ed her window down an inch. I had the uncomfortable feeling that my nose was running and reached

into my coat for a packet of tissues. Instead, I pul ed out a grubby sock, which I hastily shoved back, in the hope that no one had seen it. Unhappily, I noticed Paulaâ€™s eyebrows were just about up to her hairline. I thought of trying to

explain and gave it up as impossible. Then I sniffed too, and it was inescapable . . . the unique and al -pervading aroma of parfum du wet dog.

The three-block drive lasted about an hour, and then Sonny was hustling us al into my house. â€œCome on, come on. Iâ€™l rub Fargo down. Alex, go get a hot showerâ€”now! Youâ€™re so cold youâ€™re twitching and thatâ€™s not real y good.

Go!â€

I went. By the time I returned, miracles had taken place. Sonnyâ€”somehow I knew Paula had had no part in the activityâ€” had made the dirty dishes disappear from the kitchen sink, made fresh coffee, and put a cloth on the

dining room table, along with my good luncheon plates, cups and saucers. The platter of the pastries he had brought included my favorite French crul ers and cranberry-walnut scones. Even Fargo was dry and shiny and already

snoring lightly in his bed. I was impressed. I was also starved but made a desperate effort to mind my manners. I figured Sonny deserved it.

â€œWel , you look better,â€ Sonny said. â€œYou real y were not in great shape. What on earth happened to you?â€

I told them. Sonny laughed and Paula tried to look interested. â€œMary got you, too, did she?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œThat seems to be the standard reply whenever Mary Sloan is mentioned. A couple of years ago she trapped Frank Wolfman and sprained his ankle for him and left him to walk home. That also seems standard.â€ I pul ed up

the leg of my slacks to show my wounded shin.

â€œOuch,â€ Sonny winced.

Paula grimaced. â€œOoh, grisly! Should you have someone look at that?â€ Did people real y go to doctors for scraped shins?

â€œOh, I imagine sheâ€™l make it,â€ Sonny replied for me. â€œYeah, Mary got Mitch last spring. She got the boat in the water by herself but then got her SUV stuck in the sand. Mitch happened to be driving by and stopped to helpâ€”in

uniform, on duty. Instead of putting him in the cab and her pushing, she drove the SUV and Mitch was in back. They got her going and she took off like a jetâ€” and just kept going. Left Mitch standing up to his ankles in water and

looking like heâ€™d been sprayed with stucco.â€

â€œGod,â€ I sighed. â€œMary Sloan is a real threat. Does she have a list of victims or just throw a dart at the phone book?â€

â€œI think it has something to do with chicken bones and the ful of the moon.â€ Sonny tipped back in his chair. I hated it when he did that.

â€œLook, Alex, we real y were coming over here. I wanted to tel you that we moved our vacation up. I managed to rearrange the tickets and hotel reservations.â€ He sounded slightly harried. â€œWeâ€™re going to fly to Boston late this

afternoon with Cassie. Otherwise sheâ€™d be deadheading over to pick up a fare, so she gave us a good price. And weâ€™l fly down to Knoxvil e in the morning and rent a car to drive over to Gatlinburg.â€

â€œWhy the sudden change?â€

Paula looked at me earnestly across the table. â€œI real y feel that Edward is so stressed out, itâ€™s just imperative he get some relaxation right away. And Iâ€™m done in myself.â€ She gave a brave little smile. â€œI had to decorate a five room model apartment in one of Daddyâ€™s condos and itâ€™s about finished me.â€ She sighed, and her head drooped piteously.

I was curious. â€œWhatâ€™s got you so worn out, Son . . . ah, Edward?â€

Paula answered for him. â€œWel , first, thereâ€™s been that terrible arson case.â€

I was startled. Fire was always a danger in Provincetown. Lots of old wooden buildings built close together, a hot blaze and a high wind could spel disaster. But arson? I looked at Sonny.

He looked back neutral y. â€œLiz Mason,â€ he said succinctly.

Oh, I knew about that. Lizâ€™s boyfriend kept a bunch of tools and fishing gear in her garage. It burned down, and she swore her ex-husband had set it.

â€œAh, the Mason case,â€ I nodded sagely. â€œItâ€™l be a long time before Provincetown forgets that conflagration!â€

Sonny glared.

â€œAnd that giant car-theft ring,â€ Paula added.

Goodness, we were beginning to sound like Chicago in 1930. But I figured that one out myself. A few weeks back, a bunch of teenagers got beered up and made some sort of bet about who could hot-wire and joyride the

most cars out to Race Point in a single night. They were perking right along, emptying out the town, when a cop noticed what seemed an awful lot of traffic for an October night.

I shook my head. â€œYes, that was a mind-boggling chal enge. Wel , Edward, I can see why you need to get away. I take it you got the time off okay?â€

â€œYes. Chief Franks wil be available if needed. His wife is doing much better. They seem to have stabilized whatever was causing her irregular heartbeat. And Captain Anders is around. At least he looks like a cop, until you

see the only paper on his desk is Barronâ€™s. So yeah. Itâ€™s okay. Mitch wil be able to handle things. Heâ€™s a lot smarter than he thinks he is, kind of a nice reversal nowadays. He just needs a little confidence.â€

Sonny leaned across the table and handed me a three-by-five card. â€œThis is where weâ€™l beâ€”phone and room numbers are there, too. You are the only soul who has this, so donâ€™t lose it. And do not give it to anyone unless you

think something is real y wrong. Mitch or Anders wil want to cal if somebody runs a red light. Mother wil want to check on us if she hears a plane crashed in Argentina. Mary Sloan wil cal if her Santa Fe gets splashed. Donâ€™t ruin

the first real vacation Iâ€™ve had in years.â€

â€œDonâ€™t forget, Sonny, I wonâ€™t be here either.â€ I gave in and hooked a second crul er. â€œNot Monday through Wednesday, anyway. You sure you donâ€™t want to leave it with Mom? You can trust her.â€

â€œNah, not for just three lousy days.â€

â€œWel , Iâ€™m sure youâ€™l have a real y grand time,â€ I said.

Paula placed her hand tenderly on Edwardâ€™s arm. â€œHe just insisted thatâ€™s where we go. It sounds just a tiny bit touristy, but Iâ€™m sure the scenery is lovely.â€

I took the last bite of my crul er and managed not to lick my fingers. â€œWel , Iâ€™m sure it is, too, and Edward tel s me the crafts are quite beautiful. They fashion lovely pottery and hand-woven cloth. Not to mention old-time

instruments like dulcimers, hand-carved just like they were nearly four hundred years ago.â€ Why did my conversation with Paula sound as stilted and Victorian as the Green Mansions dÃ©cor?

â€œYeah.â€ Sonny had no such problem. â€œThat fascinates me. I read up on the area a little bit. Did you know there are some backwoods areas down there where the people stil speak a sort of Elizabethan English dialect?â€

Paula slapped his hand playful y. â€œOh, Edward, of course they speak English. I know itâ€™s terriblyâ€”ah, ruralâ€”but even so, itâ€™s stil America down there.â€

I did not look at Sonny. â€œIâ€™d better let Fargo out.â€ I excused myself. By the time I got back, they had their coats on. Sonny wished me luck on my trip. I wished them fun on theirs. Sonny and I hugged. Paula favored me with

another brief handshake and they left.

Fargo and I both made it to the couch before we fel asleep.

We awoke two hours later, and I at least was much refreshed. I let him out, fil ed his water dish, fil ed his dry food dish and started frying some bacon. He had two slices, plain. I had two BLTs with extra mayo, thanks, and it was

time to begin my evening.

The fatigues now fit reasonably wel , and after some moments of panic I found the little raccoon mask in a file drawer. I began to explain to Fargo why he had to stay at home tonight. He explained fervently to me why that

should not be so. This time I won.

The players were now al in their places in our little microcosm of the worldâ€™s stage, ready for their entrances and exits, and some in their time to play many parts.

I put on my cap and went out.

Chapter 6

Just in case I was fighting any residual chil , I decided a drink was in order. Also, that would give me a chance to give my costume its first tryout on Joe, the bartender. I turned down the al ey toward the Wharf Rat, pul ing on my

little mask as I walked. In reality, I wasnâ€™t chil ed at al . Not wishing to wear a coat, I had put on a long-sleeved T-shirt under the uniform and was quite comfortable. I just wanted a drink and some conviviality which might put me in

a holiday mood, okay?

The place was fairly busy despite the early hour. As I walked up to the bar I noticed Chief Mather in his usual spot, staying late on this spectral eve. He glanced up briefly, but I wasnâ€™t sure whether he recognized me or not. In

any event, he didnâ€™t speak.

Joe, on the other hand, ambled over as if I always appeared at his bar in army combat camouflage. â€œBeer or bourbon, Alex?â€ So much for disguise. I opted for bourbon over ice and turned around on the stool to survey the

crowd.

As my barstool spun, I felt slightly off-balance and reached back to grab the bar. I missed and knocked over the beer of the man next to me. Joe quickly mopped it up and gave the man another, just shaking his hands

negatively when I offered to pay for it. This real y was beginning to bug me. I have never been a bal erina . . . but Iâ€™ve never been a trained elephant either. Resolutely, I refused to worry about it and crowd-watched.

Two queens in matching light orange silk sheathes split up to mid-thigh sat at one table. Kil er looks . . . gorgeous legs, short black sculpted curls, kewpie dol makeup, long cigarette holders. Very nineteen twenties, very good!

Somebody had stocked the old-fashioned bubbling neon juke box that played only golden oldies, which I real y like. The Beatles came on with Michelle and that unique haunting harmony. The â€™20s girls got up to dance with

their tuxedoed escorts. I heard Mather cal for a refil in a sour voice.

A table of two straight couples were near me. Apparently tourists, they had no costumes but had wanted to join the fun and had somewhere found party hats and noisemakers. I liked their attitude. The music switched to Nina

Simone, and two young girls joined the dancers, staring soulful y at each other with that first-love look that actual y vibrates with the certainty it wil last forever.

Iâ€™d never cared much for Simoneâ€™s style, but I liked what I had heard about the woman. Sheâ€™d got her first real professional break at the Atlantic House here. And for years afterwardâ€”long after the A-House would have been

professional y â€œbeneathâ€ herâ€”she had returned each season as a thank-you. Maybe I liked her style, after al .

I turned back to my drink and a pair of hands touched my shoulders, massaging them lightly. A liquor-laden voice whispered sibilantly in my ear. â€œOh, you delicious macho thing, you! You look just s crumptious! â€ It was dear boy,

with two cronies in tow, al of them obviously loaded.

I swung around, knocked his arms away and jammed three fingers far enough into his solar plexus to make him gasp and bend over. â€œDear boy,â€ I oozed back at him, â€œif you ever put your fucking hands anywhere near me

again, Iâ€™l put a nine mil imeter bul et up your nose.â€

Of course, I wasnâ€™t carrying, but he didnâ€™t know that. He spun away, white faced, and joined his pals, a couple of stools down. As I went back to people watching, I heard him order a drink and saw him pul out a wel -stuffed

wal et. Unless they were al ones, the wages of sheet-shaking and a little discreet sin were wel over the minimum.

I floated with the music and the background noise and the second bourbon Joe had poured without asking. It was al pleasant and familiar. And I felt content enough. That scared me a little. Was I one of those people who were

really meant to be alone? Forever? Enjoying my family. Enjoying much-loved friends like Lainey and Cassie, Vance and Charlie. Loving Fargo. But alone? Was I simply lazy, or careless about opportunities? Was there the

perfect life partner here just waiting for my hel o?

I looked keenly around the room. Not so youâ€™d notice.

But I did notice that dear boy Lewis did not seem to be enjoying himself. He drained his glass and set it down sharply, looked at his watch with a scowl and growled to his companions, â€œIâ€™m splitting. Iâ€™l catch you later.â€

One of his companions asked coyly, â€œYou got a sweet trick you havenâ€™t told us about?â€

â€œNah,â€ Lewis replied. â€œGoing over to the Revâ€™s. Theyâ€™l stil be having dinner. Iâ€™l trade a couple of hal elujahs for a good free home-cooked meal, anytime.â€ He walked out, staring ahead, with that careful march-step you use

when youâ€™re afraid youâ€™re going to stagger.

I had no trouble translating his cryptic comments. There was a born-again preacher man and his wife over near Shank Painter Road with a little storefront church and some sort of rambling quarters behind it. The Rev and his

mousy spousy made an effort to feed some of Ptownâ€™s young drifters. They had some rooms the girls could sleep in, and boys were quartered in a loft over the garage.

Presumably they were fed and safe, at least for the nights they were there. I hoped this was as true as their local supporters assumed. So often, I thought, the fox is the concierge of the henhouse. Perhaps I tend to be a little

cynical. Actual y, my Aunt Mae rather likes the Rev and his wife. But then, my Aunt Mae rather likes most everyone. Anyway, giving the Rev the benefit of the doubt, I wondered why Lewis, with that fat wal et, felt the need of a free

meal with religious overtones. From what Iâ€™d seen of him, it didnâ€™t seem like his type of hangout. Suddenly, I sensed someone at my side and looked up sharply, half expecting dear boy had returned for a noisy confrontation. It

was ex-Chief Mather.

â€œGood work with that little pansy, soldier! Got to keep those faggots in their place!â€ He gave me a snappy salute, turned and left.

I was flabbergasted. Wel , at least my costume fooled somebody! Or had it? Surely he hadnâ€™t thought I was a male. Was it some sort of sardonic tease? Had I seen just the suggestion of a smile on Matherâ€™s face? Maybe he

had some glimmer of humor after al . Although . . . maybe he had thought I was for real. Why else the offensive language? I shrugged. Who knew with him?

It was getting to be parade time, so I polished off my drink and left. As I came up the al ey onto Commercial Street, I saw Lewis and Mather a few yards up the street, exchanging words. I wondered what they could possibly

have to say to each other. Lewis was standing with his weight on one leg, pelvis forward in a come-on pose. Mather looked stiff and pained.

Wel he might. Jared Mather had years ago relegated himself to a life of pure, excruciating emotional torture. As far as I knew, I was the only person in town who was aware of it, and I had kept the secret so deeply buried, I

often forgot it myself. I had learned of it completely innocently.

About five years ago my aunt Barbara was in a serious car accident. Mom and Aunt Mae flew to Delaware to be with her, and I kept an eye on their respective houses. One day after a storm, I went by Momâ€™s place and found

no damage, but Aunt Mae hadnâ€™t been so lucky. A limb had come down, taking out a bathroom window on its way. I looked around for something to board it up with but found nothing. I stood in the yard, pondering what to do,

when I realized I was staring at Matherâ€™s house down the hil . If anybody could effect repairs, it would be he. The day was pleasant and I walked across the fields. Over on the road, a convoy passed, horns blowing, streamers

flying. I remembered a long-engaged couple who had tied the knot today and were probably on their way to the airport after the reception. I recal ed she was some distant kin to Mather and wondered if he would be home.

As I walked silently up the grassy center of his driveway I heard someone groan. Was he il ? I took a few steps forward toward the window I thought the sound had come from and heard more groans . . . the unmistakable

groans of a male in rut. I froze.

Then I heard a voice. â€œOh, oh . . . oh, God, Jared that was good.â€ The voice was male, and not Mather.

â€œYes, yes . . . but I shouldnâ€™t have . . . swore I wouldnâ€™t ever do it again! Sweet Jesus! What have I done?â€ It was Mather now, sounding agonized. â€œOh, Lord, what terrible wrong have I done against You? I promised I would never

do it again. But I did, I did. Andâ€” oh, it felt so good.â€ He sounded almost in tears. I couldnâ€™t believe itâ€”could this be the stern, emotionless figure I had known for years?

The other man laughed. â€œJared, the only one you did anything against was me! And you did nothing wrong. We both enjoyed it, didnâ€™t we? That makes it okay in my book.â€

Matherâ€™s anguish exploded into anger. â€œAnything is okay in your book! Why in hel did I drink champagne at that double-damned wedding? I know better than to drink too much! Why, oh, God, why? Can You forgive me? I

repent, I wil never, ever do this again. Jesus, save me.â€ He sobbed the deep, racking sobs of a heartbroken child.

The other man now sounded irritated. â€œJared, donâ€™t go on a crying jag with Jesus. Obviously you wanted this as much as I did. Weâ€™re both single. Whatâ€™s the big deal? Iâ€™m dying of thirst,â€ he added practical y. â€œWhat have you

got to drink? Beer, I hope.â€

It suddenly occurred to me that when they got upâ€”which would be any secondâ€”they would see me through the window. I couldnâ€™t have that. Mather would never believe I hadnâ€™t been deliberately eavesdropping for God-knows

how long!

Quickly I ran halfway back down the grassy path. If I hadnâ€™t been worried that animals of some variety would get into Aunt Maeâ€™s house, Iâ€™d have kept right on going back to my car. Instead, I stepped onto the crunchy gravel and

walked noisily back toward the house. And I sang. When I sing, people listen. Sonny says my voice has the deep resonant beauty of a water buffalo with strep throat.

Sure enough, by the time I reached the back porch, Mather was already coming through the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefooted, tousle-haired and red-eyed. And he looked as guilty as any criminal he had

ever arrested. â€œAlexandra! Iâ€”Iâ€™m surprised to see you. Can I do something for you?â€

I told him what had happened and asked him if he could board up the window.

He agreed to go â€œright overâ€ and stood in the doorway, waiting for me to leave. There was no evidence of his guest.

I was shaken. I couldnâ€™t get it off my mind. Two single adult men get a little blitzed at a wedding. They have sex. What harm? To whom? Yet Jared Mather was a soul in torment. And how many years had he been like this? I

wished I could offer him comfort. I knew no one could. No gay person could, nor any straight person either. And certainly not his God. Obviously, Jared was gay, and knew it and could not abide it. Every day must be torture. Those

most basic desiresâ€”for human contact and affection and physical pleasure were to him, unforgivable crimes.

I made a vow. If anyone ever found out Jared Mather was gay, it would not be from me. This would not become a funny story on the cocktail circuit. It would not become grist for the Ladiesâ€™ Aid Society gossip mil . And it would

never be good for backroom laughs at Police Headquarters. Jared would not be outed by Alex. I didnâ€™t much like him. I thought his religion was hateful, dangerous and false. I thought he was smart enough to know he should have

had professional help years ago. And I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life. Talk about ambivalence!

I realized I had unthinkingly turned down toward the parade route and heard music coming toward me. I put thoughts of Mather behind me and let the holiday eve take over. The lead-off band was the Ptown Gay Menâ€™s Fife and

Drum Corps, with a real y accomplished version of the â€œColonel Bogey March . â€ They looked good, too, in their Revolutionary Warâ€“styled uniforms, with the white stockings that showed off their shapely legs and the tight, tight

breeches that showed off everything else.

Hard on their heels was the Lesbian Mothersâ€™ Association. Kids not strapped or tethered were being herded along with modest success at staying in step. Then came hordes of people in fantastic costumes, and behind them

a pink VW beetle with lots of clowns in, on and around it. They had their routine down pat, so that it looked as if al the people real y came out of the car.

A flatbed truck with some hay bales for dÃ©cor and six women playing down home bluegrass music fol owed. A banjo, a guitar, three fiddles and a bass were twanging out a real shit-kickinâ€™ hoedown. They were superb, and I

hoped they might be playing someplace in town for a while. Maybe Cassie and I could catch themâ€”we both love bluegrass, in smal doses, anyway.

Next we were favored by the Bare-Breasted Broncos, a lesbian motorcycle club from New York. Despite the fact that most of them were magnificently endowed and set the olâ€™ gonads to snapping in high-speed bluegrass

rhythm, many of us wished fervently that these ladies would not tire themselves out coming so far to visit. But they were ever faithful. By morning at least three of them would be in the medical clinic, four would be detained in local

cel s and most would have been in fights for making improper advances to other womenâ€™s partners . . . some of which would be surreptitiously accepted.

Suddenly, across the street, I thought I saw my witch waving and shouting at passersby. Behind the Broncos, and in front of a group bil ed as the Queens from Queens, I nipped across the street. Now where the hel was she?

She had disappeared again! Of course, I wasnâ€™t real y sure it was my witch, and I had no idea what I would have said if I had caught up with her.

Chagrined, I turned down the walkway to see what was going on at the Atlantic House. Mayhem was going on, with wal -to-wal people, hyper-decibel music, and frenzied fun in and out of costume. I tried unsuccessful y to fight

my way to the bar. The floor vibrated so badly I real y wondered if we al might spil into the basement. Somebody handed me back a bourbon and ice. I wasnâ€™t even sure who had bought it for me, until I saw my friends Dan and

Mike waving. I had no hope of approaching them and just waved my thanks.

I fought back the way I had come and took my drink (il egal y) outdoors to join a smal er crowd, where I at least had air to breathe. It was getting time for the show at the Crown and Anchor, so I downed the drinkâ€”Iâ€™d better

watch thatâ€”left the glass on a rock wal and retraced my steps up the al ey.

The Crown was busy but not frantic. It was a largely male crowd, and somewhat older, or at least more conservatively behaved than those at the A-House. I found a smal table and sat down at the banquette behind it. A waiter

brought me a drink, took some money and I settled down to wait. If they were running on time, Ms. Garland would soon come tripping down that yel ow brick road. Meanwhile, the band played Cole Porter songs, and I wondered

what the gay world would have done without him.

â€œExcuse me.â€ A pleasant-looking man somewhere in his fifties stood in front of my table. â€œThereâ€™s not a seat left in the place, and I wondered if I might share your banquette?â€

â€œWhy not? Iâ€™m Alex.â€

â€œMarc.â€ He put out his hand. Shortly, a waiter appeared and took his order for a scotch and water, â€œplus whatever the lady is having.â€

â€œThe lady is having a very light bourbon and water, please.â€ Then I laughed. â€œWel , congratulations, sir! You are the one mil ionth person not to be fooled by my disguise tonight.â€

â€œAs bad as that?â€ He smiled.

â€œActual y, an acquaintance of mine let on earlier that he thought I was a man. I realize now he was just teasing.â€ I moved the ashtray closer to me.

â€œSorry.â€ He shrugged. â€œMaybe itâ€™s the lack of a beard. Thatâ€™s probably the reason I donâ€™t wear costumes anymore . . . everybody always knew me anyway.â€

â€œIâ€™m with you,â€ I agreed. â€œUnfortunately Iâ€™m going to a party later where costumes are requiredâ€”like tiaras or medals or something. Frankly, itâ€™s a pain.â€ The waiter set the drinks down and stood there until Marc paid him. No

tabs on a busy night like this.

Marc stirred his drink and looked around. â€œI havenâ€™t missed Judy Garland, have I?â€

As if on cue, the band stopped playing and the lights went black. The noise in the room faltered and twittered into silence. I hoped this wouldnâ€™t be either an embarrassing failure or a tasteless parody. One or the other seemed

likely, and I thought both Judy and Peter deserved better.

There was a fanfare . . . a drum rol . . . moving spots that circled, crossed and then stopped on a barstool that held . . . Judy Garland.

Peter actual y looked like her. He wore a long black skirt with a discreet slit, a white cotton shirt with cuffed back sleeves and a stand-up col ar, several gold chains and a dark, ragged-cut wig that looked real. He had her

startled-deer eyes and ful lower lip to begin with, and makeup did the rest. I was impressed. He and the band swung energetical y into â€œSan Franciscoâ€ and I went from impressed to amazed.

Peter must have been wel corseted, because he looked no chubbier than I had seen Judy look in some TV clips. He handled the mike wel , moved vigorously and graceful y, just as she had done. Maybe there was an extra

wrinkle, maybe he took a breath when she would have held the note, maybe he slid into some of the high notes instead of hammering them dead-on. But the energy, the nuance, the timbre, the voice . . . was there. The band

segued into â€œEmbraceable You , â€ and I simply gave myself to the music. She did three or four more Garland songsâ€”by now I was thinking of her as sheâ€”wel , you know what I mean. Applause was loud and long, and I was thril ed

for Peter. Then she drifted into â€œThe Man That Got Away , â€ with that tearing low-pitched heartbreak. They gave her the most sincere accolade an artist can receive: the room was dead quiet when she finished. There must have

been a twenty-second time lapse between Peterâ€™s last note and the first cheer from the standing audience. I felt tears building against the dams of my lower eyelashes and observed others reaching for napkins or handkerchiefs.

Of course her signature â€œOver the Rainbowâ€ was the finale, with everyone standing and joining in. Another blackout. And the little stage was empty save for a barstool with a mic lying on the seat. No bows, no clever repartee,

no roses thrown and caught. Judy had triumphed . . . and she had gone.

I was drained. I couldnâ€™t make immediate smal talk. I didnâ€™t even say thanks when the waiter delivered another round. It was several moments before Marc spoke. â€œDid you ever see her before?â€ he asked.

â€œNo and no,â€ I replied. â€œAs for Peter, I real y donâ€™t know why not. As for Judy, only movies and clips of some of her appearances. In person, I think she left the planet about the time I was landing.â€

Marc nodded and sipped his drink. â€œYes. I figured that. Wel , I can tel you, Peter is damn near as good as she was, certainly better than she was at the end. She got to be a mess. I was a kid in Provincetown when she was last

here, just before she died or kil ed herself or got kil ed or whatever she did. She was always drunk or stoned, hung out here and at the old Town House Bar. It was sad, demeaning, humiliating. I used to wonder why I went and

watched her, night after night. It was like looking at the same train wreck over and over.â€

He paused, and I could tel he was far away. I waited, and final y he continued. â€œShe would try to sing and slurred the words, or forgot them entirely. Once she fel off the piano. But we gay boys mil ed around as long as she was

there. We stil adored her . . . and she us. It was strange how she loved gay men, but virtual y ignored any lesbians who tried to become friendly, even just to compliment her. She was often plain rude.â€

I lit a cigarette and wondered idly what number smoke it was. â€œYes, Iâ€™ve heard that. What was her beef with lesbians?â€

Marc waved a hand dismissively, or possibly to disperse the smoke. â€œA dozen theories. Some thought she was straight and didnâ€™t like a lesbian making a pass. Thatâ€™s sil y. Surely, with al her years in show business, she

would simply have laughed it off. Others said sheâ€™d had a lesbian experience and found it unpleasant. Most lesbians said she had not had a lesbian experience and was afraid sheâ€™d like it, thereby making her life even more

convoluted. Al she would have needed was the same luck with women she had with men.â€

I took a drag and careful y blew the smoke away. â€œShe sounds a very confused woman who was comfortable around gay men because they were safe, yet made her feel adored and wanted.â€

â€œOh, no doubt.â€ Marc reached for his jacket and began to shrug into it. â€œI think the problem was Judy and that big devil cal ed inti macy. I think the lady probably literally died looking for love, yet afraid of losing herself if she

found it.â€

Now that was food for thought. And possibly indigestion.

Marc final y got his jacket on straight. â€œWel , I gotta run. Iâ€™m due at a party in Truro. Itâ€™s been pure pleasure, Alex. I hope we meet again.â€ He gave me a light kiss on the cheek and began to weave through the crowd.

I leaned back to finish my drink and wished he hadnâ€™t left. For some reason, I didnâ€™t want to be alone at that moment. Then I had one of those idiotic thoughts that make you absolutely certain youâ€™re going mad. I looked around

the hundred-plus people in the room and was convinced that each of them was with a partner, that I was the only soul there who was single. Everyone would go home with that partner, wake up together, live out their lives together.

I was the only person in the place who would go home to a partner with four legs and a tail. If I could carry a tune, Iâ€™d go on the road as Judy Garland looking for love in al the wrong places. Where the hel were the right places?

What the hel was love? Why had I found so many women exciting in bed and so deadly dul out of it? Why did I always feel smothered at the thought of living with someone? And why did my lovers always accuse me of becoming

distant and withdrawn?

I thought of Cassie and Lainey. They didnâ€™t seem the least bored or suffocated. Of course Cassie flew al over the place, and Lainey nursed at al hours. Sometimes they actual y spent days apart. Because of their crazy hours

they often used two bedrooms, yet they were very much a faithful and loving couple. They just werenâ€™t joined at the hip.

Maybe I should advertise in one of those personal mags. Gay, 30-ish female private investigator desires female pilot or nurse for intermittent romance . That should get me enough lunatic replies for a lifetime of

entertainment. I raised my arm for another drink and quickly lowered it. Not wise.

Chapter 7

When I walked outside, the cold air gave me a jolt. Obviously, I had had a bit to drink . . . or two. As I walked to Cassieâ€™s and Laineyâ€™s house I was not sorry it was some eight blocks away. I could smel rain in the air, but at least

the parade had managed to complete its course ahead of it. I hoped I could, too. One miserable soaking a day was more than enough.

I heard the party before I got to the house. It seemed in ful swing as I walked around the side and onto the deck. There, Peter Pan sat on a railing singing â€œI Wonâ€™t Grow Upâ€ in a rather appealing girlish soprano. I smiled and

applauded. At least she looked genuine in her costume. As I slid back the screen door to the living room, Lainey came through it wearing a coat and carrying a large plastic bag.

â€œDul party?â€ I asked. â€œGoing to try the one up the street? I hear itâ€™s better.â€

â€œCertainly not!â€ she bristled. Then, tumbling to the unique Peres humor, she smiled. â€œOh, no. We goofed. Weâ€™re already running out of ice. Iâ€™m going to rob the hospital. Be right back.â€

I walked through the door into a wal of people, noise, music and smoke . . . at least some of the latter, il egal. Dan and Mike had beat me here, so I had a chance to thank them for their generosity at the A-House. I chatted for a

moment with Katie and Marian, enjoyed a moment of triumph with Cherie, one of the other artists whose paintings had been selected by the bank, and careful y avoided eye contact with Mary Sloan. I made my way to the bar,

where Cassie was keeping busy. Final y, it was my turn. She gave me a welcoming grin.

â€œGlad you made it, olâ€™ buddy. We were beginning to think youâ€™d succumbed to the curse of the gypsies or whatever. Now, hereâ€â€”she pointedâ€”â€œwe have a bowl of vodka punch. And here, a bowl of some nonalcoholic punch

that no one seems to like. We have several bottles of fairly bad white wine. But for you, soldier, may I say . . .â€ She reached under the bar. â€œThis Budâ€™s for you!â€

I took it with a smile for her thoughtfulness and a slight worry as to how it would mix with bourbon. I noticed Cassie was drinking Oâ€™Douls and raised an eyebrow. â€œFlying at noon tomorrow,â€ she explained. â€œI switched to this a

while ago. I like a good amount of time with no booze before takeoff.â€ Tomorrow I would probably wish I had done the same.

The CD player moved to something slow, and a tal blonde tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I would like to dance. I liked very much, and turned away from Cassie with a wink. The blonde and I moved easily across the floor,

and she felt very good in my arms.

Her name, she said, was Kerry. Mine, she said sheâ€™d heard, was Alex. I agreed to that and asked if her last name were Blue. She said no, it was Morris. Obviously, she had not fol owed my clever Kerry Blue Terrier train of

thought, so I concentrated on my dancing. As we turned, I noticed her nod and give a half-smile to a hefty woman standing with two men. Was she Kerryâ€™s lover? I knew the woman worked in the office at the clinic where Lainey

nursed, but I didnâ€™t know her name. I decided to approach the subject obliquely.

â€œKerry, youâ€™re not from Ptown, are you?â€

â€œNo, uh, Iâ€™m visiting friends of some guys who know the women giving the party.â€

â€œAh.â€ That sounded about right for Ptown. â€œHaving a nice visit?â€

â€œNow I am.â€ She moved even closer against me, and I began to think the evening might end on a very up note. A moment later the music switched again, and we stood for a minute, looking hesitant.

Then Kerry said, â€œLook, thereâ€™s a chair near the fire. Grab it and Iâ€™l get us a drink.â€

I yel ed, â€œBudweiser! Thereâ€™s one on the bar thatâ€™s mine.â€ I turned to nab the chair.

Kerry returned swiftly and sank graceful y to the floor, leaning her head against my leg. I stroked her hair and thought we looked like one of those TV commercials with the handsome couple sitting before the fire drinking

expensive wine, while outside a Jaguar with a big red ribbon is being silently delivered in the snowy driveway. I started to mention my thoughts, but Kerry didnâ€™t seem attuned to some of my offbeat comments, so I let it go.

She had one arm around my lower legâ€”not the scraped one, fortunatelyâ€”and was sort of caressing my ankle and the top of my foot. It was different and kind of exciting. My fingers moved from her hair to the back of her neck,

ventured lightly over to her col arbone and final y down just to the beginning of her cleavage. She leaned closer as if inviting further explorations, and I was just about to suggest we have a private party at my house, when

something out on the deck caught my eye.

Peter Pan was walking with precarious balance along the top railing of the deck, and I could hear the smal voice faintly caroling â€œIâ€™m flying!â€ I knew it was quite a way to the ground, flying or not, and felt it would be a simple

kindness to convince the elf to get the hel down.

â€œIâ€™l be right back.â€ I kissed the top of Kerryâ€™s head and stood up. I took a step, crashed over the coffee table and re-skinned my shin, landed on my left wrist and felt something give, and final y rol ed elegantly onto my back with

a yelp. Kerry . . . Kerry Blue Bitch had tied my damned shoelaces together.

A cast of thousands arrived to offer assistance. I was mortified and kept saying I was fine, though my leg and arm were tel ing me I wasnâ€™t. Through the crowd I saw Kerry and Hefty holding each other up through their fits of

laughter. First that slimy Lewis and now this pairâ€”Iâ€™d have liked to put the bunch of them on their asses. I wondered what on earth had prompted Kerryâ€™s little trick, it had to have been a set-up. Somebody final y got my shoelaces

untied and retied and attempted to give me a hand up. I yelped again and Lainey took over.

She got me into the bedroom, pronounced my leg a lovely mess and smeared something on it that felt wonderful y cool. She checked my swel ing wrist and asked if I could make a fist. Yes, but it hurt. Could I wiggle my

fingers? Yes, it hurt. She diagnosed probable sprain and gently taped a washcloth-wrapped baggie of ice around my wrist. â€œSleep with that,â€ she said, and tucked an Ace bandage into my pocket. â€œThatâ€™s for tomorrow. If the

swel ing and the pain havenâ€™t decreased by then, check with the clinic.â€

Cassie insisted on driving me home. As I limped across the deck, I heard a soft voice cal ing, â€œI canâ€™t get up.â€

â€œCassie, I hate to mention this, but I think Peter Pan has flown into your roses.â€

â€œSweet Jesus in the foothil s!â€ Cassie snarled. â€œThat witch of yours make house cal s? What next?â€ She turned to the house cal ing, â€œLainey! You got another effing casualty here!â€

While various people assisted in Peter Panâ€™s rescue, I leaned against Cassieâ€™s car, feeling slightly sick. Kerry came out, looking shamefaced. â€œIâ€™m sorry,â€ she said sweetly, â€œIt never occurred to me youâ€™d get hurt. Nel put me

up to it. But I real y apologize. Iâ€™m sorry,â€ she said again.

â€œSo am I,â€ I said. â€œIâ€™ve got a business appointment Monday that this wil not make any easier. I guess I accept your apology. But, tel me, I donâ€™t even know Nel . What the hel has she got against me?â€

Kerry looked as if she thought I should know. â€œYour brother. Heâ€™s a cop, right? Last week the cops gave her a parking ticket and a speeding ticket. She said she didnâ€™t deserve either of them, and sheâ€™s mad as hel .â€

I opened the car door and shook my head in disbelief. â€œTel her sheâ€™l real y be thril ed at what he gives her when I tel him she tried to kil me.â€ While Kerry was digesting that thought, Cassie came out and we drove away.

I told Cassie the reason for my own crash landing over the coffee table and she shook her head. â€œNel is probably just drunk. Lainey canâ€™t stand her. I donâ€™t real y know her.â€

â€œThen why did you invite her?â€

â€œI donâ€™t think we did.â€

I was awful y glad to get home, and Fargo was just as glad to see me. He looked concerned, whuffled al over me, checking out aromas of people, places and medications. I let him out, and he was back whining at the door in

record time. As I let him in, I saw why: it had started to rain. Fargo is convinced he is made of spun sugar and wil melt in rain.

We were about equal y happy to climb into bed. Out of habit, I switched on CNN and got a couple of talking heads discussing whether or not the Fed would raise rates on Thursday. That and the booze and the sound of the

rain drumming on the windows was al it took. We had survived Hal oween, Fargo and I.

Hopeful y the curse had expired at midnight.

Chapter 8

Iâ€™d been dreaming something about Judy Garland and â€œThe Trol ey Song,â€ when it dawned on me the bel s were not in a song, but my telephone. And dawned was the operative word. Unbelievably, my clock said 7:08 a.m.

At some point in the night Iâ€™d obviously clicked off the TV, because I rol ed over onto the remote control. In an effort not to lie on the remote, I dislodged the now-thawed icebag from my wrist and got it wedged under my elbow.

As I picked up the phone, I leaned on the baggie, and because it was Sunday and I was hung over, God made it break. Cold water seemed immediately to fil the entire bed. I yel ed, â€œShit!â€ and from far away a tinny voice agreed,

â€œYou got that right.â€ I was holding the phone wrong-way, too.

I final y got the phone straight and that left me too exhausted to do anything about the water; I just lay in it. I croaked, â€œWhoâ€™s this?â€

â€œItâ€™s Mitch. Whereâ€™s Sonny?â€

â€œHow the hel do I know? Do you know what time it is?â€ I counted thirty trol eys clanging in my head. My tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth, and nausea was nearby just over the rainbow.

â€œWhatâ€™s his number?â€

Unthinking, I rattled off Sonnyâ€™s home number.

â€œNot that one. The hotel.â€

â€œWhat hotel?â€ Then I remembered. â€œHe said not to give it to you.â€

â€œAlex, youâ€™ve got to.â€ Persistent little bastard.

â€œNo. I donâ€™t. It is seven-oh-nine in the morning. Get a life, Mitch. You got a problem, cal the Chief.â€

â€œI got a problem, al right. We got a murder here. The chief is gone.â€

â€œChief Franks was murdered!â€ I shrieked and felt my skul split. â€œMy God, how?â€

â€œClubbed. The boy, I mean. The chief went out on Med-Evac. Wel , actual y, Cassie flew them out.â€

â€œThem? Cassie? Cassie flew who? Whom?â€

â€œYeah, his wife col apsed.â€

â€œWhen she heard the news, you mean?â€

â€œWhat news?â€

â€œMitch,â€ I said slowly, â€œI am in no mood to practice our Abbott and Costel o act. Start over and make sense.â€

â€œIâ€™l be there in ten minutes.â€

â€œI said start over, not come over.â€ But I was speaking to a dead line.

Fargo whimpered to go out. I didnâ€™t blame him. I didnâ€™t want to be here either. We started toward the kitchen. I moved like the Tin Man before Dorothy got the oilcanâ€”bent, limping, groaning, hanging on to chairs and tables

and doorknobs as I passed them. I let him out into the cool foggy air and wished I could just go out and lie in the grass myself. Instead I put on the coffee and headed back for two Tylenol and a shower. The shower didnâ€™t real y

help except to make me aware of everything that hurt. As yet the Tylenol werenâ€™t doing much either. I sat down and gently applied antibiotic ointment to my smarting shin. As I replaced the cap on the little tube, I noticed the label

said Panalog. Panalog was Fargoâ€™s ointment, given him by the vet last summer for a cut on his ear. Whatâ€”if anythingâ€”I should do about this medical mixup was beyond me. If my leg started growing fur, Iâ€™d cal the doctor. Or the

vet.

I wrapped my wrist in the Ace bandage. There didnâ€™t seem to be much swel ing, though it ached. I took two more Tylenol, just to be safe. I managed to get dressed okay, although I did opt for slip-on mocs. There were several

reasons I avoided shoelaces.

By the time I poured two mugs of coffee, Mitch was walking up the path. I motioned him in and sat down; standing up was not good. He tromped loudly in, took off his damp rain hat and coat and hung them on the back-hal

pegs. He looked tired and worried and very young. Detective Sergeant Andrew Mitchel was twenty-six or -seven and looked about eighteen, but his boyish charm held no appeal for me this day.

â€œAl right, Mitch, slow and easy does it.â€

He took a swal ow of coffee. â€œWe real y have to get Sonny back here right now, Alex. Iâ€™ve got a bad feeling about this one.â€

It sounded so much like a line from a made-for-TV movie that I laughed. But Mitch looked like he might cry, and I thought Iâ€™d better be nice. â€œI couldnâ€™t cal Sonny right now if I wanted to,â€ I said gently. â€œThey are traveling al day

en route to . . . to their planned destination. Iâ€™l try to reach him tonight and tel him what happenedâ€”if you ever tel meâ€”and let him decide how he wants to handle it. Okay? Now what is going on?â€

â€œWel , we al pul ed extra duty last night on account of it being Hal oween. Nothing real y happenedâ€”a few fights, a couple of DWIâ€™s. Some fool woman fel off the railing of a deck and broke her ankle.â€

â€œProbably thought she was Peter Pan,â€ I said innocently.

Mitch looked at me strangely, but went on. â€œI went home about one and was just asleep when Santos cal ed and said I better get back to the station. He told me Chief Franksâ€™ wife had got sick again with her heartâ€”tachycardia,

chest pain, I donâ€™t know what al . They had her at the clinic and got her stabilized some, but wanted to Med-Evac her to Boston, to Mass General where she sees a specialist. Time counted, they said.â€ I debated whether a

cigarette would help or finish me off. Mitch continued before I could decide.

â€œWhen Santos cal ed for the Med-Evac chopper up at Hyannis, they told him, they could get out of Hyannis if they had to, but could never land in the rain and fog here at Provincetown. She would have to be driven to Hyannis.

And the clinic doc said that was a real bad idea. I told Santos to start looking up our emergency numbers for people at Offshore Air here in Ptown, and I started getting dressed.â€

â€œDo any Offshore Air pilots live here?â€ I asked.

â€œTwo, plus another was on RON status to start ferrying people out this morningâ€”that is, if this damn fog ever lifts. Itâ€™s supposed to start clearing around nine orâ€”â€

â€œGood,â€ I interrupted and final y lit the cigarette. â€œWhat happened with Offshore?â€

â€œNo joy there! One pilot said no way could he fly, heâ€™d been drinking til one. Another said theyâ€™d have to take seats out to fit a stretcher in and he had no authority to have that done, even if he could find a mechanic to do it. I

cal ed the remain-overnight guy. He asked me if Iâ€™d looked out the window lately and hung up. The passenger agent didnâ€™t answer at al . I was frantic. The Chief was cal ing every two minutes. They had his wife al ready to

transport and might have to try for Hyannis if I couldnâ€™t come up with something. Final y, I thought of Cassie.â€

â€œCassie!â€ Of course! It made sense, but my good buddyâ€”flying in pea soup, with no sleep. Oh, God.

â€œRight. She said come and get her. So we picked her up and met the ambulance at the airport. Cassie and Santos and I got three seats ripped out pronto and Mrs. Franks and the Chief and an EMT shoveled in. Alex, you

wouldnâ€™t believe the rain and fog! You could only see about two lights down the runway. Thatâ€™s onlyâ€” what?â€”a hundred yards?â€

â€œAbout. How did Cassie do? I take it she got off.â€

Mitch reached for my cigarettes and lighter, a custom learned from Sonny, no doubt. â€œOh, yeah. She lined the plane up, revved and just . . . disappeared. I held my breath waiting for the crash, but she got the mother off. I tel

you, Alex, that girlâ€™s got two big ones!â€

He said it with such pure admiration I didnâ€™t even refer to his cal ing her a girl. â€œDo you know if they got to Logan al right?â€ I was almost afraid of the answer.

â€œYes, Cassie cal ed. And the hospital chopper was there to meet them. Cassie was going to find a couch and nap til the weather broke. She told me to cal Lainey.â€ He laughed. â€œI told her sheâ€™d better make the cal herself. If

Lainey heard my voice on the phone, weâ€™d have another heart attack victim.â€

I sent up a little silent thank you. Cassie did indeed have two big ones, and a heart to match. â€œSo much for that little drama. You seem to have solved the problem wel without my esteemed brother. Now whatâ€™s this about a

murder?â€

â€œWould you believe it? I just got home and dozed off again, when hereâ€™s Santos back on the line. He says Harmon just came in, yel ing and shaking and pointing and swearing he just almost got himself kil ed and thereâ€™s a

body out at the amphitheater.â€

â€œHarmon final y got the DTâ€™s?â€

â€œThat thought crossed my mind. It also crossed my mind to kil him and Santos. I tried tel ing Santos to cal Captain Anders, and he said he already did, but Anders told him I was the detective that Sonny trusted so much, so

he should cal me. Anyway, back I went.â€

â€œPoor Mitch.â€ I got up stiffly to let the dog in. He looked hopeful y at his dish, but I figured he would survive until I heard the rest of this. He curled up in his bed with a peevish flop, obviously weak from hunger.

â€œYou got it. When I arrived, Harmon was stil half-drunk, having coffee and raving on. He said he had stayed up til around three when the tide was almost in, and gone out to Race Point to see what had come in on the storm

earlier in the night. You know, he col ects stuff. Lobster pots, buoys, driftwood, al kinds of debris that washes ashore.â€

â€œI know, my Aunt Mae sometimes buys driftwood from him to make fancy planters for herbs to sel in her shop. But why go out in the middle of the night?â€

â€œWanted to be the first one there, he told me. Heâ€™s right, actual y, a lot of people scrounge around on the beaches after a big rain. Anyway, he says he starts down the hil in his truck, coming home, and a big light-colored SUV

with no headlights comes flying out of the side road and almost runs him into the ditch. Of course he couldnâ€™t get a plate number, or even see what state it was registered in.â€

â€œSome kind of hit-and-run thing?â€ None of this was making much sense.

â€œNo. It being Harmon, he decided the SUV driver was a drug runner. He figured someone had brought drugs ashore and for some reason set up the rendezvous with the local dealer over at the amphitheater. He thought the

guy in the SUV was hurrying to get out of town before daylight, but thought the supplier might stil be up there and he could capture him. He had decided they had come ashore from a cigarette boat. How they got to the

amphitheater I donâ€™t know. He had enough booze in him to be feeling braveâ€”for the moment.â€

â€œWhat was Harmon going to do, point a piece of driftwood at them?â€

â€œThatâ€™s what I asked. He reminded me that he carries an old shotgun in a rack in his truck. Probâ€™ly blow up in his face.â€ Mitch got up and refil ed his mug and mine. I waved toward the refrigerator, and he helped himself to milk.

â€œAnyway, he goes over to the amphitheater, and there on stage lies a body. I asked him if he was sure it was a body, and he said he hadnâ€™t gone near it, just saw someone lying on stage, but they looked dead to him. Wel , I

thought it could be anything. People do strange things out here. Maybe someone was communing with nature or the rain god or maybe somebody was passed out from booze. Even a mannequin could have been put out there

for a bad Hal oween joke, you know.â€ I did know. Anything was possible in Ptown, Hal oween or no. â€œBut it real y was a body?â€ I asked.

â€œSure enough. A young, smal ish guy, dark, but Caucasian. Had the back of his head and shoulders badly beaten. And it looked like heâ€™d been kind of laid out on the concrete stage. Legs straight, on his back with his arms

down along his sides.â€

â€œIt sounds like he may have been kil ed elsewhere.â€

â€œI thought so, too. Stil do. There wasnâ€™t much blood, although the rain may have taken care of that. Wel , I got Anders out of bed and out there. By the time he got there, we had ascertained the wal et was missing. Empty

pockets, no watch or rings. No murder weapon at the immediate scene. Anders took one look and pronounced it simple robbery. Says the dead guy was a transient, robbed by another transient that weâ€™l never find. Just put out a

bul etin to the State Police and forget it.â€

â€œGood old Captain Anders.â€ I sighed. â€œHow I look forward to attending his retirement party. I can understand a robbery victim being found in an al ey, or a vacant lot, even thrown from a car, but I canâ€™t understand taking him al

the way out there, beating him to death and arranging him to lie in state.â€

â€œNot only that, Alex, if itâ€™s simple robbery, your victim is usual y stabbed or shot or maybe bopped on the head; but this guy was real y beaten. Looks like a basebal bat or something like thatâ€” two-by-four maybe. Anyway, I got

to get back. Right now the victim is stil in the EMT van, Iâ€™ve got to send him on down to Hyannis to the medical examiner.â€

â€œWhy are you holding him here at al ?â€

Mitch looked like a kid caught in the cookie jar. â€œWel , er, Sonny always has old Doc Marsten take a look at things, says he knows things the new-fangled docs donâ€™t. Soâ€”ah, I figured it wouldnâ€™t hurt if he just gave this guy the

once-over. He should be there anytime now.â€

Marsten could sew up a cut neater and with less scarring than anyone I had ever seen. I had living proof of that just above my eyebrow. Marsten would not have ordered a CAT scan, an MRI, an X-ray and four blood tests for my

skinned leg, as many doctors would. But there came a point, I felt, when modern techniques were preferable. However, Marsten did sometimes offer some helpful information long ahead of the coronerâ€™s report and if he made

Sonny and Mitch feel better, who was I to argue?

â€œWel , I repeat, Mitch, thereâ€™s no way I can reach Sonny til evening. Iâ€™l cal him around six and tel him whatâ€™s going on. But I agree with him, youâ€™re perfectly capable of handling this yourself.â€

He looked at me so grateful y I wanted to pat him on the head and give him a biscuit. â€œThanks, Alex, that helps. I guess Iâ€™m doing everything. I have a couple of people searching the area for his wal et and for the weapon. So far

no light-colored SUVs reported stolen in this end of Massachusetts. Weâ€™re going to run his fingerprints to see if we get a hit. We took some photos. His face isnâ€™t badly disfigured. Weâ€™l show them around if we donâ€™t get an ID

soon. He may not have been transient. I tend to think not. If he worked here, somebody wil miss him at some point.â€ He donned his rain gear. â€œThanks for the coffee, and Iâ€™m sorry I woke you up.â€

â€œI canâ€™t be too nasty about it after the night you put in. Cal me if anything turns up, so I can tel Sonny.â€ I stood up to walk him to the door, but a throbbing in my leg deterred me. Panalog poisoning?

Another coffee and cigarette made me feel that life might be sustained. It was Sunday, which meant the New York Times crossword puzzle. Iâ€™m not a masochist in any other way, but weekly I subject myself to reading almost

al four pounds of the Times and then doing the puzzle. The worse it is, the more I love to wrestle with it.

So Fargo and I moved slowly down the bayside beach toward a convenience store that carries both out-of-town papers and yummy homemade pastries. When we got down by the Old Boat Dock Motel, there was a flurry of

sand and a cacophony of wild yips. Toby the terrible mini dachshund was upon us. He was madly in love with Fargo and showed his affection by running in circles, leaping at Fargoâ€™s shoulder and barking incessantly. Fargo

actual y liked the little brat and encouraged his performance with occasional head-butts, growls and feints. Final y, Toby tired, or got as far from home as he dared, and turned back. He trotted home, round little bel y barely

clearing the sand, ears cocked, tail up and saucy little bottom a-bounce with every step. I rather liked Tobyâ€”he had pizzazz.

I liked the scones I took home, too. I felt infinitely better after ingesting what Fargo didnâ€™t weasel away from me, even though there was now food in his dish. I finished the puzzle and felt so renewed I did some laundry, mainly

so I could return Peterâ€™s socks before I left tomorrow. I thought about packing, but knew the sight of the suitcase would send Fargo into clinical depression, so I put that off for a while.

Eventual y, the dryer spat out a bunch of clothes, including the borrowed socks. As a child, it had been drummed into me to return borrowed items promptly, so I folded them neatly into a plastic supermarket bag, saddled up

Fargo and set off.

Chapter 9

â€œAlex! Fargo! How nice to see you both! Come in.â€ Wolf opened the door wide.

â€œI donâ€™t want to bother you. I just thought Peter might need his socks.â€ I handed Wolf the plastic bag.

â€œNonsense! Heâ€™s probably already forgotten them. But Iâ€™m glad you remembered, because weâ€™ve now got the pleasure of your company. Peter!â€ he cal ed, â€œAlex and Fargo are here!â€

Peter bustled in, wearing a large chefâ€™s apron and fol owed by Pewter. Fargo sat up and cocked his ears. Pewter strol ed past him as if he werenâ€™t there and sat down at Wolfâ€™s feet, facing Fargo. I wondered how long they

would sit and stare at each other.

I gave Peter a hug. â€œYou were so wonderful last night, Iâ€™m afraid anything I say wil sound phony. Real y, Iâ€™ve never had more pleasure from or been more moved by a performance. Forgive me if I say I never knew you were so

talented.â€

â€œOh, a thousand, thousand thanks! Iâ€™m so glad you made it. I didnâ€™t see you afterward and was afraid you hadnâ€™t been there. It did go wel , didnâ€™t it ? Thank God something went wel ! What a taradiddle this weekend has been!

Forgive my appearance, but we are houseboy-less and Iâ€™m cleaning up after breakfast for a dozen hungry, messy queens. Thank God, they have nearly al gone home, or back to whatever rocks they live under.â€

â€œWhat happened?â€ I asked.

â€œMy dear, I canâ€™t even think of it without something to calm my nerves. Likeâ€”letâ€™s seeâ€”a tequila sunrise?â€ He smiled and raised a finger to his chin.

â€œMy nerves could just use a bit of calming, too. Sounds perfect if youâ€™l please make mine mostly sunrise, little tequila.â€ I looked questioningly at Wolf as Peter went back into the kitchen.

â€œHeâ€™s not exaggerating.â€ Wolf shrugged. â€œIt real y has been awful. It started yesterday morning right after you left. Peter took the tea tray out into the kitchen, mainly to ask Lewis why on earth he had used a silver tea service

and cheap clay mugs.â€

He spread his hands as if at the horror of it al . â€œPeter came flying back out, saying that Lewis was nowhere to be seen and the kitchen was a shambles, every dish, every glass, every cupâ€”dirty. Nothing cleaned up from the

last nightâ€™s snacks or the morningâ€™s brunch. You see, every night late, we put out a few goodies for people who might feel peckish, or who check in late and maybe missed dinner. Then in the morning we serve coffee and tea,

biscuits, rol s, maybe some ham or bacon and fresh fruit and cereals. We donâ€™t serve eggsâ€”just stuff we can put on the buffet and sort of forget.â€

He paused to stroke Pewter and continued. â€œWe hol ered upstairs, but Lewis didnâ€™t answer, so I went up to start straightening the bathrooms and making beds. Peter went out to check if he had gone to his room for some

reason.â€

Peter arrived with the drinks tray. â€œAre you tel ing Alex about that miserable little prick?â€ Goodness me, I wondered, what ever happened to Dear Boy?

â€œYou should have seen that kitchen,â€ Peter continued. â€œIt looked like the last meal off the Titanic! So here I go out to his room over the garage, like a clucking mother hen, thinking perhaps he was taken il or hurt himself in

some way. And how do you think I was rewarded for my loving kindness?â€

â€œAh, delicious! Thank you.â€ I lifted my glass toward Peter. â€œI take it your loving kindness was not reciprocated.â€

â€œHardly!â€ Peter was thoroughly incensed. â€œI just get out the back door and here comes the slimy little bastard down the driveway, carrying a suitcase. I guess he figured you would stay awhile and he could be gone before we

realized it. I asked him where the hel he was going and he said he was leaving. Heâ€™d had enough cleaning up after a bunch of demanding, prissy people and . . . ah, catering to a bunch of old queens. He said he was going to

the Coast, where they appreciate beauty, whatever that meant.â€

I laughed. â€œHe probably figured either on becoming a movie star or at least shacking up with one.â€

â€œNo doubt,â€ Peter agreed sourly. â€œHe spent enough time in front of mirrors. Anyway, I was babbling on that he couldnâ€™t leave us in a lurch like this, that we needed him to help us close down for the season, etc. He just kept

shaking his head and walking, with me trailing along after him like a fool. And then, I saw that he was wearing my watch! Not only is it mine, and valuable and oldâ€”but my father gave it to me just before he died. Alex, I treasure it!

Itâ€™s al of his I have left, and I loved him . . . a lot.â€ Peterâ€™s voice broke. He grabbed the tray and glasses and ran from the room.

â€œIâ€™m so sorry,â€ I said to Wolf.

â€œIt was about the worst thing the effing little thief could have taken,â€ Wolf grumbled. â€œIt would break Peterâ€™s heart to lose it.â€

â€œWhat did he do?â€

â€œI demanded he give it back.â€ Peter had returned with refil s. â€œHe laughed at me, laughed. And cal ed me a sentimental old queer. Then he unstrapped the watch and held it out as if he were going to give it to me. When I

reached for it, he just let it fal onto the concrete driveway. I picked it up, and saw that the crystal was smashed and the second hand wasnâ€™t moving. I donâ€™t know what on earth got into me, but I hit him.â€

In any other circumstances, the thought of Peter Mel on hitting anyone would have been funny. But heartbreak and outrage can do strange things to al of us. â€œI donâ€™t blame you.â€ I reached across for his hand.

He gave me a squeeze and went on in a pained voice. â€œWel , it wasnâ€™t much of a knock-out blow.â€ He chuckled rueful y. â€œI missed his jaw and hit his shoulder. Lewis laughed and hauled off and really hit me on the cheek. God,

it hurt! I was so furious, I actual y was going to fight him, Alex, I donâ€™t know how, but I was going to try! Then he said, â€˜Stay away from me you poor pitiful faggot, or youâ€™l be singing tonight without your front teeth.â€™ And he gave me

a shove, and I sat down hard, and he walked away and Iâ€”I just sat there. Like a poor p-p-pitiful f-f-faggot.â€ He buried his face in his hands.

Wolf took Peter in his arms and tried to comfort him. â€œNow, now, you were very brave to hit him at al ! And you had a performance that night . . . hundreds were counting on you. You had a terrible time covering your bruised

cheek with makeup, as it was. He could have hurt you badly if youâ€™d gone after him. Peter, there was nothing anyone could have done at that time!â€ He looked at me as if asking for confirmation, and I gave it.

â€œWolf is right, Peter. Your performance last night was worth a thousand Lewisesâ€”to me alone, never mind everybody else! Heâ€™s not worth your getting hurt over. Heâ€™s not worth the powder to blow him to hel . Forget him. His

type always gets it in the end. Have your watch repaired and forget he ever lived. Good riddance!â€

â€œGood riddance!â€ They lifted their glasses and echoed.

I managed a smal laugh. â€œLook, Peter, even the brats have forgotten their feud and want to cheer you up.â€ Pewter had jumped into Peterâ€™s lap and Fargo sat beside his leg, looking up with a concerned frown.

Peter smiled weakly. â€œIâ€™m lucky . . . my lover, my friends . . . even the four-legged ones. Wolf, we need another tray. Donâ€™t start shaking your head, Alex, if you werenâ€™t here youâ€™d be at the Rat drinking cheap beer.â€ Peter was

recovering.

I didnâ€™t argue but had no intention of finishing the drink. When Wolf returned, I told them about my pictures being displayed at the bank. Their compliments may have been a little fulsome, but I was enjoying them anyway, when

the doorbel rang. Wolf went, and I heard male voices at the door. I turned around as Wolf, Mitch and Officer Pete Santos walked into the living room.

When Mitch saw me, he blurted, â€œAlex, what the hel are you doing here?â€

It was my turn to be surprised, not to mention irritated. â€œIâ€™m having a drink with two old friends, Mitch. I was invited. How about you?â€

Wolf hastened to pour oil on what were becoming troubled waters. â€œGentlemen, have a seat. What may I offer you? Coffee? Something cold?â€

From a room fil ed with chairs and sofas Mitch and Santos had elected to sit together on the piano bench, where they looked uncomfortable and slightly ludicrous. My humor improved at once. Pete Santos opened his mouth

to accept one of Wolfâ€™s offers, but Mitch closed it for him.

â€œNothing, thank you, Mr. Wolfman. I wonder if you or Mr. Mel on could help us with an inquiry. Do you employ a young man with the first or last name of Lewis?â€ Suddenly, I knew why they were here, and as Mitch had said earlier

in the day, I got a bad feeling about this one.

â€œWe did, â€ Peter retorted. â€œWhatâ€™s the wretched little thief done, now, robbed an orphanage?â€ I wished I could caution Peter to watch his mouth, but obviously I couldnâ€™t interfere. It was a police investigation, and I had absolutely

no connection to it. I glanced warningly at Wolf and got an understanding look back. He, at least, would be careful how he phrased his answers.

Mitch may have been lacking sleep, but his mind was awake. â€œYou say you did employ him, sir, indicating the past tense. Was he no longer in your employ? Had he stolen something from you? Did you fire him for stealing?

Did you report the theft to our department? When did you last see him? By the way, what was his ful name?â€

Wolf took over. I had to admire his nerve. â€œYouâ€™re also using the past tense, Sergeant, whatever you may mean. Lewisâ€™s name is Lewis Schley. He is from somewhere in Indiana. Iâ€™l be glad to get you his ful address and Social

Security number if they wil help you.â€ Mitch nodded. â€œNo, we did not fire him. Yesterday morning he walked out, despite our protests that we needed him for another couple of weeks. He said he was tired of working and was

going to the West Coast. As he started to leave the property, Peter noticed Lewis was wearing an antique watch belonging to him. He demanded it back and Lewisâ€”returned it and left.â€ It was a masterpiece of understatement,

without a single lieâ€”exactly. As Mitch nodded and told Santos to go with Wolf and get Lewisâ€™s home address, I reflected silently that Wolf was clever with words. A few minutes earlier heâ€™d said that Peterâ€™s little dust-up with

Lewis was al that could be done â€œat the time . â€ Dear God, could he have been reminding Peter that a ful er retribution had been accomplished later? While we waited for Santos and Wolfâ€™s return, Mitch turned to Peter.

â€œHave either of you seen Mr. Schley since that incident, Mr. Mel on?â€

â€œNo, and I donâ€™t want to. Slimy little bastardâ€™s gotten everything from us heâ€™s going to get.â€

I cringed inwardly as Mitch went cool y on. â€œAnd what has he gotten from you, sir?â€

â€œClothes, for one thing. When he came here fiveâ€”six weeks agoâ€”he had what he was wearing . . . period. We gave him stuff to wear, mainly things I had, wel , outgrown. Good clothing. And of course, we pay wel , and he got

good tips. Even if he hadnâ€™t saved anything from prior weeks, he walked away from here yesterday with a good four hundred dol ars cash. I paid him two hundred yesterday morning, and I know he made at least two hundred

more in tips during the week. Ungrateful little bitch!â€

Wolf and Pete Santos walked back into the room as Mitch said, â€œWel , Iâ€™m afraid it wonâ€™t do him much good now. Iâ€™m sorry to tel you that sometime last night Lewis Schley was murdered and apparently robbed, possibly at the

amphitheater out near Race Point.â€

I thought Peter might faint. He turned dead white and swayed on the couch. Wolf sat heavily beside him, as if his legs wouldnâ€™t hold him any longer. I final y broke the silence. â€œMitch, how did you know he worked here?â€

â€œWe held four disorderlies overnight. Nacho came in this morning to run them through the computer, make sure there were no outstanding warrants before we let them go. When Doc Marsten finished checking the body, Nacho

drove it over to the clinic. She got a look at it as they removed him from the ambulance. She recognized him and had heard somebody cal him Lewis. I understand she lives right across the street?â€ He made it a question and

looked at Wolf, who nodded.

â€œI see,â€ I said. â€œWel , I saw Lewis flashing a wel -fil ed wal et at the Wharf Rat last night, probably around eight. I had no idea it held so much money. Maybe Captain Anders is right. A simple robbery somehow got out of hand.â€

â€œMaybe.â€ Mitch didnâ€™t sound sold on my idea. He turned to the two men. â€œIs that your tan Explorer out in the driveway?â€ I grinned to myself. Mitch would have given his left nut to get his forensics people into that van, butâ€”thus

far anywayâ€”he had no cause for a warrant.

â€œTechnical y, it belongs to the business,â€ Wolf explained. â€œBut, yes, itâ€™s ours. Why?â€

â€œMind tel ing me where you both were about four or five this morning?â€

â€œWe were both in bed asleep . . . together. Iâ€™l try again. Why?â€

â€œI figured thatâ€™s where youâ€™d be at that hour. Somebody saw an SUV speeding away from the amphitheater area about that time, thought it might have been tan. Obviously it couldnâ€™t have been yours, since you were here.â€ He

flipped his notebook closed and stood. â€œWel , thank you both. Weâ€™l be in touch if there are any further questions. See you around, Alex. Fargo, donâ€™t take any wooden biscuits.â€ He patted the dog and moved toward the door,

Santos dutiful y in his wake.

Mitch turned back. â€œBy the way, would you mind if we took a look at Mr. Schleyâ€™s room?â€

Wolf shrugged. â€œLet me get a jacket and Iâ€™l let you in.â€ Mitch and Santos walked out onto the porch to wait. Through the window I saw Mitch strol over to the broken table Iâ€™d noticed yesterday. He stooped and looked closely at

the broom handle serving as a leg.

When the threesome was out of earshot, Peter said quietly, â€œHe thinks we did it, Alex.â€

â€œHe may have some questions, simply because Lewis worked and lived here. But itâ€™s early yet, and Mitchâ€™s just fishing for any lead. There wil be many other things to look into. Thereâ€™s al that cashâ€”somebody has it. There

wil be other suspects. For example, Lewis came in the Rat last night and started rubbing my back. At least twenty people can testify that I hit him in the stomach and threatened to put a nine-mil imeter bul et up his nose. Mitch

may wel want my story of that event.â€

Peter clapped his hands. â€œBrava, brava!â€

Wolf came back in and sank onto the couch.

â€œAnything of interest?â€ I asked.

â€œDirty clothes, dirty ashtrays and dirty magazines. Wel , this does it, Peter. We are out of here as soon as can be, and this damned place is listed with a real estate agent on our way out of town! Iâ€™ve had it, anyway, and

practical y being accused of murder puts a lid on it. Any advice, Alex?â€

â€œIâ€™m a little limited, here, Wolf. You are not my client, and I canâ€™t impede a police investigation under any circumstances. I can advise you to tel the truth. Answer what you are asked. Donâ€™t elaborate. Donâ€™t gossip about this or

someone wil misquote you. And, for Godâ€™s sake, donâ€™t try to leave until this matter is al cleared up.â€

â€œThat makes sense,â€ Peter replied quietly. â€œAnd weâ€™l try to fol ow it. But I agree, Wolf, weâ€™re out of here as soon as possible. As it is, weâ€™ve lingered too long at the bal .â€

â€œWhat do you mean?â€ I asked.

â€œOh, things have changed . . . here . . . in the real world, whatever. We came here nearly thirty years ago. And we are now dinosaurs in a teddibly civilized world. When we were young and gay,â€ he explained, â€œyou were damn

careful who knew it. One slip and you might lose a job or have the neighbors complain or have your parents disown you. Hel , every one of us had a lesbian â€˜girlfriendâ€™ we could trot out for the annual company picnic or a family

affair. Now, we have openly gay mayors, senators, athletes, TV personalities. Some companies give us spousal benefits. Some hospitals respect the wishes of the patientâ€™s partner. Some states wil let us marry and some

churches wil perform the rites.â€

â€œBut, thatâ€™s al good, Peter. Isnâ€™t it?â€ I wasnâ€™t fol owing him at al .

â€œOf course it is,â€ Wolf answered. â€œBut I know what he means. In days of yore, when we got to Ptown or the Hamptons or Fire Island or any place where we could be openly gay, we camped it up . Al of us went over the top

â€”swishing around, speaking affectedly, limp wristedâ€”even those of us who werenâ€™t natural y like that at al . Now that being gay isnâ€™t the disgrace it used to be, weâ€™ve become pretty mainstream. Weâ€™re so middle-class

respectable, weâ€™re deadly dul . We have become the very people we used to laugh at and be just a little afraid of. We join the PTA even if we donâ€™t have kids.â€

He thought for a moment and went on. â€œWe donâ€™t live on the edge anymore. Thereâ€™s not that delightful little frisson when you meet a guy at work you think may be gay. Nowadays, you just casual y ask him if he is. Hel , straight

men are wearing clothes to the office today that I wouldnâ€™t have dared wear in San Francisco thirty years ago!â€

â€œIâ€™l stil take today,â€ I said.

â€œOh, so wil I in many ways,â€ Peter admitted. â€œIâ€™m stil not making myself clear. Itâ€™s not that I want to go back to the days of the Inquisition. Itâ€™s more that I feel like Iâ€™m dancing in a disco . . . and wearing a bustle.â€

I stood up, as did Fargo, earning a low hiss from Pewter. â€œWel , if you want to live on the edge, you can always move to Idaho or Mississippi. Personal y, Iâ€™d just as soon not even drive through them.â€

â€œMy dear, smart gays donâ€™t even fly over them. I may be old-fashioned but I have no desire to be lynched.â€

â€œScary people stil out there,â€ Wolf mused. â€œI hope one of them hasnâ€™t taken up residence in Provincetown.â€

Chapter 10

I carried the empty suitcase from my office closet into the bedroom and put it on the bed. Fargo was right behind me, tail down and head slightly extended, eyes wary. He knew that a suitcase meant I was going somewhere

and that, usual y, somewhere did not include him. It was at the top of his list of things to dread, ranked right between having his nails clipped and his ears cleaned. As I got out clothes and so forth to take with me, he fol owed hard

on my heels from the bed to the closet, the bureau, the bathroom. I nearly stepped on him a dozen times.

When I began to pack, he jumped on the bed and lay on my clothes. I yel ed and he scrambled under the bed, where he emitted disapproving whuffles about once a minute. He would be staying with my mother, where he would

be petted, played with, walked, overfed and al owed to sleep on the bed. I hardly thought the SPCA would deem it cruelty. I tried explaining to him that if he was to be kept in expensive rawhides, I had to work. He didnâ€™t care.

I finished the chore and checked my watch, which was on my right wrist in deference to my bandaged left one. I hoped I could do without the wrap tomorrow. I didnâ€™t like keeping business appointments looking like the walking

wounded. Six oâ€™clock and time to see if I could reach Sonny in his little Tennessee love nest.

I popped a beer and sat at the kitchen table. Referring to the card he had given me, I dialed Gatlinburg and got the usual Chatty Cathy computerized voice tel ing me I had reached the Riverside Crest Hotel in the Heart of the

Smokies and to press one for reservations, two for accounting, three for banquet service, four for corporate services, or to dial any guest room-number now. For assistance, I was to remain on the line. I did so, and final y got it.

A twangy-voiced but pleasant young woman advised me that she would ring the room for Mr. and Mrs. â€œPairs.â€ It rang . . . and rang . . . and final y another disembodied voice informed me that I had reached voice-mail for

Room 617 and should leave a message at the beep if I desired. I desired.

â€œHi, there,â€ I warbled. â€œI know youâ€™ve just arrived and hate to bother you as you get settled, butâ€”wouldnâ€™t you knowâ€”thereâ€™s been a bludgeoning murder and Mitch wants to talk with you. A young houseboy for Green Mansions

was kil ed last night and found near Race Point, robbed of a considerable sum. Anders thinks a transient did it. Mitch disagrees. I think it would be a kindness if you would just cal Mitch. Heâ€™s a little shaky. Oh, he feels al alone in

this, as Chief Franks had to accompany his wife to Boston for emergency medical treatment. Do cal him. Mitch, I mean. Again, sorry for the intrusion. Bye.â€

As I hung up, the reason for my cal pul ed into the driveway. I waved him in and offered a beer. Mitch sank into a chair and nodded. â€œYes, thanks. If I go to sleep, just punch me if I snore. Hey, sorry about this afternoon, I was just

real y surprised to see you. Iâ€™m so tired I forgot my manners. Sorry.â€

â€œNo problem. But you came down on them a little hard, didnâ€™t you?â€

â€œWel , for one thing,â€ he pointed out, â€œthey are logical suspects, with only their word they were home asleep. And I donâ€™t think you just up and quit a job and say youâ€™re going to California.â€

I set his beer in front of him, actual y remembering a coaster. â€œYou wouldnâ€™t. I wouldnâ€™t. Lewis would. And while an employer might get pissed because you left them with a messy inn to clean up, I doubt theyâ€™d beat you to death

for it. Anyway, thereâ€™s the money. He had a real y fat wal et at eight oâ€™clock.â€

â€œYeah.â€ Mitch grinned and looked about fifteen. â€œAnd at seven fifty-eight you had punched him in the gut and offered to put a bul et up his nose.â€

â€œExactly right. And if he had rubbed up against me again, I might have done it. Or I might have wal oped him with a bat? Could have been more fun than shooting him.â€

â€œNot your style, Alex, andâ€”as you sayâ€”the money. Either you wouldnâ€™t have taken it, or youâ€™d have been out buying drinks al over town.â€

â€œSmartass. Seriously, Mitch, do you see something almost ritualistic in this? I mean, wherever he was kil ed, he was sort of . . . posed out there.â€ I had a sudden vision of a formalistic gay kil er or kil er-group. If that were the

case, the murders would not stop with one. Wasnâ€™t that reassuring!

â€œYou mean like he was an actor in a play or something?â€ Mitch might look like everybodyâ€™s baby brother, but the pale blue eyes gave him away. Usual y warm and merry, they could turn hard and cold swiftly, and they missed

nothing.

â€œKind of. Maybe if he wanted to be a star, here he was, center stage in a big amphitheater.â€ I found myself immediately wishing I hadnâ€™t said that. If Lewis was going to the Coast to have his beauty appreciated by the movie

industry, I hoped Wolf or Peter hadnâ€™t decided to give him his theatrical debut right here in town.

Mitchâ€™s change of subject told me exactly where his mind had gone. â€œDo you know if Wolf and Peter have any financial troubles?â€

â€œI think the opposite. Theyâ€™ve got a condo in South Beach in Miami. Before they knew Lewis was dead, just before you and Santos came, they mentioned maybe canceling a couple of fil ed weekends and closing the inn early

since they had no help in the house. The downstairs and kitchen are in good repair. I assume the rooms and baths are fine or they wouldnâ€™t be busy. That Explorer is almost new. I think they are okay. Certainly they wouldnâ€™t kil for

four hundred dol ars.â€

He continued trol ing. â€œI saw a blanket in the back of the Explorer.â€

â€œYouâ€™d see one in the back of my car. And Momâ€™s. And in our dear friend Mary Sloanâ€™s SUV . . . which, by the way, is light tan. Maybe it was our Mary out carousing in the wee hours. Maybe Lewis leaned against her fender with

greasy fingers. That would be sufficient cause for homicide.â€ He managed a weak grin and I noted, with guilt, his pale, tired face.

â€œMitch, youâ€™re exhausted. Iâ€™m sorry I teased you. By the way, I just cal ed Sonny. They havenâ€™t checked in yet, but I left a voice mail asking him to cal you. Iâ€™m sure heâ€™l get back to you tonight. Go home. Go to bed.â€

â€œGreat. Thanks, Alex.â€ He yawned. â€œIâ€™m going, Iâ€™m going.â€

Just looking at Mitch had tired me out. Cooking dinner was not on my agenda, nor was going out, so I fel back on that fine old American tradition and phoned for a meatbal pizza and smal salad. Fargo and I watched an old

Cary Grant movie for lack of a better. Fargo forgot his depression and chomped happily on the crusts, plus tidbits of meatbal . I checked my briefcase, took a shower and went early to bed. Tomorrow would be long.

It began early. I tried to cram al the last-minute items into my suitcase while Fargo went out on first patrol. But there was no fooling himâ€”he was back in seconds. I drove to Momâ€™s with his head resting on my knee, eyes

gazing up at me in great sadness. I felt an overwhelming guilt coupled with a strong desire to wring his neck. Momâ€™s toast and coffee helped, and I left. Fargoâ€™s depression had abated sufficiently for him to be chomping down

oatmeal as I closed the door. Driving to the airport, I wondered which of Offshore Airâ€™s uncooperative pilots Iâ€™d be flying with and decided it didnâ€™t matter. No seats needed moving, there wasnâ€™t a cloud in the sky and I presumed

the one who said heâ€™d been drinking would have sobered up by now. Whoever it was, he set us down at Logan/Boston without incident. I picked up my rental and was on my way into the city.

Since I was north of the tunnel, I figured Iâ€™d go over to Wel ington and see how squeaky-clean Nancy Whitfield Baker had fared at prestigious Rol es University. I cooled my heels for a half hour looking at murals of the campus.

Dean Pennycamp, a short, bespectacled man, at last appeared, holding my business card as if it were covered with some unidentified sticky substance. There was no invitation to his office, nor even to sit in the lobby. We stood,

while I explained why I was there and showed him El isâ€™s letter of authorization and my license. He looked at both as if I had printed them in the cel ar. I asked him if by chance he remembered Ms Baker.

â€œNo.â€

Did he think I might locate one of her professors who did?

â€œNo.â€

He handed me a copy of her transcript and turned to leave. I asked, â€œHow do you feel about her capability to handle the job in question?â€

He looked at me with pitying superiority. â€œShe graduated Rol es. She can certainly handle any job Provincetown has to offer.â€

â€œThanks ever so!â€ I enthused. â€œMr. El is wil be thril ed to know that, and if Ms. Baker gets the job, based on your exuberant recommendation, Iâ€™l tel her to write you a thank-you note.â€

In the car I looked over the transcript and found almost al A-minuses with a sprinkling of Aâ€™s and one B. Comments included words like bright, smart, hard-working, fast on the uptake and thorough. One instructor added that

he found her â€œsomewhat brittle . â€ Another went so far as to write that she was â€œnot a people person . â€ Al told, though, it was impressive.

My experience at BostonU, Nancyâ€™s undergraduate col ege, was a one-eighty from Rol es. Dean Sheldon was large, gregarious and helpful. Looking over Nancyâ€™s transcript before he handed it to me, he commented on the

high grades and complimentary remarks.

I asked if there were any notes on Nancyâ€™s social life.

â€œFortunately, no,â€ he laughed. â€œThose are only included if she felt compel ed to go skinny-dipping in the fountain or run her car over the presidentâ€™s bicycle. And that I would remember without a computer.â€

I began to enter the gist, if not the words, of his reply in my notebook. In mid-scribble the pen went dry. The dean waited patiently while I dug in my briefcase for another. Thank you, witch!

In conclusion, I questioned if he felt she could handle the job at the bank. He thought a moment and indicated the transcript. â€œFrom what I see there, and what youâ€™ve told me about her, Iâ€™d say a definite yes. My only hesitation is

thatâ€”although I donâ€™t remember herâ€”she seems like a fast-track big city, corporate type. Iâ€™d like a little more feedback on why she wants to move to Provincetown.â€

I concurred with that need, wondered how to get it, and after some brief chitchat, I left feeling better about those who grazed the groves of Academe.

It was way past my usual lunch hour, and Momâ€™s toast seemed far, far away. The Quincy Market was fairly near and I treated myself to a lobster salad, regretful y bypassing cold, bitter ale for a Diet Coke.

That left me within walking distance of Nancyâ€™s next-to-last employer, and it felt good to stretch my legs. My scraped shin was on the mend, sore but not painful. Panalog had surely done the trick. I thought briefly about writing

them of their productâ€™s wider application, but I recal ed a notation on the tube that it was licensed for veterinary use only. I had probably broken some law just using it. That would figure. By now I had reached Nancyâ€™s old office

building. After a couple of cal s by the receptionist, it was decided I should speak with a Carlton McCal ie, who would be with me shortly. I found myself in no rush. I was fascinated by a ceiling-high aquarium, lit only by natural

sunlight from an upper area. Various fish swam here and there. Crabs, starfish and a few cousins of my lunch prowled about the sandy, rock-strewn bottom.

A pleasant male voice beside me said, â€œEvery bit of marine life you see in there livesâ€”or at least, once upon a time livedâ€”in Boston harbor.â€

â€œItâ€™s fabulous! Itâ€™s got it al over goldfish swimming in and out of little pink plastic castles.â€ I turned to see a ruddy-faced, sandy-haired man in his late thirties, about my height.

â€œI agree. I suggested including a boot, a beer can and an old license plate for added realism. I was told not to be frivolous. Never be frivolous in a brokerage house. Iâ€™m Carl McCal ie. Come on back.â€

We settled into his luxurious office and he leaned back, tenting his fingers. â€œNow, P.I. Peres, what can I do for you? Are you chasing a con man preying on old ladies? Is my secretary blackmailing a playful vice-president?â€

â€œNothing half so much fun, but please keep my card handy in case anything like that turns up.â€ I told him why I was there and ended with a question. â€œSo why did Ms. Baker leave your employ?â€

â€œBecause of me.â€

â€œI see,â€ I said cool y, although I imagine my eyes looked like Orphan Annieâ€™s.

He gestured around the room. â€œWhen the guy who had this before me decided to retire, Nancy thought she should get itâ€”and with some reason. Instead, they brought me in from the outside. Angry doesnâ€™t cover it. She was

plain pissed. She left shortly after I got here.â€

â€œGlass ceiling?â€ It seemed the most plausible reason.

â€œNo,â€ he answered, â€œthat real y doesnâ€™t seem to apply here. And she is extremely capable. She has a knack for spotting trends, and sheâ€™s an excel ent analyst. If there is money to be made out there, she wil find it.â€

â€œSo why have you got the double windows instead of Nancy?â€

â€œBecause the minute people invest their money, they become afraid itâ€™s going to disappear.â€ He made a vague gesture toward a window, as if money were flying off his desk and across town. â€œFrom time to time, they need

their hands held. Maybe the market takes a hit. Maybe thereâ€™s a divorce, a death, a loss of job. Investors need to feel their advisor is genuinely concerned for their wel being, and the less money they have, the deeper their fear. I

understand that. I truly feel the responsibility of stewardship, and Iâ€™m not averse to trotting out a little tea and sympathy.â€ McCal ie had a nice smile.

â€œNow,â€ he went on, â€œNancy is as dedicated to making money for her clients as I am, but she looks upon it differently. She figures if you hire a mechanic to fix your car, you go away and let him do it. You donâ€™t lie on one of those

little skateboards and rol around in the grease with him, asking what heâ€™s doing.â€

I shook my head. â€œWrong. Anytime you hire anybody to do anything, you are entitled to questions. I donâ€™t care if itâ€™s a doctor or a dog walker.â€

â€œI agree, and thatâ€™s why Iâ€™m here. Not Nancy.â€

â€œOkay. Now why Provincetown, after a big city like Boston? Itâ€™s hardly the financial capital of the world, and itâ€™s not exactly husband-hunting land. If sheâ€™s gay, fine. If not, it worries me a little.â€

â€œShe isnâ€™t gay.â€ He grinned, and I wondered if he meant he was . . . or I was. Whatever. â€œThereâ€™s a fiancÃ© in the background somewhere. Old family, old moneyâ€”both of them. I donâ€™t know either of them wel , but Iâ€™ve been told

itâ€™s more a merger than a love affair. In which case theyâ€™l probably live unhappily ever after in a stone and clapboard colonial with two-point-five children, one-point-six golden retrievers, a car and an SUV they donâ€™t need or know

how to drive.â€

He shrugged rueful y. â€œBut before Nancy settles in this Utopia, I think she wants to make it as big as she can on her own. You canâ€™t blame her. You know, then she can casual y say, â€˜Wel , when I was vice-president at

Fishermenâ€™s Bank . . .â€™ Are you with me?â€

â€œAl the way.â€ I laughed. â€œI imagine youâ€™ve got it quite right. If she gets the job, Iâ€™l bring you my little mutual fund to guard. Iâ€™m a tea drinker, and a little sympathy never hurts.â€

â€œAnytime we can help, just hol er for Carl. Iâ€™m serious.â€

I thanked him and left, feeling that Iâ€™d done a pretty good dayâ€™s work. Now, if I could just remember how to get out of town. I joined two mil ion other people with the same idea, fought my way onto the Mass Turnpike and headed

west at about the same speed as the Conestoga wagons that had gone before me. My final target for today was Oak Hil , Connecticut, birthplace of the famous Cynthia Hart.

A few miles down the road my curiosity got the better of me, and I took the Weston turnoff. Consulting my map, I located Chez Baker and noted that the Bakers Senior lived in a split-level colonial of stone and wood. An SUV

stood in the driveway. I felt I understood, and maybe even liked Nancy Baker a little better.

Final y I turned onto I-395 and lost most of the traffic as I dropped down into Connecticut to pick up the road to Storrs. I stopped for gas, so I wouldnâ€™t have to in the morning, and asked the attendant if Oak Hil was anywhere

near. I was in it, he informed me, and, yes, there was a pretty good motel down the road. I explored the little town and found the bookstore Cynthia Hartâ€™s parents owned. It was in what looked to have once been a smal cottage.

Lights shone warm and welcoming through the windows. I thought of going in but decided it was doubtful Iâ€™d learn anything important, and Iâ€™d probably just make somebody suspicious of my visit.

I drove staunchly on in search of my motel, discovering that one manâ€™s â€œpretty goodâ€ is another womanâ€™s â€œpretty mediocre.â€

But I was tired enough to sleep wel , and the next morningâ€” ready to hear about Cynthiaâ€”presented myself at the office of the Dean of Women, University of Connecticut. The secretary buzzed her and explained my visit.

Hanging up, she said, â€œPlease have a seat. Dean Trinler wil be with you shortly.â€ And about ten minutes later I was told to â€œgo on in.â€

There are deans and there are deans. The one I encountered this particular Tuesday morning at U/Conn had her back to me, watching papers come out of a printer. She wore a silk dress of deep blue that changed to green

and back to blue again as she moved, like the ocean on a half-cloudy day. She turned toward me and I put her in her forties, with dark hair just wing-tipped with white, a kil er figure and bottomless blue eyes I immediately got lost

in.

â€œGood morning.â€ She smiled. â€œIâ€™m Mimi Trinler. Just printing out Cynthiaâ€™s transcript. Wonâ€™t be a minute. Sit . . . sit.â€ She turned back to the printer.

Suddenly I saw a quiet cottage by a rippling stream. The sapphire sky was echoed in a thick quilt stretched upon soft grass, with groups of white and yel ow daisies growing haphazardly nearby. Her dress lay in a shimmering

heap beside my rumpled slacks and sweater. Her body was tan and I raised myself on an elbow to stroke her now-loose hair and gently kiss the wide lips. My hand moved unbidden to touch her breastsâ€”ful and womanly and

welcoming. I kissed each one softly and then with more vigor and felt a tremor stir her body. She pul ed me toward her eagerly, her leg moving between mine, pushing upward.

â€œNow here we are, Ms. Peres, the ful transcript. Ah . . . Ms. Peres?â€

â€œUhh . . . what?â€ Where was I? What had happened to my babbling brook? The quilt? â€œAh. Yes. Here we are. Here! The transcript, oh, yes.â€

She gave me a wide and rather knowing smile, and for one horrified moment I wondered if I had spoken my fantasy aloud.

I managed to col ect myself and state my businessâ€”as opposed to my daydreams, which had left me perspiring and probably bright red. Dean Trinler next astonished me by remembering Cynthia Hart. When I asked why, she

laughed.

â€œCynthia was trouble from day one with unauthorized pets in her room. Various animals rescued from some trauma or other. Dogs, cats . . . and I recal a possum and a baby Canada goose. She always found homes for them

in the end. In fact, she talked me into taking a dog I stil have. Knocked the hel out of me as any kind of authority figure.â€

â€œSo sheâ€™s an animal person. How is she with people?â€ I asked. Cynthia usual y got along wel with her peers and faculty, the dean advised, although she did not â€œsuffer fools lightly.â€ We final y got around to grades, and I learned

that Cynthia was a bright, if not bril iant student, and had only one disciplinary problem aside from animals.

A group of students, including Cynthia, had tied themselves to a big old oak tree in an effort to prevent its being cut down by university authorities.

â€œThe reason it was coming down was that it was old and sick and rotten,â€ Dean Trinler explained. â€œI was more worried about a limb fal ing off and braining one of them than anything else. Iâ€™m not sure they ever believed us. Are

you a tree hugger?â€

â€œNot to the point of tying myself to one. I thought maybe I should try a person first, and I canâ€™t seem to do that too wel either.â€ Now why had I said that? This woman did strange things to me. I tried to cover my confusion by

adding some notes to my book, but now another pen did nothing but scratch the paper.

â€œMaybe you need a longer rope.â€ She gave me that smile again, and I felt that in five minutes she knew me better than my closest friend. I almost asked her to have lunch, but nine-fifteen seemed a little early.

I thanked her and managed to get out with my dignity sorely wounded and the transcript tucked messily under my arm. It wasnâ€™t til I got to the car that I noticed the hem in one pants leg was drooping.

Thereâ€™s no easy way to get from Storrs to Norwalk, but I final y did it. The operative word being finally. I kept hitting the search button on the radio and in due course came up with a jazz station which improved my humor.

Herman, Baker, Coltraneâ€”oh, yes. I wondered why I was so musical y out of sync with my peers. I decided to blame my mother. She played a fairly accomplished piano, jazz and classical, so I was brought up with that kind of

music. She also loved every Broadway musical ever produced. A few years back Sonny had recorded her LPs onto CDs and made copies for me. I now boasted what was probably the best col ection of show tunes east of New

York. I even hadâ€”from my grandmotherâ€”the original King and I cast album with Yul Brynner and Gertrude Lawrence. No wonder Iced T didnâ€™t do it for me!

The scenic but slow Merritt Parkway eventual y spat me out a few blocks from where George Hampton Mil s had held his nextto-last job. I final y got through to the office manager and was not amazed to find Dean

Pennycampâ€™s spiritual twin.

Once again standing in a lobby, I learned that Mil s had worked for them for two years and moved to a smal er company, where he â€œfelt he would be more comfortable.â€ George seemed to be getting littler and littler; I wondered

when he would disappear entirely. No reason was given for our Georgeâ€™s change in comfort level. My questions regarding his abilities, customer relations and performance were al answered by non-answers, as was my attempt

to inquire if he was happily married. I inquired if the manager had any idea why Mil s wanted to move to Provincetown and he shrugged, saying, â€œdoubtless a personal decision.â€

At last I asked the manager if he knew Mil s might have a drinking problem and was told, â€œWe do not socialize among our employees and do not inquire into their personal lives.â€ Thank you, Your Majesty.

I knew when I was licked. I might snoop around and dig up a little more but probably nothing important. I had the feeling anyone I spoke with would be bound by the old nil nisi bonum reticence to dish a guy who was already

wel on his way down. I almost felt the same myself.

Walking back to my car I felt light-headed. Probably I needed food, although I real y didnâ€™t feel hungry. Was the curse stil in effect? Damn that old woman, anyway. I drove a few hundred yards down Route 7 and spotted a

Chinese restaurant. I lucked out; the food was quite good. Then there was the fortune cookie. A su c cessful career buys more food than romance. But does it warm you on a winterâ€™s night, Confucius? I got back into the dreaded

vehicle and wended my now weary way to I-95 and started northeast once again, hoping to make Providence before I succumbed to battle fatigue. My wrist hurt and I felt like Iâ€™d been driving for a month, but it was the only way I

could complete this trip in three days.

I real y wanted to get home on schedule. Already I badly missed Fargo. I missed my house . . . the Wharf Rat . . . my mother . . . my friends . . . Hel , I missed my enemies. I wanted out of this car. And into one of my delicious

gril ed cheese and tomato sandwiches with the tomato fal ing out and the mustard al over my fingers. These happy thoughts got me to the outskirts of Providence and a motel that real y was â€œpretty good.â€

After the day Iâ€™d had, I figured Choate El is owed me a lobster dinner. I enjoyed it without remorse. Returning to my room, I cal ed Mom and learned that she and Fargo were fine, my house was standing last she knew and she

would look forward to my early return. Duty performed.

Later, I found the bed firm, the sheets crisp, the pil ows ample, yet I tossed and turned long into the night with visions of Mimi Trinler dancing through my half-dreams. In my waking moments, I wondered if there might be any

way at al to make them come true. I realized there was not, and felt absolutely no better. I thought of her comment about my needing a longer rope and appreciated what she meant. I decided I was sort of like a paraphrased

Saint Augustine: Tie me to someone, Lord, but not too close.

Final y, I slept. So, of course, the next morning I resented getting up. But I turned off my alarm and grumpily arose. Unsurprisingly, I got shampoo in my eyes and managed to put my finger through my hose as I dressed. I must

say I have never given much thought to witches in my young life, but I never thought unkindly of them. Why was al this happening to me?

I always get lost in Providence, today being no exception. When I final y found the campus and final y found the deanâ€™s office, my reception was neutral. Cynthia was a bright student. Yes, I could have the transcript. No, the

dean did not remember her. Further, she felt it would be a waste of my time and the facultyâ€™s for me to â€œwander around trying to ferret out some instructor who did recal the young lady.â€ Thank you and good morning.

On to Kudlow Securities, where I was shown into the office of Mrs. Kudlow herself. She was a midsize model with graying blonde hair pul ed into a severe bun, but with those classic middle European features that let her get

away with it. She was attractive, warm, charming, and in the ring with a goril a, my money would have been on her.

â€œIâ€™m so glad youâ€™re here.â€ She smiled warmly. â€œMy husband and I have been very hopeful that this Fishermenâ€™s job would work out for Cynthia.â€

â€œSounds like youâ€™re trying to get rid of her.â€ I smiled back.

â€œI am . . . but only because she deserves to be rid of us at this point. Let me explain. We are not a large companyâ€”weâ€™re family-run and owned. My daughter is in graduate school but wil join us next year. My husband and I

would like to retire while we have breath, and had figured on Cynthia to be ready to take over by then.â€

She fiddled with a pencil on her desk and frowned slightly. â€œWhat we had not figured on was our son,â€ Mrs. Kudlow continued. â€œHe had decided on a military career rather than finance. However, he was badly wounded in Iraq

and wil be unable to resume an active role in the military. He has decided to join the firm. Of course we could not sayâ€”had no wish to sayâ€” no to him under the circumstances.â€

I nodded. â€œAnd with two children in the company, there isnâ€™t room for Cynthia.â€

â€œNot at the level she deserves. We talked it over with her at once. It would be to our benefit to keep her as long as possible, but it wouldnâ€™t be fair. She has worked too hard and been too valuable. The sooner she gets her

career on the climb again, the better. Fishermenâ€™s sounds perfect for her. She is capable. Handles subordinates wel and deals wel with customers. Should I cal this Mr. El is and talk with him? I could fil in any details her resumÃ©

may have missed.â€

I suggested that I have El is cal her when I got back. We talked a bit more, but I couldnâ€™t punch any holes in the story. I did ask casual y if she knew anything about Cynthia having a misunderstanding with a police officer

regarding an injured cat.

Mrs. Kudlow al owed herself a smal laugh. â€œYou phrase it very delicately, Ms. Peres, but I think Iâ€™l let Cynthia tel that story herself.â€

That was al I was going to get, so I thanked her and left.

On the way to the elevators I saw a serious-visaged young woman coming down the hal toward me with a purposeful stride. She was nicely plump, wore a sensible navy blue skirt and lighter blue sweater, and had her hair in a

no-nonsense ponytail. It had to be our Cynthia. Iâ€™d have loved to ask her about that contempt of court charge, but that was El isâ€™s purview, not mine.

I couldnâ€™t resist. Giving her my friendliest smile, I asked, â€œPicked up any stray cats lately?â€ She gave me a startled look and reversed her course quickly. One of those people with no sense of humor, I supposed.

Chapter 11

I sat in a smal deli near Kudlowâ€™s, savoring a pastrami on rye, chips and a smal cucumber salad. Okay. I had done my bit for El is. Now how did I go about getting home? As I pondered, weak and weary, there was a nearly

soundless twang! as a bra strap parted. Ah, my ubiquitous witch! But I was too eager to solve my travel problems to give her much time. I whipped into the ladiesâ€™ room, yanked off the bra, stuffed it in my purse and hardly missed

a thought.

None of my get-home options thril ed me. I could drive to Hyannis, turn in the car and cal someone to come and get me. But Mom worked Wednesdays, and Aunt Mae was a reluctant (and terrifying) driver. Sonny was away.

Cassie was God knew whereâ€”too complicated. I could drive back to Boston, turn in the car and catch the afternoon flight, but that meant more drivingâ€”in the wrong direction.

There was another possibility. If Offshore Airways had not switched to their curtailed winter schedule, maybe they had an afternoon flight from Providence to Provincetown, and I could turn the car in at Providence Airport.

I finished my cholesterol special, downed my Diet Cokeâ€”God, how I missed the Rat!â€”and looked around for a pay phone. My cel phone, of course, was safely locked in the compartment of my car at Ptown Airport. Moments

later I fed quarters into a wal phone. Offshore assured me they had seats on a 3:15 flight, and I was on my way to the Providence, R.I. Airport. Iâ€™d have an hourâ€™s wait, but who cared? I wouldnâ€™t be in a car!

Fortunately the airport is easily found. I turned in the car without parting sadness and walked into the terminal. About to hand the Offshore agent my credit card, I heard a voice behind me say gruffly, â€œNow, just come quietly,

miss. Donâ€™t make me have to use force.â€ I spun around.

â€œCassie! Am I glad to see you! What the hel are you doing here?â€ She was dressed in her uniform of khaki shirt with white ascot, navy slacks, a light blue suede jacket with â€œOuter Cape Charterâ€ embroidered in gold over the

breast pocket. A brimmed officerâ€™s cap with gold wings finished the look of a modern-day Amelia Earheart, and the Offshore agent was batting her eyes furiously.

â€œI just brought four women down to catch a Delta to Atlanta. Theyâ€™re going to some teachersâ€™ thing. Iâ€™m heading home. Want a ride?â€

â€œDo I ever! Iâ€™l ride on the wing. Anything to be going home.â€ I turned to fol ow her outside.

The agent cal ed after me, â€œDo I take it you wil not be flying Offshore Air this afternoon?â€ She sounded plaintive. Had I been the only passenger?

I turned back. â€œAfraid so. Iâ€™m sorry. I didnâ€™t mean to be rude. See you next time. â€ I waved and left. I caught up with Cassie. â€œWhat are you doing at the Offshore terminal?â€

â€œSame as Boston and Hartford. I buy my fuel here, have the plane serviced, etc., and they let me use their facilities. Theyâ€™ve cleaned the plane and fil ed it up. We can leave anytime.â€

â€œLetâ€™s go.â€ I fol owed her aboard the neat, sleek little twin-engine plane. It was easy to see why she loved it so.

â€œCome up and be my copilot, if you promise not to curse my airplane.â€ Cassie grinned. I was delighted to serve. Iâ€™d learned a few of those duties and jumped at any opportunity to perform them. If I ever could afford it, flying

lessons were on the list. I closed and locked the outside door behind us and fol owed her into the cockpit. â€œClose the curtain to the cabin,â€ she said. â€œThat way we can smoke later, without getting the smel into the cabinâ€”I hope.â€

We fastened seat belts, Cassie started the engines and waved goodbye to the Offshore crewman whoâ€™d been standing by with a fire extinguisher. She and I both donned earphones with mouthpieceâ€”me just to listen. I heard

her amplified voice, slightly tinny as she began her ritual conversation with the Providence control tower.

Very shortly we clattered and bounced along the taxiway. Strange how planes seemed so clumsy on the ground, as if they knew it was not their milieu . She halted next to the end of the runway as a big 737 flared out and

roared past us about thirty feet overhead. Then there was a squeal and puff of smoke from the tires and it was down.

â€œGive me twenty degrees flaps,â€ Cassie said, and I careful y set the lever. She spoke into the mike. â€œProvidence Control. This is Outer Cape Charter twin Beech two-one-seven, at the threshold of runway two-three, requesting

takeoff instructions.â€

â€œOuter Cape, Providence Control. You are number one to take off on runway two-three. Wind is southwest at ten. Barometer is two-niner-niner-four and steady.â€

Cassie ran up the engines, slipped the brakes and we were rol ing. Even in a smal plane the power was wondrous to feel. The plane actual y seemed to yearn to be away, pressing forward into the wind like a woman running

pel mel toward her loverâ€™s arms. There was a little lurch, the nose went up and Cassie turned toward me. â€œWheels up.â€ I reached for the switch and heard the reassuring whine, fol owed by a solid thunk as they settled into the

wel s.

â€œFlaps up.â€ I careful y reset the lever.

As we climbed toward the bright fal sun and the crystal blue around it the words came out unasked. â€œ â€˜Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter silvered wings.â€™ â€

Cassie smiled. â€œHad to be written by a pilot.â€

â€œIt was. A fel ow named Magee. He was in the RCAF in World War Two.â€

â€œAny more to the poem?â€

â€œQuite a bit. I just canâ€™t remember it. It ends with something like, â€˜climbing through grey to bril iant sun, and reaching out to touch the face of God.â€™ Magee was kil ed in combat right after that. Age nineteen. A bit young to put a

lid on it.â€

Cassie answered softly, â€œMaybe heâ€™d done al he needed to.â€ I put that away to think about later.

â€œStraighten out on sixty degrees and level off at three thousand. Iâ€™l go get us some coffee from the thermos.â€ She was standing up before I realized she was talking to me.

Then suddenly there I was with my very own airplane! I could understand why Cassie loved to fly. Sheâ€™d been taught by her Air Force father but had bypassed the military as a career herselfâ€”for the obvious reason. Sheâ€™d

gotten into the pilot training course of a large airline but had left it when she discovered how unfairly female pilots were treated. Cassieâ€™s dad staked her to the down payment on the sweetheart Beechcraft, and the rest was

history.

Cassie returned with two plastic mugs. I was very proud when she simply set the automatic pilot and lit a cigarette. â€œSo how was the trip?â€

I told her the generalities. I did mention my reaction to the very attractive Dean Trinler, though I did not go into the lurid details. She shook her head sadly. â€œThatâ€™s your problem, Alex. Youâ€™re too damn careful. You should have

invited her to dinner and then gone for it!â€

I yawned. I wasnâ€™t sleepy but my ears were plugging up. Funny, altitude usual y didnâ€™t bother me. â€œShe probably has a husband and four kids.â€ I pul ed out the ashtray on my side and joined her in a smoke.

â€œSo she says no thanks. You real y need to be more assertive.â€

â€œYeah, like with the blonde at your party. Iâ€™m making my move and she damn near kil s me.â€

â€œSheâ€”the blondeâ€”whatsernameâ€”felt awful about that. She real y was put up to it. Iâ€™m sure sheâ€™d like to see you again.â€

â€œSo she can break my leg?â€ I tapped Cassieâ€™s arm and indicated another smal plane several hundred feet below us on a reciprocal course.

â€œThanks,â€ she acknowledged. â€œPlenty of room. Howâ€™s your wrist? Lainey says a sprain like that can feel worse than a clean break.â€

â€œSore and achy. Iâ€™ve been driving al over. The bandage helps, but I havenâ€™t been wearing it much. Anywayâ€”moving along from homicidal blondes, whatâ€™s new at home?â€

â€œSame old, same old. Oh, Peter and the Wolf are looking for you. I ran into them at the Wharf Rat, and Lainey saw them at the market. They were asking if we knew how to reach you. Didnâ€™t say why. I didnâ€™t realize you were so

friendly.â€

â€œWe arenâ€™t close, real y. Itâ€™s their houseboy who got kil ed the other night. Theyâ€™re probably afraid it makes them or their place look bad and just want reassurance. I canâ€™t think of any other reason.â€ Actual y, I could think of

several, the first being that Mitch was al over them, the second being that perhaps he had good reason.

I stared down at the now choppy bay and recal ed last Saturday. Wolf had been livid at the memory of how Lewis had insulted Peter by breaking his fatherâ€™s watch. Wolf had started drinking early. He might wel have continued

into evening, nursing his anger as he went along. What if Lewis had returned to his room for something heâ€™d forgotten? He and Wolf might have met. If the confrontation and taunting had started al over again, I doubted Wolf

would have contented himself with a little shove or two and a good cry. Wolf was tal , in good shape. He might have been able to give Lewis a fair pounding. But was he capable of kil ing him?

â€œProbably,â€ I sighed. Cassie looked at me questioningly. I just shook my head and she shrugged.

â€œOkay.â€ She turned off the autopilot. â€œStart a turn to two-twooh degrees and begin your descent at three hundred feet per minute. Oh, and see if you can dislodge that witch and her cat from the tail section, wil you?â€

â€œDonâ€™t laugh.â€ I sighed. â€œHal oween night I found myself chasing an old lady up Commercial Street, thinking she was the witch. Two hours later your friend Kerry had me tied in knots. Itâ€™s gone on and on. How do witches pick

their victims? Why me?â€

â€œBecause you are an innocent at heart.â€ She adjusted the trim slightly.

Soon I was happily involved with the aircraft and forgot about the hapless Lewis. When I had the plane lined up with Runway 22, Cassie took over and greased it in. As she performed shutdown procedures, I asked if she

needed a ride. She said no, she had several chores to do.

â€œLike what? Should I wait for you?â€ I asked.

â€œOh, like vacuuming the plane. Doing the exorcism ritual. You know, routine.â€

â€œOh, bug off about that!â€ I growled. â€œIâ€™m getting paranoid as it is.â€

She laughed and ten minutes later Fargo was licking my face and whining to tel me how mistreated he had been. Then he remembered he was mad at me and sulked under the kitchen table, staying there until Mom put a

plate of food in front of me.

She fed me an early dinner of leftover meatloaf, mashed potatoes and little brussels sprouts with butter and caraway seed. It tasted infinitely better than the lobster and steaks Iâ€™d been eating. I gave her a rundown of my trip.

She told me Sonny, Mitch and Peter and the Wolf were looking for me. The list was growing.

After my warm welcome and hot meal, everything seemed to catch up with me, and I couldnâ€™t stop yawning, this time for real. Mom suggested I go home before I fel asleep at the table.

As I got to my feet the smal gold buckles on the side of my slipons interlocked and I fel against the sink. I managed to grab it, almost hitting my chin, and clumsily pul ed myself erect.

â€œFucking bitch witch!â€ I hissed. â€œIâ€™m sorry, Mom, excuse me.â€

â€œAre you hurt?â€ Mother leaned down and disentangled my shoes.

â€œOnly my dignity . . . for the twentieth time.â€ I was so angry my head was spinning.

â€œAlexandra, you worry me a little. Are you real y letting this so-cal ed witchâ€™s curse bother you? Surely you donâ€™t believe it?â€

I sighed. â€œOh, of course not. Not real y. But crazy things keep happeningâ€”al in a row, it seems. I scraped my shin on Maryâ€™s boat. Spil ed tea al over Wolfâ€™s living room and made a fool of myself in front of Sonnyâ€™s girl.

Knocked a guyâ€™s beer over in the Rat. I hurt my wrist at Cassieâ€™s, had not one but two pens dry up on me during an interview and lost a bra strap in Providence. I donâ€™t knowâ€”I seem to be fal ing apart. Iâ€™m just tired . . . and my ear

hurts, it plugged up on the plane. Itâ€™s nothing, Mom. Iâ€™m just frazzled. And everybody teases meâ€”wel , Joe and Cassie.â€ I sounded so childishly piqued even I had to laugh.

â€œDarling, crazy things happen to al of us al the time.â€ Mom smiled. â€œAnd sometimes they do seem to go in streaks. But witches only count in movies, and I donâ€™t think anyone is filming you. Now, darling, go home and rest.â€ She

struck a sil y pose. â€œAbracadabra! Presto! Hoot, mon! Faith and begorrah! Holy cow! Ipso facto! Hey, nonny nonny . . . the curse is gone!â€

I loved that woman. And I smiled al the way home.

I walked into the house, which seemed a little strange to me, even after so short an absence. Fargo seemed to feel the same. He ran from room to room . . . sniffing . . . whuffling . . . checking. I hiked the thermostat, started a

pot of coffee and walked over to the telephone message machine, which was blinking as if it had undergone a nervous breakdown. I hit the replay and sat down to listen.

Peter would appreciate a cal . Click. Wolf would real y like to hear from me. Click. Mitch had not heard from Sonny. Click. Mitch had to reach Sonny. Click. Wolf needed to talk to me right away. Click. Someone would like to

speak to Arthur. Click. It was imperative that Mitch speak to Sonny or me. Click. Would I please cal Sonny at the fol owing number . . . Click.

I picked up the card that Sonny had left with me, giving his hotel number in Gatlinburg and compared it with the one I had just jotted down from the tape. They were not the same. I dialed the new number and was told I had

reached Gatlinburg Towers. It sounded expensive. Paula was obviously not a cheap date. No wonder Sonny was thinking of high-paying jobs. Final y I heard Sonny say hel o.

â€œWhere are you?â€ I asked. â€œWhat happened to Riverside Crest?â€

His voice was hearty and jovial, as if he were addressing the Kiwanis Club. I knew that meant someone was with him, doubtless the lovely Paula. â€œWhy, ah, we decided to stay here. Itâ€™s right downtown and itâ€™s got an indoor

pool, a spa, hairdresser, shopsâ€”â€

â€œSounds like the Kansas City Sheraton.â€

â€œCould be for al I know. Paula felt the Riverside was a little, uh, rustic and thought sheâ€™d be happier here in more traditional surroundings.â€ There was just the slightest accent on thought that told me Paula wasnâ€™t happy at the

Towers, either.

â€œI see. Look, why havenâ€™t you cal ed Mitch? He is about in hysterics by now.â€

He sounded surprised. â€œWhy should I cal Mitch?â€

â€œDidnâ€™t you get my message at the Riverside? A young houseboy who worked for Peter and the Wolf got his head beaten in. He was found at the amphitheater, robbed of a bunch of money.â€

â€œNo, I didnâ€™t get any message.â€ Now he sounded bitter. â€œI wouldnâ€™t have, we never checked in. Paula took one look at the lobby and â€˜just knew it wasnâ€™t our kind of place.â€™ I donâ€™t see why Mitch canâ€™t handle it, but Iâ€™l cal him. He

probably just needs a boost. Everything else okay? Mom okay? Fargo?â€

He sounded lonesome. On vacation? With a pretty companion? â€œEverythingâ€™s fine. Momâ€™s good. Fargoâ€™s glad to be home. Me, too. Anyway, I wonâ€™t keep you. Have fun at the Kansas City Sheraton. Or is it the Atlanta Marriott?â€

â€œWho can tel ? Maybe the Hong Kong Hilton. Bye.â€

I decided to let Sonny cal Mitch before I did. It would doubtless be a much happier conversation that way. There wasnâ€™t much I could do for whoever was looking for Arthur, whoever he might be. So, reluctantly, I looked up the

number for Peter and the Wolf.

As I started to dial, I thought back to my conversation with Sonny. He and Paula had never checked in at the Riverside, so they never got my voice-mail message. I wondered who did, and suddenly a heartwarming, wicked

scenario rol ed before me. The bridegroom carries his bride across the threshold of Room 617 at the Riverside Crest. â€œAlone at last!â€ he cries.

â€œNot quite,â€ says the lovely bride. â€œOur phone is blinking. It must be voice-mail.â€

â€œOdd. Whoâ€™d be cal ing us now? Wel , dear, check it. Iâ€™l I open the champagne.â€

The bride picks up the phone, listens, â€œ . . . sorry to bother you when youâ€™ve just arrived, but . . . thereâ€™s been a bludgeoning murder . . .â€ Shriek. Thud.

Once in a while I come down with acute schadenfreude, so I was smiling broadly as I dialed the phone. I hoped Wolf would answer. I real y didnâ€™t feel up to Peterâ€™s high dramaâ€”luck was with me.

â€œThank God, Alex, we thought youâ€™d disappeared.â€ Wolf sounded a bit dramatic himself.

â€œI was away on business, as I mentioned. Whatâ€™s up?â€

â€œI think weâ€™re going to be arrested for that little bastardâ€™s murder.â€

â€œOh, Wolf! Just because the cops ask you a few questions does not mean imminent arrest! Mitch may be sounding tough because heâ€™s a little unsure, working the case without Sonny as fal back. I donâ€™t think thereâ€™s anything to

worry about unless, of course, you did it.â€ I made it a question.

â€œOf course not. But old lady Ethel Winger lives next door, and you know her. She saw the tiff between Peter and Lewis and told the cops. By now it sounds like something between a young Ali and a demented Tyson. And

Peterâ€™s watchâ€”Mitch asked to borrow it, said weâ€™d get it back and provided a receipt, but I donâ€™t like it. I donâ€™t understand.â€

â€œI donâ€™t either, but I wouldnâ€™t worry. As far as the fight . . . wel , you didnâ€™t lie. You just werenâ€™t completely forthcoming. And thereâ€™s no real reason you should have been at that time. Just let this play itself out, Wolf.â€

â€œWel , we do worry. We want to hire you, Alex. With Sonny and the Chief away and that idiot Anders in charge, God knows what could happen. Obviously somebody had it in for Lewis. We were pissed at him for walking out,

and what he did to Peter was unforgivable. But we didnâ€™t kil him. However, if the police just keep looking at us, theyâ€™re never going to find anybody else. You have to find that somebody else, Alex. We did not do it!â€

I wished he would stop saying we. Did he mean neither of them did it, or did he mean that only one of them did it, without the assistance of the other? â€œWolf, Iâ€™m real y tired. I just got in. Iâ€™l see you around ten tomorrow, okay?

Weâ€™l decide then if I can help you in some way, although I real y donâ€™t imagine you need me. Weâ€™l talk.â€

After dragging a few more reassuring remarks out of me, he final y hung up.

Bed. What I needed was my own familiar, beloved bed. I yawned and went to let Fargo out. I got halfway to the back door and the front doorbel rang. Fargo gave two or three ferocious barks and then quit. It must be someone

he knew.

â€œListen, Fargo, if this isnâ€™t somebody with a mil ion in cash and two filets mignon, take â€™em out! You hear me? I want company like you want your ears cleaned.â€ He wagged his tail and grinned and I opened the door.

It was Mitch, looking cool, col ected . . . and rested, dammit. Obviously, Sonny had calmed him down and made him feel like Hercule Poirot.

â€œSorry to bother you, Alex. I know youâ€™re tired. But Sonny thought I should update you right away. He thought you might want casual y to suggest to Peter and the Wolf that they retain a lawyer.â€

God, I hate nights like this.

Chapter 12

Mitch sat at the kitchen table while I put on fresh coffee. I sat across from him and lit a cigarette, and donâ€™t ask me the numberâ€” I had stopped counting somewhere over Rhode Island.

â€œNow what is this? Sonny thinks Peter and the Wolf should get a lawyer? What on earth did you tel him to warrant that suggestion?â€

â€œIâ€™m going to start at the beginning, Alex, and you can decide for yourself. Okay?â€ He took a battered notebook from his shirt pocket and searched for the page he wanted. Was this murder so complicated? Heâ€™d written notes

the length of War and Peace.

â€œHere we go. Early Sunday morning Lewis Schley was found at the amphitheater, beaten to death and laid out, if you wil , on the stage. Because of the chil y night and heavy rain, time of death was difficult to establish, but both

Doc Marsten and the medical examiner estimate between nine p.m. Saturday and two a.m. Sunday. Both believe it was probably early rather than late within that time frame. They both also think he was probably kil ed elsewhere

and moved, though again the rain makes it uncertain.â€

â€œHe was alive and wel at eight p.m.,â€ I reminded him.

â€œYes. Several people at the Wharf Rat corroborate that. But nobody claims to have seen himâ€”â€

â€œMitch,â€ I interrupted. â€œI forgot to mention it, but I saw Jared Mather talking to him outside the Rat as I was leaving. Maybe Lewis said something to him that would help. Sorry I didnâ€™t say something earlier. Iâ€™ve been rather . . .

preoccupied.â€

â€œUh-huh, I know. The Wicked Witch of the Wat.â€

â€œThe what?â€

The Wat . . . you know, like wabbit.â€

â€œVery funny. Who told you about that?â€ My coffee was suddenly bitter.

â€œOh, Joe, Lainey, Cassie. Anyway, I ran into Mather at Royâ€™s CafÃ© having lunch. He mentioned seeing Lewis, but no help there.â€ Mitch laughed. â€œHe said he caught up with Lewis at the end of the al ey. It looked like it was about

to pour and he felt it his â€˜Christian duty to offer the boy a ride.â€™ Lewis told him riding with queer haters made him nervous, heâ€™d rather get wet. End of conversation. So much for dÃ©tente.â€

I smiled. â€œI bet Mather loved that.â€ Secretly I wondered if Mather and Lewis had had something goingâ€”or if Mather wished they did. Even so, Mather was a good investigator. If he knew anything heâ€™d have made it known

somehow. And I wasnâ€™t going to out him just to take the focus off Wolf and Peter, even if Mitch would have believed me.

â€œWel , he was laughing when he told me. But later he said he felt kind of bad . . . like maybe if heâ€™d insisted, Lewis would stil be alive.â€

Mitch yawned and I yearned for bed. But he started his speech again. â€œTo continue, we stil have not found his wal et. That, plus Mel onâ€™s statement that he had over four hundred dol ars, plus your statement that he had a ful

wal et at the Rat, lends credence to the robbery theory.â€ He started flipping through the notebook and making irritating little noises, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

â€œMitch, you sound as if youâ€™re on the stand at somebodyâ€™s trial. We arenâ€™t there yet. Here, have some coffee. And speak English, not detecto-babble.â€

He glared at me and looked embarrassed. â€œYeah, sorry. We havenâ€™t found the murder weapon yet, but forensics has been some help in tel ing us what to look for. Itâ€™s some kind of wooden stick. They found a few splinters in

the wound, pine, common pine. And there was some sawdust on his jacket where the rain didnâ€™t get to. It was not a basebal bat. The end of it was square, maybe three inches across. There were some funnyâ€”strangeâ€”bruises

on his shoulders and neck, like he was hit with something knobby. Forensics final y decided it was probably a table leg or chair leg, probably square at the top, then round and tapered as it went down. One little knob toward the

top and two or three toward the bottom.â€

Mitch looked up at me meaningful y. â€œWe know where thereâ€™s at least one table leg missing, donâ€™t we?â€

â€œYes,â€ I agreed. â€œFrom a warped beat-up old table that could have lost that leg months ago. Surely you donâ€™t think they took it off the table, zonked Lewis with it and then parked the table with three legs on the front porch for the

edification of the Provincetown Police Department!â€ I set my mug down emphatical y.

He shrugged. â€œWhoever said murderers were always smart? Anyway, thereâ€™s more. Lewis had a recently healed wound on his left hand. The scar tissue was torn open, as if someone had ripped a watch off his wrist and

opened up the cut doing it. We found out that so-cal ed little Saturday morning confrontation Wolf told us about was real y a first-class fistfight over a watch belonging to Peter Mel on. A woman who lives next door to them saw the

whole thing. Now maybe Lewis didnâ€™t give the watch back to Peter. Maybe Peter yanked it off his arm later. Maybe? Weâ€™ve got the watch, with a broken crystal, by the way, to test for any blood.â€ He moved on to another page, stil

clucking like a damned chicken.

â€œThe crystal got broken Saturday morning,â€ I sighed. â€œBefore he knocked Peter down, Lewis teased him with the watch and then deliberately dropped it on the driveway. They told me about it Sunday before you and Pete

Santos came by. And I noticed Lewis check a watch in the Rat. I donâ€™t recal how it looked, but it wasnâ€™t Peterâ€™s.â€

â€œWhy didnâ€™t you tel me? Whose side are you on?â€ Now that query brought me up short. Did he already have them arrested and convicted? Did he know something that made him so certain?

â€œTruth. Justice. Motherhood and apple pie. Donâ€™t be an ass, Mitch. Iâ€™m not on anybodyâ€™s side, and neither should you be! Can you visualize Peter Mel on in a fight? He took a dainty swipe at Lewis and missed. Lewis hit him on

the cheek and then pushed him, and he fel down and cried over the broken watch. You better have your witness think again. You know old lady Winger would say anything to look important.â€

â€œAl right, Alex, I guess she could have exaggerated. But thereâ€™s one other thing. We know where Peter was from about seven-thirty til midnight Saturday . . . the Crown and Anchor. But we canâ€™t seem to trace Wolf.â€ He began

flipping and clicking again. I wondered idly if he would stop if I threw my coffee in his face.

Final y, he found the page he was looking for. â€œWolf says he drove Peter to the Crown and dropped him off with his costume and makeup. He knew there would be no parking spaces, so he took the car home. He walked back

down to the A-House for a drink and then went to see Peter sing. He says afterward he walked home again and brought the car down to get Peter and his stuff, since it had begun to rain. That is a complicated lot of walking and

driving. More to the point, we havenâ€™t found anyone who saw him, and he says he canâ€™t remember who might recal seeing him at either place.â€

I sipped my coffee and knew I could fal asleep with the mug in my hand. â€œThe A-House was plain crazy. Iâ€™m surprised the fire department didnâ€™t shut them down. It would have been easy to miss someone in that crowd. The

Crown was not quite as bad, but I admit, I didnâ€™t see Wolf. He could have been in the bar.â€

â€œMaybe,â€ Mitch conceded. â€œBut the bartender doesnâ€™t remember him being around until after eleven p.m., when he came in, soaking wet. And youâ€™d think the barman would remember Wolf being there earlier, with Peter there

playing the star.â€

â€œHe was damn good.â€ For some reason I was getting irritated. I tried to credit it to fatigue.

â€œI donâ€™t doubt it, but see if this makes sense to you. Wolf drives Peter to the Crown. While he is gone, Lewis returns, maybe to get something he forgot from his room. And maybe, seeing the car gone he figures no one is

home and goes in the main house to see whatâ€™s loose and easy to takeâ€”maybe from an unlocked guest room. Believe me, I donâ€™t see Lewis as a choirboy!â€

I got up and poured us coffee. Mitch was reaching toward his notebook again, and I accidental y spil ed a few drops of coffee on the back of his hand. He moved it quickly and licked the drops off and continued.

â€œWolf returns. Lewis sees the car lights and tries to run away or maybe tries to attack Wolf. Or maybe Wolf sees him moving around in the house and thinks itâ€™s an unknown burglar. Wolf grabs the table leg from somewhere in

the car or the garage or by the garbage cansâ€”whatever. He belts Lewisâ€”maybe in selfdefenseâ€”and gets so mad he just loses it and finishes him off. He knows he canâ€™t leave the body in his yard, so he takes him to Race

Point and lays him out like King Tut on stage. He rips the watch off Lewisâ€™s arm and keeps it. He tosses Lewisâ€™s wal et out the car window along the wayâ€”with or without the moneyâ€”comes back and col ects Peter at the Crown

and Anchor.â€

I was weary. Mitchâ€™s theory had some validity, but I felt constrained to defend the two old trouts. I donâ€™t know why. The last person I had defended to the police had proved to be a double murderer. I hoped there wasnâ€™t a pattern

developing here. Maybe I just felt guilty about pouring tea and rum al over their living room furniture.

â€œYouâ€™re stretching, Mitch. Whether it was defense or attack, if Wolf saw Lewis before getting out of the car, he could have grabbed the tire iron. If Wolf was already in the house when he became aware of Lewis, he could have

grabbed the poker. I cannot see him keeping a table leg in the car or in the garbage can or behind a shrub in the unlikely event he might someday need it as a weapon. And I cannot see him calmly unscrewing a table leg with

Lewis about to jump him . . . or with Lewis running away. Next, you have Wolf at Race Point sometime before midnight, and then you have Harmon reporting their car out there around four-thirty a.m. I doubt Wolf took him there at

eleven p.m. and went back five hours later to say farewel .â€

I slumped in my chair, lit a cigarette and sipped my coffee. It was a tossup which tasted worse. I was not happy to hear Mitch prolong his diatribe.

â€œOh, come on, Alex. I donâ€™t know about you, but my tire iron is under a fiberboard floor in the trunk. It would take me ten minutes and plenty of noise to find it. The table leg was only held by two wing-nuts, fast and quiet to

remove. And maybe Wolf was afraid the robber or Lewis could get to him before he got to the poker.â€

I had a great desire to go get my own poker, but I stil had some hope of getting Mitch past this sticking point. I had to; there were other possibilities.

â€œMitch, itâ€™s possible Lewis never came back to their house at al ,â€ I began.

â€œOf course it is. Itâ€™s also possible Wolf lured him there. We only have Peterâ€™s claim that he paid Lewis his wages. Maybe they owed him money. Wolf told him to come to the house at ten. He was waiting, table leg in hand. Wolf

could have dragged the body behind a shrub and gone back to the Crown to pick up Peter. They could have waited til the town quieted down and taken Lewis out there in the wee hours. Or maybe Wolf did take him out there

before midnight, and the SUV Harmon saw later has nothing to do with anything. It works either way.â€ Mitch closed his damn notebook with a snap and a final tongue click.

â€œMitch, this is al very iffy and circumstantial.â€ And unfortunately, his last scenario made a lot of sense.

â€œAgreed. But I want forensics to look at their SUV and that table. I hope to have a warrant for impounding them sometime tomorrow. Itâ€™s closing in on them, Alex. I think thatâ€™s what Sonny meant. I think heâ€™s just being nice,

advising they get legal counsel now, since theyâ€™re town residents and friends of yours.â€

Why was everybody insisting that Peter and the Wolf were such close friends of mine? They never had been, not real y. Oh, wel . I was too tired to argue. â€œOkay, thanks for the rundown, Mitch. Iâ€™m ready to pass out. Iâ€™m sure

youâ€™re tired, too. I real y hope it turns out to be someone else. Are you at least looking for other possibilities?â€ I stretched my arms and yawned.

â€œSure. Weâ€™ve been checking on transients, which isnâ€™t easy on a weekend like this. Weâ€™ve got bartenders looking for anybody with a wad of cash. Weâ€™re looking for the murder weapon. Weâ€™re trying to figure where the sawdust

came from. And we keep looking for someone who might have seen Lewis between eight and twelve. Al we know right now is that he walked out of the Wharf Rat at eight p.m., headed for Reverend Bartlesâ€™ place and never got

there. I donâ€™t know much else to do.â€

I didnâ€™t either. I stood up, swayed, and we said a rather grumpy goodnight. Fargo and I quickly got ready for bed. Maybe sleep would help.

Sleep did. When Fargo woke very early Thursday morning with that â€œIâ€™ve got to goâ€”Iâ€™ve got to go now!â€ look in his eye, I felt considerably better. And a dawn that promised to become a lovely, warm, sunny fal day didnâ€™t hurt.

Coffee and that first delightful cigarette improved my already good mood, and I didnâ€™t even argue when Fargo started his little song-and-prance routine to go to the beach.

On the way there, I drove by the amphitheater, hoping for inspiration. Al I saw was a lot of concrete, damp with morning dew, and some dressing areas and poles with bars for spotlights. There wasnâ€™t even any police tape left.

Obviously, they, too, felt the locale held nothing more of interest.

At the beach there was a single set of large footprints meandering along just below the high tide mark. I wondered if Harmon had been on early patrol for driftwood and other goodies. And I wondered what he had real y seen

through his haze of alcohol that rainy night.

Back home, I batted out my report for Mr. El is in overdrive, pleased that I would get it to him a day earlier than promised. Fargo and I delivered it. El is seemed surprised and happy to get it.

We chatted briefly about the three candidates. While El is was impressed by Nancy Bakerâ€™s expertise, he seemed to feel she might be â€œsomewhat intenseâ€ for a smal town. He didnâ€™t even crack a smile at George Mil sâ€™s

Hal oween escapade. When I recounted Cynthia Hartâ€™s adventure with the injured cat, however, I got the widest grin Choate El is is capable of giving. He said he couldnâ€™t wait to learn the details. I got the feeling that Ms. Hart

might soon be getting an offer. I was sure Mr. Mil s would not. Wel , Cynthia looked to be a deserving young woman.

As promised, we arrived at Peter and Wolfâ€™s a shade before ten. Wolf let me in and returned to sit beside Peter on the couch. As I looked at them, al I could think of was two terrified white rabbits caught in the glare of

oncoming headlights.

â€œWhat on earth is wrong?â€ I asked. â€œYou two look as if youâ€™ve seen a ghost.â€ It was not a happy choice of words.

â€œOoo-oooh!â€ Peter moaned. â€œYouâ€™re right. The ghost of that horrid little creature wil haunt us until we die!â€ He burst into tears.

â€œWhich wonâ€™t be long,â€ Wolf added shakily, â€œif the police have their way. They just took away the Explorer. Weâ€™re finished. And we didnâ€™t do it.â€

â€œOh, for Godâ€™s sake!â€ I was in no mood to have aging queenly histrionics ruin my so-far great day. â€œLewis ran errands in it sometimes, didnâ€™t he? I think Iâ€™ve seen him in it. So of course they wil find hair and clothing fibers of his

in the SUV. Al very logical. If thatâ€™s al they can come up with, actual y, it rather lets some air out of their bal oon. By the way, did you ever haul sawdust in the SUV?â€

â€œSawdust?â€ Wolf looked startled. â€œNo, I canâ€™t remember ever doing that. Some logs once or twice. But the cops saw a stain on one of the back mats. He pointed at it and told Mitch it looked like blood. Thatâ€™s al they need.

Weâ€™l be arrested any minute.â€

â€œGuys! Get a grip! Nobodyâ€™s yet proven blood is even there! And if so, it could be yours or anybody elseâ€™s whoâ€™s been in the vehicle . . . including a drippy steak!â€

â€œItâ€™l be Lewisâ€™,â€ Wolf projected gloomily. â€œHe was bleeding al over the place the day I picked him up.â€

â€œWhat the hel do you mean?â€

â€œFiveâ€”six weeks ago. Iâ€™d been to the dentist in Hyannis and was coming home in a drenching rain. Lewis was standing on the side of the road in just shirt and jeans, no jacket or raincoat, soaking wet, thumbing a ride. I

stopped. He got in, shivering badly. I told him there was a blanket in back, and he sort of got up and leaned over, pul ed it up front and draped it around him. I noticed his left hand was badly cut and bleeding and asked him what

had happened.â€

I couldnâ€™t believe this! What else could they come up with to make themselves look guilty? Blood on the mat, blood on the blanket. My God.

Wolf went on. â€œHe said he had slipped in the mud and fal en on a broken bottle. I believed him then. Now I think he was out in the boonies looking for places closed for the winter and easily robbed. Iâ€™l bet he accidental y put his

hand through a window, set off an alarm and ran. Anyway, he declined when I asked if he wanted to be dropped at the clinic. Said he had no money. I gave him a clean handkerchief to put around the cut.â€

â€œSo you brought him here?â€™â€ I guessed.

â€œYeah, I felt sorry for him. I patched his hand upâ€”it real y should have been stitchedâ€”and Peter fed him. Lewis asked if we knew of any jobs. Wel , our sheet shaker was leaving shortly to go back to col ege, so we hired him.

One of our more bril iant moves. But, Alex, you know how it is here with houseboysâ€”they almost never have references.â€ He shrugged and raised his hands palm-up. â€œHel , half the time the address and Social Security number

they give you is bogus. How were we to know what a little louse he was?â€ â€œI understand. Itâ€™s always that way with summer help unless they happen to be local people. Anyway, blood in the SUV is not going to mean much, there

are too many ways it could have got there. Relax.â€ I could have used some coffee. The fact that they hadnâ€™t even offered it told me how disturbed they were.

â€œNo,â€ Peter shook his head. â€œWe want to hire youâ€”retain youâ€”whatever the term is. We need your help, Alex. Mitch is determined to frame us for this. Heâ€™s not doing anything to find the real kil er! I mean, what about

Reverend Bartles? Itâ€™s only Bartlesâ€™ word that Lewis never got to his place. Maybe Lewis did get there. I can think of al sorts of simply fabulous scenarios for that little rendezvous!â€

So could I. Just because Bartles had Rev in front of his name meant little to me. To me, Rev did not automatical y translate to sinless. And Peter was rightâ€”Mitch had seemed to skip over Bartles. â€œLook,â€ I temporized. â€œIâ€™ve

been away. Let me nose around for a day or so. If I turn anything up, weâ€™l talk about a bil .â€

I nodded toward the coffee table, which stil showed a slight discoloration. â€œI probably owe you more than you owe me. I stil say there wil probably be nothing, and in the long run the cops wil handle it right. But now, Iâ€™d suggest

you donâ€™t answer any more police questions without a lawyer present.â€

â€œGood!â€ Peter drew himself up dramatical y and took a deep breath. He continued haughtily, â€œIf that child Mitch appears again, I shal simply send him home to mama! He threw an absolutely juvenile fit over that sil y table.â€

â€œWhy did Mitch make a scene?â€ I asked. â€œDidnâ€™t you let him take it? Didnâ€™t he have a proper warrant?â€

Wolf intervened as Peter drew another shuddering breath. â€œOh, I guess the warrant was al right.â€

â€œThen why not give him the table?â€

â€œOh, you see, we burned it.â€

Chapter 13

â€œYou burned it,â€ I echoed. Alice in Wonderland had nothing on Alex in Provincetown. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser here, too. â€œMight one inquire why you burned it? Why you incinerated possible evidence!â€ I

ended in a squeak.

â€œNow youâ€™re getting testy about it, too. It was our table. If we want to burn up our furniture whoâ€™s to say we canâ€™t!â€ Peter sounded a little testy himself.

â€œAlex,â€ Wolf spoke reasonably. â€œWe had no idea we were doing anything . . . questionable. Since we planned to close the inn earlier than usual this fal , we didnâ€™t order extra firewood. The weather was so awful over the

weekend, we kept a fire in the fireplace most of the time for the guests, and used up al the logs we had.â€

Peter picked up the explanation. â€œLast night we felt so low and lost and alone . . .â€ He cocked his head and smiled mournful y, obviously appreciating the unplanned al iteration. â€œSo low . . . so lost . . . so alone, we decided a

wee nightcap and a fire might cheer us up. There were no logs, so Wolf just knocked the table apart and we enjoyed a little light and comfort in a dark, unfriendly world.â€

I stood and walked to the guilty fireplace. I was annoyedâ€”no, angry. I felt they were playing with me. Obviously, they knew I liked them. Maybe they thought they could charm me into being their white knight. Wel , I had done that

once, and my armor stil had the dents to show for it. I wasnâ€™t buying their damsels in distress act.

â€œIâ€™m touched. You have that old table sitting around for years and you pick last night to burn it. Either you are truly babes in the woods or very clever kil ers. And right now, Iâ€™d have to toss a coin to make a choice!â€

â€œAlex!â€ they chorused. Peter continued, â€œOf course we arenâ€™t kil ers. How on earth were we to know Mitch would want that damned table? Heâ€™d be welcome to it. God knows it was worthless. And it was not old, my dear, we

bought it about three weeks ago.â€

â€œThree weeks?â€ I was surprised. The rickety thing had looked like an antique to me. I walked to the window, as if the table were stil there for me to re-evaluate. I came back and sat down.

â€œAbout,â€ Wolf nodded. â€œWe got a flyer in the mail from Woodâ€™s Woods, that unfinished wood furniture shop in Orleans. The table was featured, on sale very cheap. I should have remembered my grandmotherâ€™s warning. Buy

cheap, get cheap. Anyway, I took a drive up, and the one Wood had on display looked al right, so I bought one to use in the sun porch. I got it home and out of the carton to assemble it and damned if one leg wasnâ€™t missing. On

top of that, one of the screws to anchor the top broke off as I started to screw it in. Lewis found an old broom and cut the handle off for a makeshift leg.â€

He turned to Peter. â€œWhy donâ€™t you make some coffee?â€ Peter nodded and headed for the kitchen, with Pewter and, surprisingly, Fargo fol owing hopeful y. Wolf resumed. â€œWe used it on the porch one night with a cookout for

the guests and just left it there . . . forgot it, I guess. It rained overnight. When it got wet, it started to warp so fast you could practical y see it curl! Lord, nothingâ€™s gone right lately.â€

It sounded almost too convenient to be true. â€œDid you cal Woodâ€™s Woods and complain?â€ I asked.

â€œYes.â€ From the kitchen.

â€œNo.â€ From the couch.

â€œKeep the stories straight, boys.â€ Iâ€™d about had it with these two.

â€œWolf,â€ Peter cal ed from the kitchen, sounding genuinely confused. â€œYou were going to cal and demand our money back.â€

â€œI know. It got busy here, and every time I thought of cal ing, it was sometime I knew they would be closed. Final y, I decided just to wait til after the weekend when things calmed down. Ha-ha. So, no, I havenâ€™t cal ed. What

difference does it make?â€

â€œIt would be interesting,â€ I answered sourly, â€œto know if anyone else bought oneâ€”or says they bought oneâ€”with a leg missing.â€

â€œOh. Oh, yes, of course.â€ Peter returned with three mugs, a carton of milk and a sugar bowl on a tray. The formality of service had certainly changed with Dear Boyâ€™s departure. â€œYou see, Alex, itâ€™s things like this we need you

for! I would never have thought of that. And Iâ€™l bet Little Mitchie hasnâ€™t either.â€

I couldnâ€™t help grinning. â€œBetter not let him hear you cal him that. Anyway, Iâ€™l check Woodâ€™s Woods. If another leg is missing, and a table leg turns up as the murder weapon, youâ€™d be a little further off the hook. They found pine

splinters in the wound, and if they match pieces of other tables, youâ€™d be even further off the hook. Even though you are first-class top-notch assholes for burning that table!â€

They looked at the floor like chastened children, as perhaps they were. â€œNow, Wolf, where the hel were you Saturday night between eight and midnight? And tel the truth. One quibble and Iâ€™m out of here.â€

â€œOkay. About seven-thirty I drove Peter down to the Crown and Anchor. I dropped him and his costume and makeup kit right at the door. No way could I find a place to park, and the parade was starting, so I drove home and

walked back down just ahead of the rain. I stayed in the dressing room with Peter until he went on. Several people can confirm that.â€ Wolf paused and looked uneasy.

â€œThat takes us to about nine oâ€™clock. Then what?â€ I urged. I didnâ€™t want him to take time to think something up. I wanted to hear what was bothering him. â€œThen what?â€

He sighed and looked sadly at Peter. â€œIâ€™m sorry, darling. I did something awful and I lied to you about it.â€

Peter turned dead white and clasped his hands to his mouth. I was hard put not to do the same. I real y didnâ€™t want to hear what I thought I was about to. I cleared my throat and somehow spoke evenly. â€œWhat did you do?â€

â€œI knew Peter was a nervous wreck. The dust-up with Lewis, his fatherâ€™s watch, the bruise under his eye, having to pitch in with me and clean rooms when he should have been restingâ€”al these things had left him exhausted

and very shaky. I . . . I was almost certain he was going to blow the performance. I had visions of his voice failing him. I was afraid heâ€™d forget lyrics. I could just see him tripping on that long skirt and ripping it. I envisioned a total

disaster, with the whole audience whooping and laughing him off the stage. I couldnâ€™t face it.â€ He paused and wiped his face with his handkerchief. â€œJust as the show started, I left. I saw you as I went out, Alex. You were sitting with

Marc. I didnâ€™t know you knew him.â€

I didnâ€™t bother to explain about how I met Marc. I didnâ€™t know whether I was relieved by what Wolf had said or not. He was cleverâ€”they both were. I found myself wondering if this might be a little play produced solely for me.

One of them could have run into Marc, and Marc could have casual y mentioned sitting with me. It was almost too perfect as Wolfâ€™s throwaway line.

Wolf turned toward Peter but couldnâ€™t look him in the eye. â€œSo you see, my dear, I not only had no faith in you, I left you to face your incipient disaster al on your own.â€

I waited for Peter to become a blubbering mess or a blazing virago, but he fooled me. He took Wolfâ€™s hand and spoke quietly. â€œI donâ€™t blame you. You havenâ€™t said a thing I hadnâ€™t been thinking al that afternoon. Itâ€™s almost

funny, al day I had been trying to think of a way to get you not to go. I didnâ€™t want you to see me make an ass of myself, or faint, or exit sobbing or whatever it would have been. However, since I was such a triumph . . .â€ Now he

was Peter again. â€œI confess I had Walter make a video of the whole thing. He promised to burn it if I blew up, but I didnâ€™t, and now we can bore everybody sil y for years making them al watch it. My love, you are forgiven.â€ As stars

in a gay soap opera, these two were direct from Central Casting.

â€œA heartwarming scene,â€ I said. â€œIâ€™l try again. Wolf, where were you?â€

Wolf flashed Peter a radiant and grateful smile, and turned toward me. â€œI was home, as I said. I walked home from the Crown, feeling pretty despondent. I tossed the two final logs on the fire and sat down. Pewter jumped up to

console me. I just sat there, thinking. Things seemed to be coming apart, somehow. I guess I felt . . . old. Like I couldnâ€™t real y control things anymore. And that I had never real y done anything with my life.â€

He sipped some coffee and looked up with a rueful grin. â€œYou know, at some point we al think weâ€™re going to be President, or find the cure for cancer or discover Atlantis or whatever. It suddenly occurred to me that when Saint

Peter asks me what Iâ€™ve done to pass through those pearly gates, Iâ€™l answer, â€˜Why, good sir, the towels were always fresh and sweet-smel ing in my guesthouse.â€™ Somehow, it doesnâ€™t have much of a ring to it.â€

I laughed. â€œBetter than saying they werenâ€™t. We canâ€™t al be Washington or Salk or Columbus. Somebody has to dump the ashtrays.â€ Against my better judgment, I couldnâ€™t dislike these two. But that could be a serious mistake.

â€œDid anyone besides Pewter witness these dark thoughts?â€

â€œActual y, yes.â€ He sighed. â€œI know, I should have told Mitch, but I was afraid he might let it slip and Peter would find out I skipped the performance.â€

He indicated a chair beside the fireplace. â€œSitting there daydreaming, I heard the back door open. I admit, my first thought was that Lewis had come back to put his sticky little hands on anything looseâ€”the guests are lax as

hel about locking doors. But it was one of the guests.â€ He nodded at me before I could interrupt. â€œIâ€™l give you his name and address. He asked me to cash a check for him, said he had spent more than he had realized. I cashed

a fifty-dol ar check for him, and we had a drink and talked for a while.â€

Wolf stretched his legs and accidental y gave Pewter a little kick. He apologized with an ear-scratch and picked up his tale. â€œI glanced at the clock and was surprised to find it was nearly eleven. I explained to our guest that I

had to leave and offered a ride, but he said he had gotten so relaxed, heâ€™d just enjoy the fire for a bit and go to bed. So I left, found a place to park out on the wharf and walked over to get Peter.â€

I felt at least partial y relieved by Wolfâ€™s explanation. I could check his stories about Marc and the houseguest, and if they were true, it pretty wel accounted for his time between seven-thirty and midnight.

Of course he might have encountered Lewis upon arriving home, but I doubted he could have had a casual, coherent conversation with a houseguest if he had just minutes earlier bashed Lewisâ€™s head in and stashed him

behind a bush for later transport to the beach. Mitch said Lewis had possibly been kil ed as late as two a.m., but more likely earlier, so it looked as if Peter and Wolf were at least marginal y in the clear.

â€œI say again, Wolf, I donâ€™t think you two have anything to worry about. Since Lewis worked and lived here, you come into the spotlight. The fight and burning the table are negatives, but the watch is easily explained and the

table is so dumb it almost has to be innocent. Give me your guestâ€™s name and phone number . . . and Marcâ€™s. Also, Iâ€™l see what I can find out about table legs and the righteous Reverend Bartles. Weâ€™l talk during the weekend.â€

â€œAh, would you like a smal . . . ah, is retainer the word?â€ Peter asked delicately, as Wolf scribbled on a card. â€œAbsolutely,â€ I said. â€œA copy of the Judy, Judy, Judy tape for my very own.â€

â€œYou shal have it, my dear, the only duplicate copy.â€

I left my car parked at Green Mansions, and Fargo and I walked the few hundred feet to the Wharf Rat Bar for the lunch I felt we so richly deserved. I took a seat at the bar and noted that the usual suspects had gathered

around the front table. Fish had taken second place and the topic du jour was, of course, murder. The consensus held that Peter and/or the Wolf had done it. The more Harmon drank, the more certain he was that it had been

Wolf he saw in the Explorer, that Wolf was the go-between in a drug ring and Lewis was blackmailing him. Others were betting on Peter, that he was jealous of Wolf making a play for Lewis. One or two stil voted for the transient

robber, but they were few.

I decided to have a little fun. After Joe had taken my luncheon order and brought me a Bud, he asked, as usual, what was new with Ptownâ€™s favorite sleuth. I gave him a big wink and answered in a whisper that could have been

heard in Wel fleet, â€œHarmonâ€™s footprints were found on the beach this morning. You know what that means. Not only what youâ€™re thinking, but also possibly firewood.â€

â€œMy God!â€ Joe played along, and the silence at the front table became palpable. â€œAre they sure, Alex, real y sure?â€

â€œYep. The worn spot on the heel was a dead giveaway.â€ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Harmon lifting one battered boot and then the other while he and his cronies leaned as if in prayer, to examine the soles.

Harmon addressed his companions indignantly, â€œWel , even if I was there and who says I was, it donâ€™t mean nothing. Just walking on a beach donâ€™t mean nothing! And Mitch ought to know that. No more does picking up a little

wood. That ainâ€™t il egal. Iâ€™m going down there right now and tel him he ainâ€™t got one thing on me. Not one.â€ He nearly ran from the bar. I smiled at the thought of the lengthy and many-faceted conversation he and Mitch would enjoy.

Then the smile faded, as I realized that once in a while my humor took a dark, twisted turn that reminded me of my father. I had to watch that.

My reflections were short-lived. Just as I had taken Fargoâ€™s hamburger and water out to him and returned to my fried clams, Ben Fratos came through the door with his usual swagger. He took a barstool a couple down from

me, and we nodded to each other with mutual lack of enthusiasm. Why did Fratos always arrive in time to ruin my lunch?

I turned away from him slightly, but it didnâ€™t work. He took a noisy swig of his beer and said, â€œWel , I understand you got yourself a case. Trying to clear Peter and the Wolf, are you?â€

â€œNot me. I didnâ€™t even know they were cloudy.â€

â€œTheyâ€™re under a cloud. Blood al over their SUV, Wolf with no alibi, a table legâ€”probably the murder weaponâ€”missing from their place, and even poor little faggy Peter having a fight with the vic. Iâ€™d say thatâ€™s cloudy.â€

I knew that, as an ex-cop, Fratos was stil friendly with one or two men on the force and that they would have passed along information on the case. But it made me mad he would be so irresponsible as to blab it al over the

Ratâ€”the equivalent of CNN, or better.

â€œGee, Ben.â€ I smiled. â€œYou seem to know an awful lot about the case. You get your info direct from the perp? â€

His reaction total y unnerved me. He slammed the beer bottle down on the bar and stood up, red in the face, muscles popping along his neck. â€œYou fucking nosy dyke! You been fol owing me? Iâ€™l teach you to trail me around!â€

He swung at me. I ducked, and suddenly Joe was between us, arms around Fratos.

â€œBen, you crazy or something? Alex was just riding you a little, and I gotta say you started it. Looks to me like you already had too much beer somewhere. This oneâ€™s on the house, but you better get on home and sleep it off.

Get on now!â€ Ben looked like heâ€™d like nothing better than a fight, but final y turned and left.

â€œJesus, Alex, Iâ€™m sorry. You okay?â€ Joe patted my shoulder.

â€œOh, yeah, he missed. But what on earth did I say? He knows I know he has contacts whoâ€™d tel him stuff about a case, especial y a murder. Why would he get so upset? He had to know it was just a needle.â€

â€œWel , for one thing he was half-drunk. For another, youâ€™re not his favorite person.â€ Joe returned to his usual place behind the bar. â€œI donâ€™t know why he blames you for that Keystone Kops act he pul ed with that skylight, but he

does. Has from the beginning. Anyway, you want me to reheat your lunch?â€

â€œUh, no, thanks, Joe. Iâ€™ve kind of lost my appetite. Maybe Bil ie could wrap it up for me. Iâ€™l have it later at home.â€

He was back moments later. â€œBil ie gave you a fresh salad and added some pecan pie for a little comfort, she says. And itâ€™s on us, Alex. Bil ie says you should have punched him while I held him.â€

â€œThanks. Bil ie is a woman of great ideas.â€ I smiled as I took the package. â€œBut I have a feeling it would take more punch than Iâ€™ve got to shut that mouth.â€

And it did.

Chapter 14

Fargo and I walked to the car. I sat a moment, feeling dizzy and shaken. I was more upset than I wanted to admit. Fratos could have broken my jaw if he had connected. What the hell had gotten into him? Okay, heâ€™d had a few.

Okay, he didnâ€™t like me, but you donâ€™t attack everyone you donâ€™t care for. Or maybe you do if youâ€™re Ben Fratosâ€”he had the reputation of a short fuse.

It went nicely, I suppose, with his long, prying nose. He liked to be in the know about everything and anything going on in town. Who was sel ing his house, whose car was being repoâ€™d, who was fighting with her husband, who

was behind in his mortgage payments, who was cheating, whatever. You were likely to spot Fratos any place at any hourâ€”watching, smirking. Iâ€™ve no idea what purpose this gathering of information served. He had few

investigatory cases, I knew that much.

At home I put Bil ieâ€™s package in the refrigerator for later reference. I automatical y pul ed out a Bud and then put it back. I was edgy. This damn murder was getting to me. Though I couldnâ€™t put my finger on anything Mitch was

doing wrong, he seemed as centered on blaming Peter and the Wolf as Captain Anders was on blaming some nameless thief. If Anders was right, thereâ€™d probably never be an arrest, much less a conviction, unless the kil er

was found by sheer luck. One transient in Provincetown on Hal oween weekend would stand out about like a seagul at the town dump. Anyway, why would a transient kil er who struck opportunistical y, having seen Lewis flash big

bil s, carry him out to the amphitheater and pose him on stage? It almost had to be someone who knew Lewis and had reason to kil him. That left Wolf and Peter, and in my heart, I real y didnâ€™t want it to be them.

I checked my watch and was surprised to find it only a little after one. â€œSaddle up, Fargo, letâ€™s go see what Mr. Wood has to say about sel ing legless tables.â€

There are those who would say that Fargo did not understand my entire sentence. I happen to think Fargo understood every word I ever said. But I am positive he got â€œSaddle upâ€ and â€œLetâ€™s go.â€ Why else would he have beat

me to the back door with a big grin and majestical y sweeping tail?

Heed this warning: watch what you say in front of your dog. He knows.

Headed for Orleans, I drove past the dunes, nearly white and blindingly bright in the midday sun, with the intense autumn-blue sky opening as a deep pool behind them. On my right was the bay, lined with al the little cottages

and their hopeful signs of Weâ€™re Open! and Free Heat! and Off-Season Rates. Anything for a few more profitable weekends. A great expanse of pure clean space on one side and crowded commercialism on the other

â€”somehow, in Provincetown, it seemed fit. I loved it al .

As we drove down Route 6, we passed Mr. El is, abroad on some errand, no doubt, and looking rather like a benign midget behind the wheel of his cream Lincoln Navigator. He gave a brief, choppy wave and quickly returned

his hand to the wheel. I had the feeling Mr. E. was not an SUV man at heart and wondered why he had oneâ€”as I wondered why so many people do.

Cream colored. I wondered if El is had been careening down the beach road in the smal hours of Hal oween night, tossing Lewisâ€™s wal et and watch out the window, nearly sideswiping poor Harmon. While I found it difficult to

picture the dapper Mr. El is playing Casey at the Bat with Lewisâ€™s head, I thought sustained contact with Lewis might bring out the worst in most of us. But why, for example, would El is want to kil him? My whimsical side took

over.

Lewis owed money to the bank, so El is beaned him, took his cash and laid him out on stage because he knew it was the only funeral Lewis would have. Lewis tried to steal El isâ€™s pretty Lincoln, and El is grabbed a handy

chair leg and kil ed him, not wishing to bother the police with a personal problem. They had a loverâ€™s quarrel, and Lewis threatened to blackmail El is. El is kil ed him andâ€”in a fit of remorseâ€”laid him on the stage so he would be

more comfortable.

Now that scenario appealed to me. Not that I had much serious thought of El is being involved in any way with Lewis or his demise, but the words blackmail and Lewis seemed a likely combination. Whom would Lewis

blackmail? Anyone he could, was my first answer.

And that would be? Someone with at least some amount of money. Someone who was doing something naughty or il egal. Someone whose reputation or career would suffer if the knowledge became public. Someone like

El is, actual y, although I couldnâ€™t imagine his embezzling funds or climbing into the wrong boudoir window. But of course, that would be the whole idea. You are doing something wrongâ€”pay me or I wil reveal your criminal or

embarrassing secret. So many people could be vulnerable: a banker, a lawyer, a teacher, a cop, a minister . . . a minister. Reverend Bartles?

He did keep popping up, didnâ€™t he? Perhaps an unseemly liking for young girls or boys? Perhaps Harmonâ€™s favorite evil, some connection to drugs? Possibly money laundering? Probably not stealing from the col ection plate;

I doubted there was enough in it to steal. There was at least some link between him and Lewis, though. I wondered how far it went and how I could find out what it was. I was stil puzzling over that one when I arrived at Woodâ€™s

Woods. The business was housed in a smal building with a sort of attached lean-to, where I heard an electric saw buzzing. Perhaps Mr. Wood did custom work or repairs. I walked into the â€œshowroomâ€â€”an overcrowded room

with various pieces of unfinished furniture assembled and displayed in no order I could discern. In one corner I spotted what I thought was the twin of Peter and Wolfâ€™s table, albeit with four sound legs.

The noise of the saw stopped and Mr. Wood came into the room. He was a smal , skinny man in dusty khakis. He had an advanced case of male pattern baldness, with nearly colorless hair receding almost as I looked. A

beaky nose held a pair of sawdust-specked glassesâ€”sawdust! From no clues I was now gathering more clues than I knew what to do with. I must have been staring at him, for he looked at me uneasily, and when he spoke, his

voice matched the rest of him, high pitched and unhappy. â€œYes, can I help you?â€

Some of my best performances are off the cuff. I looked sternly at him. â€œMr. Wood?â€ He nodded. I flashed my private investigatorâ€™s license, casual y placing my thumb over the word private, letting the word investigator show

and al owing the Great Seal of Massachusetts to work its magic. â€œThereâ€™s been a problem, sir, with your sel ing tables much like that one there, with missing legs. Are you aware of that? How many complaints are unanswered?

Where were the sales made to? What solutions have you offered?â€

He looked stricken. Maybe this was al a surprise to him. Maybe al his tables had four good legs. Maybe it was because most everybody has a slight fear of authority, and I was being very authoritative. Maybe Wolf and Peter

had lied like troupers.

â€œLook, Miss . . . Ms . . . maâ€™am, none of it was my fault and I am making every one of them good. Every single one. My wife is out now delivering legs.â€ She sounded like a mad midwife. â€œYou see, I got a chance to buy these

tables at a closeout, real cheap, you know? I put that sample one together and it seemed okay, maybe a little flimsy and rough cut, but not bad for the price. So I ordered a bunch and sent out fliers advertising them. I sold thirty fourâ€”al but that one there and one stil in the carton. How did I know some only had three legs?â€ His voice rose to a self-justifying whine. I scribbled some meaningless words on a notepad holding an old grocery list. He looked

even more alarmed and continued his screed. â€œThe minute I started getting complaints, I cal ed the company and they promised to send replacement legs, but they took their sweet time . . . only got here yesterday. Right now, my

wife is out with them, as I said. Sheâ€™s up in Hyannis and Sandwich and I forget where. Tomorrow sheâ€™l go out toward Wel fleet and Truro and al . Iâ€™m doing the best I can,â€ he almost whimpered, a slight sheen now coating his

extremely high forehead.

â€œReal y? Then why didnâ€™t you cannibalize the two you have left? You could have taken care of eight disgruntled customers right there.â€

He looked at me with the pitying condescension of the expert to the ignorant. â€œNow, maâ€™am, I could hardly do that! I might have a chance to sel oneâ€”or bothâ€”of them, you see?â€

â€œRight, I see.â€ What I saw was why the store was where it was and the size it was and why it always would be. â€œI have other questions. Did you ever employ, or sel to or know anyone named Lewis Schley?â€

He pondered, or at least pretended to, and answered, â€œNo. Donâ€™t know him. He might have bought something for cash, but I wouldnâ€™t know that.â€

I doubted Lewis would have bought anything here. If he had done any work for Wood orâ€”unlikely, I thoughtâ€”had a more personal relationship, Wood wasnâ€™t about to say. I would tel Mitch that Wood had a lot of sawdust

around and he could do what he liked about it. â€œAl right.â€ I made it sound as if I were doing him a big favor. â€œWeâ€™l let that go for now. Do you have a list of people who complained about missing legs who live in . . . oh, Wel fleet,

Truro and Provincetown?â€ I figured that covered enough area to include anyone Lewis might have known.

â€œYes, but Iâ€™m not handing out my customersâ€™ names and addresses just because youâ€™re some consumer protection dogooder on a spree or something. Why do you care if somebody got a damaged table as long as Iâ€™m

making it good, anyway?â€

He was a fool, but unfortunately he was not a complete fool. Sometimes the only choice is the truth.

â€œLewis Schley was kil ed in Provincetown Saturday night. It is probable that the weapon was a table leg, pine, possibly from one of your tables. If so, the murderer could hardly have used it to beat Schley to death and then

simply screwed it back on his table and sat down to breakfast. He may have complained that a leg was missing and asked for a replacement. The fact that legs now seem to be missing al over the Cape is just good luck for him.

He may not have known others were missing, probably didnâ€™t. But I want to talk to anyone in those three towns who complained to you. Are you with me?â€

â€œOh, yes, maâ€™am! The list, Iâ€™l get you the list right now.â€ He started exploring his pockets. â€œItâ€™s al written out with addresses. Always like to cooperate with the police, I do.â€ I favored him with a nod and the wintry smile I assumed

a police officer might give. â€œMurdered, you say, maybe with one of my table legs. You donâ€™t think my wife is in danger, do you?â€

I liked him a little better. â€œNot at that end of the Cape. We think the kil er was local. In fact . . .â€ I had a sudden bright idea that would give me a good excuse to cal on the list of presumably disgruntled customers. â€œIn fact, if you

have replacements available, Iâ€™l be glad to deliver them for you. That way, your wife wonâ€™t have to go to the Outer Cape at al . Much safer al around.â€

â€œWhy, yes. Theyâ€™re right there in the back. Thank you, I real y appreciate that.â€

I took the list from his limp hand, placed my car keys in it and said, â€œGreat. Just put them in my trunk and forget al about this.â€ I knew he wouldnâ€™tâ€”heâ€™d dine out for a year on this story. As he loaded the legs in my car, I glanced

at the list. Two lived in Truro, two in Wel fleet, three in Provincetown. One of the Provincetowners was old Mr. Leander, so crippled by arthritis he could barely get around. One was the ubiquitous Rev. Bartlesâ€”I real y had to meet

that man. The third wasâ€”damnation!â€”my Aunt Mae. Yes, Aunt Mae.

As Fargo and I tooled along toward our Wel fleet deliveries, I tried to visualize Aunt Mae as the Table Leg Kil er and failed. She was a vivacious lady with a pouter pigeon build who had no children and was mother to the world.

When my Uncle Frank had died, she started fooling around growing herbs, more as a pastime than anything else. But she developed a deep interest and learned much about them and their place in history, as wel as the kitchen.

She now had a shop in what used to be her garage, where she sold dried herbs and smal pots of herb plants which she raised in a little attached greenhouse. She had even published two thin books on the subject. She had

quite a fol owing and I loved her to pieces.

Of course, there had been the time when two young boys tried to swipe a bunch of her little clay pots, and she had chased them halfway down Bradford Street, belaboring them with a string mop. But I didnâ€™t think that real y

counted.

I turned down a rutted dirt road to my first delivery and figured I was in luck. There was a car in the yard. As Fargo headed for the nearest tree, a young woman came around the corner of the house.

â€œHi,â€ I said. â€œIâ€™m Alex Peres. If youâ€™re Mrs. Reismann, I have a table leg from Woodâ€™s Woods for you.â€

â€œI could say, itâ€™s about time, but itâ€™s probably not your fault. Thatâ€™s great. Weâ€™ve had it propped up on a broom handle.â€ She turned toward the house, cal ing, â€œRay! The table leg is here. Thank you so much,â€ she continued to

me, â€œfor bringing it. I figured weâ€™d have to go get it, and weâ€™re real y busy. Closing the cottage for the winter.â€

I picked up this opening. â€œQuite a job. Have you been at it long?â€ Her husband had approached and I handed him the leg. â€œHere you go.â€

â€œIt seems long. Actual y weâ€™ve only been here since Monday. Parked the kids with my mom and figured weâ€™d have some peace and quiet while we work. You know how it is.â€

I smiled in agreement and cal ed the dog back. If they were tel ing the truthâ€”and it would be easily checkedâ€”they were out of the picture. We got in the car. They waved and I left. One down.

My second stop was a rough-hewn log cabin beside a two-duck pond. It was almost postcard perfect and I felt a smal pang of envyâ€”and an elusive memory of Dean Trinlerâ€”as I knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a

large man, unshaven, with a beer bel y and wearing a none-too-clean T-shirt and gray work pants. My little dream dissipated quickly as my gracious host burped and said a welcoming, â€œYeah? Whaddya want?â€

â€œHi. Are you Mr. Matthew Quinn?â€

â€œWho wants to know?â€

â€œMe. Iâ€™m Alex Peres. Iâ€™m delivering for Woodâ€™s Woods. We have a table leg for you, I believe.â€

â€œBeen waiting two effing weeks!â€ he snarled. â€œI donâ€™t know how you people stay in business. Any asshole should know a table needs four legs. Iâ€™ve had it wobbling in there, propped up on a sawed-off broom handle.â€

There was going to be a great dearth of broom handles before this was al straightened out. By now I had handed him the leg and al I wanted was to find out if heâ€™d been here last Saturday and leave. I managed a smile. â€œIâ€™m

sorry for the problem, Mr. Quinn. Iâ€™m just a delivery person andâ€”â€

â€œDelivery person,â€ he mimicked unpleasantly. â€œGod forbid you should be a plain old deliveryman. Into womenâ€™s lib, huh?â€

â€œNot deeply. Iâ€™ve yet to march on Congress. I wonâ€™t keep you from your activities. Down here closing up the cabin? Itâ€™s a lovely place.â€

â€œNo, I live here, nosy. Whatâ€™s it to you?â€

He pissed me off. I col ared Fargo, which pisses him off, and makes him bare his teeth and look ferocious. â€œIn fact, I was just wondering if you were in Provincetown on Hal oween night, using one of your original table legs to

beat up Lewis Schley.â€

â€œYou a cop?â€

â€œPrivate investigator. Wel , were you?â€

He treated us to a fierce grin. â€œIâ€™m a cop. From Worcester. Or, I was a cop. Retired on disability. And, no, I havenâ€™t kil ed anybody. And, yes, I was in Ptown Hal oween night for a few drinks and a look at the queersâ€™ parade.â€

â€œHow did you know Schley was dead?â€

â€œThink I done him, huh? Actual y, it was in the paper, stupid. Now get off my back.â€ He swung the table leg and laughed when Fargo and I backed up. â€œDonâ€™t be dodgy, I can be nice. Maybe Iâ€™l see you in the Harbor Bar some

night, honey. Althoughâ€â€”he gave me a head-to-toe scanâ€”â€œI bet you go for the girls, right?â€

â€œOh, yes. And if I ever have any doubts about continuing to go for the girls, Iâ€™l just think of you.â€ I turned and dragged a snarling Fargo back to the car. I burned rubber on the way back to the highway. Bastard! Quinn reminded

me of the type who liked rough sex with a young man and then swore how straight he was. He looked like he could give someone a beating just out of meanness. When I turned my list of Woodâ€™s customers over to Mitch later, Iâ€™d

give Quinn a gold star. I stroked Fargoâ€™s wide, silky head and apologized. He accepted.

We struck out in Truro. Our first stop was at the house of Dr.

W. James Lucia, as confirmed by a neat sign on the lawn. But the house was boarded up solid. There were no nearby neighbors to leave the leg with, so I tucked it behind the screen door and hoped it wouldnâ€™t be warped into a

right angle by the time the doctor found it. I mental y crossed Dr. Lucia off my list. Not that doctors couldnâ€™t murder, just that I assumed he could think of a less athletic method.

We took a one-lane blacktop road up the hil overlooking the beach and found the house belonging to the Misses Jane and Flora Markham. It, too, was closed up, although two il -fitting shutters gave me a view into the living

room. The furniture was heavy 1940s Bauhaus, complete with those little crocheted doily things on the arms and backs. The women must be 1940s vintage themselves! Poison, maybe. Gun, possible. Table leg . . . nah. Propped

leg on porch.

I stopped in Ptownâ€™s east end, where Mr. Leander lived in the ground floor of a two-family house. As I expected he was home and glad for company. He showed me his table in the kitchen. At least there was no broom handle.

Heâ€™d propped the corner up on an end table plus two thick books. I screwed the new leg in for him and moved the end table back to the living room. He was embarrassingly grateful. Sweet manâ€”a pleasure to do him a smal

favor.

I wasnâ€™t up to Rev. Bartles or even Aunt Mae. They would have to wait for tomorrow. PI Peres was dragging tail, and even the tireless Fargo was dozing on the car seat. We pul ed gladly into Chez Alex and cal ed it a day.

Aging improves wine. It does not help salad and it makes fried clams and French fries soggy, and running them through the micro didnâ€™t help. The big slab of pecan pie saved the day. I sat down on the couch and propped my

feet up.

I had a lot to think about. So I went to sleep.

Chapter 15

My calendar said it was Friday. My mind said it was somewhere around Tuesday. Can you get jet lag driving around New England?

I pul ed into Aunt Maeâ€™s driveway and was pleased, as always, by the view. She and Uncle Frank had bought their early 1800s saltbox home when they first married, and Aunt Mae stil lived there. They had enjoyed maintaining

it and always kept it a color of paint that had been available when it was built. These were rather deep shades of blue, yel ow, red, green and even orange. White was apparently prohibitively expensive in those post-Colonial

days, and pastels came later. Its latest color was barn red with white shutters and doors.

The house stood on a smal rise with a large oak as guardian spirit and surrounded by some three acres that sloped away to Shank Painter Pond. A smal cottage stood near the pond and the garage/herbal gift shop was

positioned to face the town road.

I walked into Aunt Maeâ€™s kitchen, which stil had the original fireplace, planning to surprise her with the missing table leg. Instead, it was I who was surprised, as I viewed the table, complete with four matching legs and not a

broom handle in sight.

â€œGood morning, favorite aunt. Whatâ€™s this?â€ I asked. â€œI thought you were missing a leg here. I got this one from Woodâ€™s Woods yesterday. You starting a col ection?â€

â€œOf course not. One was missing. Sonny sawed off an old broom handle to prop it up for me. But then I got a real one.â€

And another broom handle bit the dust. â€œI see. I wonder why Wood didnâ€™t tel me? Why did he give me this one to bring to you?â€ I also wondered why nothing was ever simple.

â€œOh. He didnâ€™t know I had one.â€ Aunt Mae frowned. â€œThat was thoughtless of me. I should have cal ed and told him. Now Iâ€™ve put him and you to trouble. Oh, I am sorry, dear. But how did you come to get myâ€” a table legâ€”from

Mr. Wood?â€

I explained the entire, by now thoroughly confusing, situation and she gave me a weak smile of understanding . . . or defeat.

â€œI see.â€ She sighed. â€œIâ€™l just have to take it back to him. Iâ€™l be going up that way at some point.â€ She took the damned leg from me and propped it on the back porch. By now I never wanted to see another table leg, and Aunt

Mae looked as if she agreed.

â€œAunt Mae, I stil donâ€™t understand. If you original y got only three legs, where the hel did you find a matching fourth?â€

â€œDonâ€™t swear, dear. It was through Rev. Bartles, although, of course it was actual y Jared Mather.â€

â€œAunt Mae, I am missing something here. What the heck are you saying?â€

She was pul ing pies out of the refrigerator and putting them into some kind of cake box. Her voice was momentarily muffled, but I got the gist of it.

â€œItâ€™s quite simple, Alex. I took some soup over to Rev. and Mrs. Bartles for their bunch of homeless kids. I noticed their table was just like this one, but with four legs, so I told them my sad tale. Rev. Bartles said they had had the

same experience.â€

She placed the boxes on the table, where I got the ful aroma of their contents. I brought my attention back to legs with difficulty, as she continued. â€œThey, too, had cal ed Mr. Wood about getting only three legs, but no fourth leg

was sent to them as promised, and there they were with a table propped up on an old rake handle . â€ One broom handle saved, I thought.

â€œThen the reverend explained that Jared Mather had been there for some reason. He goes to their church sometimes, I think, although it doesnâ€™t seem his type. Anyway, Jared told Rev. Bartles to bring one of the legs out to his

houseâ€”his shopâ€”and heâ€™d make him one just like it. So he did.â€

â€œMather made Bartles a table leg? Just like that?â€

â€œThatâ€™s the way I understood it. Jared is terribly good at that sort of thing.â€

â€œAmazing. And he made you one the same way?â€

â€œNot exactly. You see, when I saw Lawrenceâ€™sâ€”Rev. Bartlesâ€™â€” replacement, I decided to get Jared to make me one. He is a neighbor, and Iâ€™ve known him forever. I even dated him once or twice when I was a girlâ€”he was as

serious and solitary then as he is now. But quite the gentleman! No effort at al to get fresh. Rather dul , actual y. Of course, then I met your Uncle Frank. Talk about opposites!â€ She gave a happy reminiscent laugh and brought

herself back to the present.

â€œAnyway. I took one of the legs off my table and went over to Jaredâ€™s. I told him my sad tale, and he said heâ€™d be happy to make me one. About that time, I noticed what looked like a perfect copy of my table leg tossed on his

scrap heap. I asked why I couldnâ€™t just have that one. He said it was his first attempt to make one for Lawrence and it wasnâ€™t quite right, that those little knobby things werenâ€™t spaced quite correctly, and that the piece of wood was

flawed. I told him it looked fine to me, and the spot wouldnâ€™t show if I put that leg in the back.â€

I knew why it might have â€œlooked fineâ€ to Aunt Maeâ€”she was very nearsighted, hated to wear her glasses and traveled a fair portion of life in a pleasant haze.

â€œWel , we had a little argument,â€ she chuckled. â€œHeâ€™s such a perfectionist! But I won. Final y Jared laughed and said al right. Anyhow, he picked it up and washed it off with some solvent. The flaw barely even showed. So I

thanked him and took it along.â€

I glanced at the table and saw no difference in the legs. Any imperfection was hidden by the overhang of the tabletop, but then, I was probably not the perfectionist Jared was. â€œWel , Iâ€™l take Bartles his leg anyway, let him know

Wood is on the up and up, even belatedly.â€ And get a chance to talk to him, I added silently.

â€œOh, if youâ€™re going over there you can do me a big favor, dear. Would you take over these two pies I baked for them? It would save me a trip.â€

â€œI dunno. Do I get a sample?â€

She laughed and cut a slice from one of her already-cut cranapple pies and poured me a cup of strong coffee. Fargo got the outer crust. We lived pretty good, we two.

I pul ed into Bartlesâ€™ parking area and looked in vain for his ancient, unmistakable van with The Lord Will Always Help stenciled crookedly on the side. I figured His help might indeed be al that held the venerable vehicle

together. I hoped someone was around. I could leave the leg. I didnâ€™t know what to do with the pies. Wel , actual y I did know, but Aunt Mae would kil me.

Bartles came around the corner. He was a rather effete youngish man wearing a strained expression. â€œGood morning. May I help you?â€

â€œGood morning. Iâ€™m Alex Peres. My aunt, Mrs. Cartwright, sent you these two pies, and hereâ€™s a table leg from Woodâ€™s Woods, which I understand you donâ€™t real y need.â€

â€œAh.â€ He smiled cordial y now. â€œMrs. Cartwright, a dear lady, and so generous to us! Her contributions of food are very welcome to us, in every way. And how good of you to make the deliveries.â€

â€œMy pleasure. I happened to be in Woodâ€™s store yesterday, picked up Aunt Maeâ€™s replacement leg, plus yours and Mr. Leanderâ€™s . . . if you know him? Here, Iâ€™l carry the leg in for you.â€ I wasnâ€™t about to curtsy and drive away.

â€œThank you. Come on around to the kitchen, if you donâ€™t mind. May I offer you coffee?â€

â€œYouâ€™re very kind. Iâ€™d enjoy a cup.â€ God, I was beginning to sound like him. We went into a kitchen with dishes from breakfast stacked high in the sink, but basical y clean. I wondered why part of a free breakfast didnâ€™t include

helping with the washup. He finished clearing the table and we sat down to mugs of exceptional y good coffee. â€œThe pies, by the way, are cran-apple, her specialty.â€

He rol ed his eyes with pleasure. â€œOh, weâ€™l al enjoy them tonight! I do hope youâ€™re not delivering them because sheâ€™s not feeling wel .â€ He made it a question.

â€œOh, no. Sheâ€™s fine. I just happened to be there and saved her a trip. But Iâ€™m curious about your table, sir. Aunt Mae told me Jared Mather made you a replacement leg just sort of off the cuff. That sounds almost impossible,

even for Jared.â€

â€œNot at al ! He was here about a week ago and noticed my makeshift prop. I told him I was giving up hope that Wood would come through for me, and he insisted he could easily duplicate a leg. And, indeed, he did. We went

out to his shop and he made a couple of measurements, picked out a piece of lumber and turned on his lathe. He insisted that his first attempt was imperfect in some way and made a second one. Total y unnecessary, as far as I

could see. But I wasnâ€™t going to argue with the expert.â€

He glanced around at the loaded sink. â€œAnyway, thanks again for bringing the other one over. Iâ€™l cal Wood and tel him I donâ€™t need it, in case he wants to pick it up.â€ I think he was ready for the coffee klatch to end.

I wasnâ€™t. â€œYou knew Lewis Schley, didnâ€™t you?â€

Bartles had been treating me as if I were a distant but unquestioned member of the Royal Family. Now he looked at me as if I had delivered a ticking package with the words Terrorists, Ltd. featured prominently in the return

address. â€œWe-e-el , I guess you could say I knew Lewis. He came here to visit a friend once or twice and stayed to eat. He paid generously for his meals. I talked him into staying for services once. I had hoped to know him better.

He was in need of much help.â€

â€œIâ€™m glad to hear he wasnâ€™t cadging meals. He had a wel -paying job and a nice enough room over the garage where he workedâ€”although he made pretty much a mess of it. So why did you think he needed help?â€

â€œThere are many kinds of help, Ms. Peres. The life Lewis was leadingâ€”â€

â€œOh, yes, of course. Now I fol ow you.â€ I didnâ€™t want to get off on that tangent! â€œYou know Lewis was on his way over here Saturday nightâ€”the night he was kil ed. In fact, I heard him say to a friend that he was going to get a meal

at the Revâ€™s. Would that have been surprising to you?â€

â€œNot real y. I think he enjoyed the friendly atmosphere around here. He could relax and just be young. I think Lewis tried to act much more sophisticated than he real y was. The young people have fun around the table, as wel as

getting a decent meal. I donâ€™t preach at them with every mouthful, you know.â€ He smiled dryly.

â€œAs you know, he presumably never made it.â€

His reply was sharp and fast. â€œThere was nothing presumable about it! Neither my wife nor I saw Lewis that nightâ€”nor since, obviously.â€

His wife! I had forgotten al about her. Where the hel was she and their toddler, a little girl, I thought. â€œOh, yes, Mrs. Bartles. Aunt Mae thinks so highly of her,â€ I fabricated without a qualm. â€œAnd your little one. I had hoped to meet

them.â€ I looked up at him and knew, as wel as I knew it was Friday, that he was about to lie to me.

â€œWel , another time, Iâ€™m sure,â€ he gushed. â€œEmmyâ€™s gone to the supermarket. Sometimes it seems to me one of us is always at the supermarket, ha ha. Wel , sheâ€™l be sorry to have missed you, but I mustnâ€™t keep you.â€ He

walked to the door, so I real y had no choice but to fol ow. He bowed and thanked me out and closed the door firmly.

As I walked past the garage I noticed a stack of freshly cut logs and, past them, a frost-nipped vegetable garden mulched with sawdust. I got in the car and sat for a moment. I turned to Fargo and scratched that special place

on his ribs that makes him kick his back foot.

â€œDarling dog,â€ I said, â€œyes, I saw the garden. Now . . . you and I know very little about children, but if you were a mother going grocery shopping, would you prefer to leave your two-year-old at home with daddy or drag her with

you?â€ He wiggled, which may have been a shrug, but I took it as agreement to my own doubts. I started the car and we took what would be the normal route from the Revâ€™s to the market. We did not pass the van headed home.

We did not find it in the market parking lot.

Of course, she might have been anywhere, doing other errands or visiting a friend. But I didnâ€™t think so. I thought she was gone, as in packed up and gone. That would account for the piled-up dishes and for the lack of baby

paraphernalia lying around the kitchen. Why had she gone, and where?

I pondered the possibilities as we headed for Beech Forest and a run. Maybe there had been il ness or other emergency in her family. Maybe she just needed a break and was spending a few days with a relative or friend. But

any of those would be a perfectly normal reason for her absence, and no reason for Bartles to lie.

Maybe they had a fight and she went home to Mums. That would be normal enough, too, actual y. I assumed preachers and their spouses had occasional rows. And probably for the same reasons we al had. I had no reason in

the world to think her absence had anything to do with Lewis. I real y didnâ€™t. But I did. Maybe her body would turn up on Harmonâ€™s next driftwood hunt.

Obviously Fargo didnâ€™t intend to brood on it. The minute I pul ed into the parking lot near the picnic area of the forest and opened his door, he spotted a browsing rabbit and took off. He was a hundred yards down the trail and

barking joyously before I was out of the car. I didnâ€™t blame him for his joy. It was a lovely place to be this autumn day. Some of the copper leaves had fal en, but most were stil attached, rustling in the light air like the skirts of an

Edwardian lady pacing her garden path. I shrugged and began to walk along the quiet way. I would catch up with him sooner or later. It was later. Fargo circled the entire pond in happy pursuit of anything that moved. Final y, I

simply sat on a concrete bench and nabbed him on his second lap.

Chapter 16

When I final y got home, there was a smal package inside a supermarket bag tucked in the back screen door. It was beautiful y wrapped in lavender flowered paper with a purple bow, and I knew what it was. Sure enough, it

was the tape of Peterâ€™s performance, with a hand-painted label entitled Peter Mellon Remembers Judy and a photo of Peter in costume. I was delighted, and, when I opened the little card that accompanied it, touched. â€œPeter

and Wolf wil remember Alex with fondness and gratitude.â€

I reminded myself not to get too sentimental. Murderers, I had learned the hard way, did not always have little horns and cloven hooves to make the I.D. easier.

Maybe Iâ€™d run the tape tonight. Right now I had to go through a pile of mail so high it was about to spil off the desk, do a little bookkeeping and that sort of fun activityâ€”almost, but not quite, as bad as housekeeping. I turned on

MSNBC, more for background noise than any real hope of interesting news at this time of day.

I had made some inroads into the paperwork when a commercial penetrated my consciousnessâ€”some bank touting its â€œfriendlyâ€ ATM service. How could an ATM be friendly, I wondered. Then I jumped. Friendly or not, Iâ€™d

better get to the one at the bank. I was very nearly out of cash. It was also a good excuse to quit what I was doing. I took the car. Iâ€™d had enough walking pursuing the damn dog around miles of trail this morning. When I got to the

bank parking lot, I saw that the ATM had a lineâ€”either it had eaten someoneâ€™s card again or it was into its sulky mode, repeatedly flashing, â€œThat is not a valid command.â€ I went inside.

After I completed my brief business with a tel er and turned to leave, I heard Mr. El isâ€™s fruity voice. â€œAlexandra, my dear, wait up and meet Cynthia Hart, our new Financial Services Manager.â€

I put on my official welcoming smile and turned to meet again the blonde, serious young woman I had last seen at Kudlow Securities in Providence. Instead, I faced a petite young woman with crisp dark curls and a wide

mobile mouth beneath a nose that just missed being Roman, and brown eyes that were right up there with Fargoâ€™s for warmth and expression. My smile became quite genuine, as I realized that whomever I had teased in

Kudlowâ€™s hal way, it had not been Cynthia Hart!

â€œMs. Hart,â€ El is continued, â€œmeet Alexandra Peres, not only a valued client of our bank, but also an outstanding nature photographer, whose work we plan to exhibit in a few months. My dearâ€â€”he shook her hand warmly in

both of hisâ€”â€œI have some cal s backed up. If you wil forgive me, I wil say goodbye here, and Iâ€™l see you a week from Monday.â€

Cynthia and I stood, smiling at each other, but seemingly with nothing to say. Final y, I indicated the side door. â€œAre you parked out here?â€ She nodded, so I said, â€œOkay, Iâ€™l walk you out.â€

We got to my car first and Fargo stuck his head out the window. Cynthia reached out and began gently to scratch his cheek. His neck stretched and his nose went up in ecstasy. â€œOh, yes, lovely boy, thatâ€™s a great spot, isnâ€™t it?â€

she asked.

â€œFargo, meet Cynthia.â€

â€œOh, cal me Cindy, please. Cynthia makes me think Iâ€™m back in school.â€

â€œAh, then I can revert to Alex. Thank God weâ€™ve cleared that hurdle. May I buy you a drink or coffee?â€

â€œIâ€™d love it. But right now, Iâ€™m on sort of a tight timetable, and Mr. El is is . . . wel .â€ She glanced at her watch. â€œIâ€™m in kind of a bind,â€ she said. â€œPerhaps you could help. I was hoping that today or certainly by tomorrow, I might

locateâ€”I guess an apartment, although Iâ€™d dearly love a cottage if itâ€™s not too expensive. I need a year-round rental. Am I in trouble? What would you say is my best bet? The paper? A realtor?â€ She ran out of breath.

I leaned against the fender, trying to come up with a helpful ideaâ€”and suddenly I wanted to be very helpful, indeed. â€œYearround rentals are not always easy. You can make too much money just renting your property in the

summer. However, I have a thought. My aunt has a cottage on her property. She said something recently about being sick of summer people. Sheâ€™s had a couple of bad experiences lately.â€

Fargo looked moonstruck. I tried not to. â€œAnyway, I know the cottage is in good repair. It has a good-sized living room, a kitchen, bedroom and another little room for a tiny bedroom or an office or whatever andâ€”of course, a

bathroom. Would that suit?â€

â€œIt sounds perfect. I wonder what sheâ€™s asking?â€ By now Fargo had both front paws on the windowsil and was giving her face the occasional lap. How come the dog got al the perks?

â€œI donâ€™t even know if sheâ€™s renting. But we could go ask. Do you want to leave your car here?â€

â€œOh, Iâ€™d be a little uneasy. Could I just fol ow you?â€

She could and did and fortunately Aunt Mae was at home. I introduced them, explained who Cindy was, and took Fargo out in the yard to give them some privacy. Shortly, they walked across the yard from Aunt Maeâ€™s house,

past her garage/herb shop and out to the cottage. About fifteen minutes later they came back to the house, both smiling broadly and Aunt Mae with folded check in hand.

As they neared me, Cindy grinned. â€œI believe youâ€™ve met my landlady?â€

â€œFrequently,â€ I laughed. â€œSay, thatâ€™s great! Iâ€™m sure youâ€™l both be happy. Congratulations.â€

â€œThank you so much for thinking of me, dear,â€ Aunt Mae put in.

â€œA double-edged sword, favorite aunt. I donâ€™t want to see you again with a bunch of losers like you had last summer. Anyway, Cindy, are you going back tonight or staying over?â€ Was I perhaps formulating a plan? Cassieâ€™s

advice was pounding in my head, and I felt that the curse was fading fast.

â€œOh, going back, definitely. Iâ€™ve got a mil ion things to do. Iâ€™m pretty wel packed, Iâ€™ve been living out of boxes forever. And Iâ€™ve got everything ready to turn over to my replacement at Kudlow, but stil . . .â€ She gave an

embarrassed little moue. â€œDo you get the idea that I was real y counting on this job?â€

â€œNothing wrong with being prepared,â€ Aunt Mae murmured.

â€œRight,â€ Cindy agreed. â€œBut Iâ€™l stil have quite a push to move down here by Wednesday or Thursday, and I real y want to try, because I would like a few days to settle in before I start at Fishermenâ€™s a week from Monday.â€ She

turned and gave the cottage a little smile.

I was stunned. â€œHow can you do that? Leave your job, get out of your apartment and get moved down here in five, six days?â€

â€œWel , the people at Kudlow have known for some time I was looking, and my assistant wil be taking over my job there. Sheâ€™s very sharp and up to speed. I told my landlord if I left without notice he could have the security. Heâ€™s

delirious. Heâ€™l rent that apartment the day after I leave. So there we are.â€

â€œCindy, I hate to sound negative, but I real y doubt you can line up a mover so quickly. Theyâ€™re usual y booked weeks in advance.â€ I spread my hands apart.

â€œIndeed they are. However, if youâ€™re the baby sister of the owners, they tend to make al owances.â€

Aunt Mae favored me with a wry smile. â€œIt would seem, Alexandra, that Cindy has things wel organized. Perhaps you should simply, as the children say, butt out.â€

I glared at her, feeling rather foolish. â€œWel , yeah. Okay. Cindy, that leaves us with time for an early dinner. Keep up your strength for the drive back.â€

â€œNow that sounds good.â€ She swung her purse over her shoulder, as if ready to march. â€œSomehow I missed lunch, and Iâ€™m starved. A real dinner sounds much better than a greasy burger al by myself somewhere en route.

Weâ€™l go dutch of course.â€

â€œWeâ€™l go my treat. Youâ€™ve contributed enough to our family coffers for one day. Aunt Mae, is it okay if we leave Fargo and Cindyâ€™s car here?â€ I was edging into my smooth, suave Cary Grant role.

â€œOf course. Come on, sweet doggie, Iâ€™l give you a drink and a biscuit.â€

Cindy and I went over to the Sea Bounty. It was one of the better restaurants stil open. We had no trouble getting a table so early. It could hardly be cal ed the dinner hour. The waiter asked what weâ€™d like to drink.

Cindy answered immediately. â€œIâ€™l skip the drink, thank you, and have a glass of wine with dinner. Iâ€™ve got a drive ahead of me.â€

â€œThen Iâ€™l wait, too. Just bring a wine list along with the menus, please.â€

We both ordered clams casino to start. Cindy chose crab cakes with a yogurt and diced cucumber and dil sauce, plus saffron rice and a Caesar salad for an entree. I settled for my favorite, broiled sea scal ops with curly

fries, and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers with fresh basil and olive oil. I looked knowingly at the wine list andâ€”blindlyâ€”picked a California Chardonnay I hoped would not disgrace me. Frankly, I like a nice claret with most any

food, and know about as much about wines as I do the quantum theory. But nowadays one feels one should be an expert, so I do my best at least to act the part.

The waiter brought the wine and I went into my little charade. I pinched the cork for dampnessâ€”I knew not to sniff it. I rol ed a bit of wine around in my mouth, swal owed and smacked my lips. â€œYes, quite good, real y. Elegance

wel offset by a touch of peasantry. Not overbearing, but a solid, reliable little wine.â€

The waiterâ€™s eyebrows made little half-moons above his eyes, and Cindy looked at me with polite interest. â€œCould I try a taste, too?â€

The waiter pursed his lips and complied. She sniffed the glass, took a sip, swal owed and clicked her tongue several times. â€œAh, from one of the less rainy years, Iâ€™d say. It has that slight astringent taste, doesnâ€™t it? But no

bitterness, just a firm statement of presence. Wel done, donâ€™t you think?â€ She looked at me straight-faced, and I had the feeling my jaw had dropped. The waiter had poured and leftâ€”either terribly impressed or resigned to

dealing with lunatics.

I looked at Cindy closely. Her expression was bland but her eyes were dancing. â€œYou rat!â€ I exclaimed. â€œYou saw right through me, didnâ€™t you? My great secret is no more. You realize Iâ€™l have to shoot you after dinner? My

reputation in this town is finished.â€

She gave a ful -throated laugh. â€œThen you canâ€™t have much of a reputation! Sorry, I just couldnâ€™t resist. You were so serious. But I had seen you do just what I do. You checked the cheapest and the most expensive, went about

halfway between, crossed your fingers and ordered. My knowledge of wines is bounded by red and white. How about you?â€

â€œMainly I just settle for claret,â€ I answered glumly.

â€œGood, weâ€™l stick with that in future. Much less effort.â€ I could no more not have smiled back than I could have quit breathing. And I liked that remark about the future.

Dinner was good. We enjoyed the food and each other. I managed to regain a little ground when Cindy remarked on what a sweet dog Fargo seemed.

â€œStrange,â€ I answered, â€œI had you for more of a cat person, maybe wounded cats or even a baby goose.â€

She peered at me sharply but made no comment.

â€œIn fact,â€ I continued, â€œI visualize you as a sort of tree-hugger at heart. I can just see you tied to a lovely old tree, daring the authorities to cut it down.â€

â€œOkay. How do you know al this? This can no way be considered coincidence. Do you know one of my brothers or something?â€

I decided the joke had gone far enough. â€œNo. In point of fact, Iâ€™m a private investigator. Sometimes I do a little rundown on people for possible employers. Several people, including you, were on El isâ€™s short list for the job at the

bank. He wanted a background check that covered more than just your resumÃ©, so I took a little swing around three states the beginning of the week and gave him a report on the people he was interested in. Obviously, you were

the front runner.â€

â€œSo now you know al my secrets.â€ She smiled but didnâ€™t sound entirely happy. â€œDid you tel Mr. El is about the cat?â€

â€œAl I knew of it. What real y happened?â€

She gave a rueful grin. â€œThere I was, minding my own business, driving home, when the car in front of me clipped a little half-grown cat. Either unaware or uncaring, the driver didnâ€™t stop. Wel , of course I did, I put the poor

dazed thing in the car and hied off toward a veterinary clinic about a mile up the road.â€

I poured us both a smal dividend of wine. â€œAnd at what speed were you traveling, maâ€™am?â€

â€œAt a damn good speed, thank you, and I ran a yel ow light to boot. Next thing I know, red lights were flashing behind me and a cop pul ed me over. When he walked up to my window I told him I was taking an injured animal to

the vetâ€™s, that as soon as I got care for the cat, Iâ€™d be happy to speak with him. I figured there was no time to lose and away I went. He just stood in the road looking after me. As the vet was placing the cat on the examining table,

the cop flew inâ€”super pissedâ€”and wrote me up for everything but kidnapping the cat, probably only because he didnâ€™t think of it.â€

I was leaning back in my chair, laughing aloud by now. I wiped my eyes with my napkin. â€œSo you had to go to court?â€

â€œOh, indeed. My father wanted to send a lawyer with me, but I figured the truth ought to do it. I admitted running the light and speeding and said I would pay any necessary fines. I insisted I was not driving recklessly and

certainly did not endanger the officerâ€™s lifeâ€”I never told him to stand in the middle of the road like a traffic cone. I definitely had not resisted arrestâ€”I told him exactly where I was going and why. And I had not left the scene of an

accident because it wasnâ€™t my accident in the first place. And the defense rested.â€

I shook my head in admiration. â€œYou may be in the wrong business,â€ I suggested. â€œYouâ€™d make a great lawyer.â€

â€œCould be,â€ she agreed. â€œAt any rate the judge dropped the charges since I was â€˜on an errand of mercy where timeliness was of great importance.â€™ I was feeling pretty good, but then he lectured me in this superior, drippy

voice. â€˜In the future, if something like this should happen, Ms. Hart, please try to exercise restraint. After al , in your zeal to assist an animal, you could have injured a person, and Iâ€™m sure you realize a person is more important

than a cat, do you not?â€™â€

â€œCondescending old fuddle, wasnâ€™t he?â€ I noted with a frown.

â€œYou bet, and I wasnâ€™t about to stand stil for it. I said, â€˜Your Honor, I canâ€™t answer such a hypothetical question. I would have to know both the person and the cat.â€™ And the fusty old coot fined me fifty dol ars for contempt of court.â€

I let out a laugh that had heads turning in the dining room. â€œYouâ€™l have to tel this al to El is. Heâ€™l love it. He has two Siamese of his own. I must say, between tying yourself to trees and rescuing animals, youâ€™ve lived quite a life

of crime.â€

I got a very knowing look in answer. â€œSo you met Mimi Trinler. Isnâ€™t she a lovely woman?â€

â€œEr, yes. Yes, lovely.â€ I felt hot, and was sure my face went bright red.

Cindy flashed a wide-eyed look of innocence. â€œI think half the females in school were in love with her. Lord knows I was. I used to have real y wild fantasies about her.â€

â€œIndeed?â€ I flashed a cool, Cary Grant smile. â€œDid anyone ever manage to make it with her?â€

â€œNot that I know of. She lives with a sizable music professor, who would probably throw her piano at anyone who got within ten feet of her Mimi.â€ She added casual y, â€œDid you get to spend much time with her?â€

I felt my face heat up again. â€œNo, very little. I was on a tight schedule. On my way to Norwalk to check out another applicant,â€ I said in what I hoped was a professional manner.

I guess Cindy decided she had tortured me long enough. I was certain she knew exactly what my reaction to Dean Trinler had been, right down to the blue quilt.

She asked, â€œSo when do I find out about your secrets?â€

â€œI donâ€™t think there are many, just ask anybody in town. Iâ€™ve been here forever.â€

â€œI may do just that. Iâ€™ve been thinkingâ€â€”she changed the subjectâ€”â€œEl is didnâ€™t waste any time, did he? He cal ed me yesterday afternoon to see if I could come up today. He offered me the job right away and wanted me here

pronto. Any reason you know of?â€

â€œNot especial y. I know your new department is his pet project. He feels the bank waited too long to offer your type of expertise, and I guess heâ€™s making up for lost time.â€

â€œMakes sense. A private investigator,â€ she said again. â€œAnd what sort of things do you investigate besides employee profiles?â€ She sipped her wine.

I was pleased at her reaction to my saying I was a PI. I donâ€™t usual y tel that to people I donâ€™t know wel . For some reason they invariably think itâ€™s either hilarious or sleazyâ€”and either reaction annoys me. â€œI donâ€™t real y have a

specialty. I investigate a lot of personal injury claims on-season, chase down people named in wil s, handle some other insurance frauds, andâ€”when Iâ€™m brokeâ€” divorce grounds.â€

â€œIt sounds fascinating.â€ I looked at her and realized she meant it. For some reason, I felt real y good about that. She leaned forward now, relaxed, elbows on table. â€œAre you investigating anything exciting nowâ€”that you can talk

about?â€

â€œIn a left-handed sort of way,â€ I conceded. I told her a little of Schleyâ€™s murder and its aftermath.

â€œWow. I never realizedâ€”I guess I never thoughtâ€”how investigations actual y work. I do hope you can clear the two old dears. They sound innocent as lambs to me.â€

â€œI hope so, too. Iâ€™m getting quite fond of them, which may be a mistake. And donâ€™t make them pearly white. They do provide pretty, compliant houseboys for their inn guests.â€

She shrugged. â€œBetter than their bringing in unknowns off the street, isnâ€™t it? Boys wil be boys.â€

And then I did it. I reached for my wineglass and knocked it over, liquid spreading across the tablecloth at amazing speed. We both grabbed our napkins. The waiter came running. It only took seconds to get everything under

control, but I was mortified. I had ruined everything. Cindy started to make a jocose comment, saw my face and backtracked. â€œAlex! Are you al right? Are you il ?â€

â€œNo.â€ I sighed and explained my saga of the witchâ€™s curse and its fol owing slips and fal s, spil s and breaks. â€œIâ€™m at the point of looking over my shoulder to see if sheâ€™s behind me,â€ I finished.

She reached across and took my hand. â€œYou poor dear. I know sort of how you feel. When I was a little kid, I decided our house was haunted and became terrified to go upstairs. One day I turned and ran back down the stairs

so fast, I fel and got a real y nasty bump on my forehead.â€ I took a cautious sip of coffee as she continued.

â€œThe next day the lady who helped Mom take care of the house came, and I told her of my accident. She said, â€˜Honey, now we know thereâ€™s no such thing as ghosts. So they canâ€™t hurt you, but they can sure make you hurt

yourself. So you got to not give â€™em that power.â€™â€

I looked at her quizzical y, and she patted my hand and laughed. â€œI knowâ€”thereâ€™s a dichotomy in there someplace, but itâ€™s also true. An old lady curses you, and afterwards a couple of odd things happen. You start looking for

odd things, and you get tense and apprehensive, so you make them happen. There . . . your curse is gone! And weâ€™d better do the same, itâ€™s getting late.â€

â€œThanks for being understanding,â€ I said as we left the restaurant. â€œBetween you and my mother, I real y do feel better.â€ I told her of momâ€™s â€œexorcismâ€ and she laughed.

â€œI think Iâ€™d like your mom.â€

â€œMe, too.â€ As we drove back to Aunt Maeâ€™s for Cindyâ€™s car, I thought again of Cassieâ€™s lecture to me about being more assertive with women. That I should just go for it instead of waiting for the lady to make it crystal clear that

she wanted me to go for it.

When we pul ed in the drive, I cut the lights and put my arm across the back of her seat. â€œLook, Cindy, Providence is a long drive, and youâ€™ve had a couple of glasses of wine. We could go back to my place andâ€”â€

She put two fingers across my mouth. â€œShush. I am cold soberâ€”with miles to go before I sleep. Iâ€™m fine. It was al lovely. We donâ€™t need to push it. Anywayâ€â€”she grinnedâ€”â€œI never date on the first kiss.â€ She gave me a warm,

soft kiss on the mouthâ€” more than friendship, less than passion. She got out of the car. I sat there, feeling completely bewitched in the loveliest of ways.

Aunt Maeâ€™s porch light went on and Fargo came running across the yard. Cindy held the door open for him and he jumped into the front seat. She reached in and kissed his head. â€œTake care of her, Fargo. The world needs its

wine experts.â€

I started the car, beeped a general goodnight and pul ed out of the drive. â€œThe hel with Cassie, Fargo, weâ€™re doing okay as we are. We got a goodnight kiss, didnâ€™t we?â€

He gave me a toothy grin and slurped my hand on the wheel. Now I had two kisses. Hard to beat.

Chapter 17

For some reason I felt quite energized after our outing, and in entirely too good a mood to go home and attack the mail again, or to flop in front of the tube and hope the History Channel wasnâ€™t once more exploring the

pyramids. I bribed Fargo with the promise of a hamburger for him and stopped in the Wharf Rat, which some snide acquaintances have dubbed my â€œother office.â€ The Rat was busy this Friday evening, with the regulars, including

Harmon of course, at their front table. He gave me a dirty look as I came in and I made a mental note to make my peace with him before the evening was out.

At that moment, I heard a â€œYoohoo, Alex!â€ float musical y across the room. It was Peter Mel on. He and Wolf were having dinner. I walked over and thanked them for the tape. They asked if anything was new, but I wasnâ€™t real y in

the mood right that minute to get involved with my nursery rhyme tale of dancing table legs that seemed to be multiplying like rabbits.

â€œIâ€™ve managed to look at a few things. Al rather in your favor, but Iâ€™m tired and youâ€™re in the middle of dinner. How about around ten tomorrow?â€

â€œFine,â€ Peter said. â€œCome for breakfast.â€ I agreed.

On the way back to the bar, I stopped by Harmonâ€™s table. â€œHarmon, I think youâ€™re a little peeved with me, and I donâ€™t much blame you. I shouldnâ€™t have teased you about anything so serious as murder. Iâ€™m sorry.â€

He gave me a skewed grin, and when he spoke the fumes were thick enough to make smoking dangerous. â€œOh, thass okay, Alex. I know you was jusâ€™ fooling. I sure had Mitch goinâ€™ though. He couldnâ€™t seem to figure what I

was talking about. Went round and round we did.â€ He laughed in a happy alcoholic memory. â€œI ainâ€™t mad, Alex. Youâ€™n Sonny, youâ€™re okay. Shay, where is Shonny . . . Sonny? I ainâ€™t seen him.â€

â€œHeâ€™s on vacation.â€

â€œNo time fer that. We got bad things happening here. Bad things.â€

â€œHeâ€™l be home soon. Iâ€™l let you get back to your friends, Harmon.â€

At the bar, I almost ordered a beer, thought of a bourbon and final y asked for a stinger. I felt like something special. Joe presented me with one that was surprisingly smooth and oh, so innocent in its taste. I was just savoring

it, when a voice behind me said, â€œDrinking a love potion? Waiting for a lovely lady? Or just being uptown?â€

It was Cassie, smel ing lightly of shrimp scampi. â€œNot waiting,â€ I answered. â€œI already spent the afternoon with the lovely lady. And, no, you donâ€™t know her. And, no, I am not going to explain. It would be premature,â€ I said regal y.

â€œUptown? Why not? This place could use a little class. Between your breath and Harmonâ€™s I may need oxygen. How are you?â€

â€œFine. Gotta go pick up Lainey. She had to work late and her carâ€™s in the shop. Sorry to run.â€

â€œYouâ€™re forgiven. By the way, letâ€™s have no more about my being more assertive with women. Those of us with a little savoir faire donâ€™t need to come on like Jackie Chan at a drug bust to impress a lady. A wel -mannered,

smooth approach does the trick with the more sophisticated type female.â€ I went to take an elegant little finger-crooked sip of my drink and poured a bit down my sweater, but I think I stil carried it off.

Cassie rol ed her eyes and said, â€œSure, Agent Oh-Oh-Seven, whatever gets you through the night. Bye.â€

I turned back to the bar, grinning, and lit a cigarette. Number six for the day, so I scolded myself roundly. It was the perfect partner to the stinger, especial y as another glass took that moment to arrive in front of me.

â€œCompliments of Peter and the Wolf,â€ Joe said. I turned to thank them, but they were just going out the door. Facing that way, I noticed Jared Mather at the end of the bar in his regular place. As usual, he elected not to see me,

and I felt no need to greet him. I turned back to my drink and began happily to relive the afternoon.

I heard a familiar loud, nasal voice cal out, â€œWel , now, if it isnâ€™t Jared Mather!â€ It was my old nemesis, Ben Fratos, but at least I wasnâ€™t eating, and at least he was about to sit down beside Mather, not me. Stil , my happy

reverie dissipated.

Mather gave a curt nod and stared at Fratos with a look that would have frozen lava. Fratos muttered something about seeing him later and veered off to join Harmon and the others at Provincetownâ€™s answer to the Round

Table, so I finished my drink in peace. I felt guilty ordering a third and figured I would shortly be right up there with Harmon. But I was enjoying myself. I had the feeling that Cindy might wel turn out to be more than my auntâ€™s tenant.

I found myself hoping so, more than I would have thought.

Yet I was leery of any involvement anytime, and now was no different, in spite of Cindyâ€™s obvious appeal. My track record was hardly reassuring, and while I longed for togetherness, I lived in terror of suffocation. As my

relationships went on, breathing room disappeared. I retreated into an emotional vacuum rather than ask for a window to be opened. And the chil eventual y permeated the bed . . . and there you were. In avoiding what might

have been a simple, reasonable conversation, I landed in the midst of a heartrending or rip-roaring breakup every damn time.

I was not entirely sure why. A friend who was a therapist had once mentioned to me that many people who lose a parent at an early age fear abandonment later. Maybe I was afraid any confrontation would result in that. But, of

course, avoiding the confrontation had the same result. Apparently when I got around to cherchez la femme, I turned into one of those dismal creatures who do the same thing over and over, blissful y hoping for a different result.

What to do now? Not having another stinger seemed a good idea. When I col ected Fargo, I noticed that Mather and Fratos had left before me and were standing at the top of the al ey near the street. I guessed Mather hadnâ€™t

wanted his cocktail hour to be interrupted by Fratos, but then found himself cornered on the way out. I wondered what gossip the slimy Fratos could have that would interest the upright Mather. But mainly, I just wondered how

soon I could get home. P.I. Peres was final y ready to pack it in.

Fargo and I completed our individual pre-bed routines quickly. He wolfed down his hamburger and we retired. I was so beat I didnâ€™t even turn on CNN for my nightly update. I was just reaching that marvelous space between

sleeping and waking, when I realized with surpriseâ€”but maybe not al that much surpriseâ€”that Cindy had eased quietly into my bed.

I put my arm around her and realized she was in the nude, and I stroked her smooth, lithe body with drowsy sensuality increased by the sweet butterfly kisses she placed on my ear. My hand moved to her breast, rubbing the

nipple, feeling it become rigid, feeling her turn, pressing harder against my hand. I moved my head so I could kiss her mouth and found her tongue already poised for the meeting. My drowsiness disappeared in a flood of hot

excitement. My hand traveled downward, stopping here and there for an exploratory caress, but inexorably bound for that soft, warm enclosure I knew my fingers would find.

â€œExcuse me,â€ the voice came from behind me, beside the bed.

I flipped onto my back, propping on an elbow. â€œWho the hel . . . oh, I know you!â€

It was that damned blonde from Kudlowâ€™s!

â€œIâ€™m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask Cindy about the Wexford account.â€

â€œHow dare you sneak into my bedroom in the middle of the night!â€ I roared. â€œScrew the Whoozits account! Get a life. Bugger off, slug!â€

â€œRight on!â€ Cindy barked.

Cindy barked?

I managed to get my eyes open and found I was sitting up looking at a very worried Fargo at the foot of the bed. I glanced to my leftâ€”no chubby blonde stood there. I looked to my rightâ€”the sheets were smooth, the pil ow

undented. I rubbed my eyes and groaned. Fargo had apparently decided that either I had gone crazy or we had been invaded by things he could not see. He barked again.

â€œOh, shut up. Everything is al right.â€ He looked hurt and slithered off the bed, headed for the kitchen. I sat there for a minuteâ€” confused, highly frustrated and actual y embarrassed. I sighed, got up and pul ed a sweatshirt over

my pajamas, slipped into a pair of mocs and fol owed him.

I let him out and noticed the coffeemaker held some liquidâ€” probably brewed during the War of the Roses. I poured it into a mug and shoved it in the micro. By the time he whimpered to come in Iâ€™d had a sip of it and it wasnâ€™t

too bad. At least it settled me slightly. I gave him a hug and was forgiven. Why canâ€™t women be like Fargo?

He put his head on my thigh. I stroked him gently and explained, â€œItâ€™s like this, angel dog. In the past week I have met three very attractive women. The first one I figured I had a very good shot of separating from Lainey and

Cassieâ€™s party and bringing here for a lively romp. But that ended in the shoelace caper. The second was Dean . . . was Mimi Trinler. I was in the midst of a fabulous fantasy, which she interrupted by presenting me with a

computer printout and, I think, reading my mind. The third, as you know, was a wonderful y realistic Cindy-dream turned into something by Monty Python. Put it this wayâ€”I canâ€™t get laid when Iâ€™m awake, I canâ€™t get laid in my

imagination, I canâ€™t get laid in my dreams. I am doomed.â€ He gave my hand a cursory lick, lay down in his bed and was asleep in ten seconds. Neutering does have certain advantages.

Saturday morning, between the stingers, the esoteric dream and the midnight caffeine, I felt exactly like youâ€™d figure I did. But Fargo cajoled me into a beach run out at Race Point, and we worked up a nice appetite for

breakfast. It was definitely fal â€”the sun stil held a tentative warmth, but a chil was sneaking in around the edges. The ocean was that almost royal blue and the sky a pale reflection . . . autumn. I began to recuperate. I made a

mental note to watch the booze. I didnâ€™t want too much of my fatherâ€™s black humor, and I certainly didnâ€™t need his hangovers.

When we arrived later at Green Mansions, Peter met us at the door. Pewter took one look at Fargo, yawned and retired to the kitchen. Wolf cal ed hel o from there and said heâ€™d be out in a minute. Peter and I sat and batted

the weather around until Wolf stuck his head out. â€œYou said the news was good. Orange juice or champagne cocktail?â€

â€œI donâ€™t know if itâ€™s that good, and I would love champagne, but I think orange juice is a safer way to begin the day.â€

I told them of my last daysâ€™ activities while we drank. Conversation took a hiatus when Wolf brought out scrambled eggs with bleu cheese, Smithfield ham and popovers with black cherry preserves. Sometimes I real y wish I

could cook.

Final y, over coffee, Wolf asked what my conclusions were. â€œWel ,â€ I summed up, â€œwe have enough pine legs to put Robert Louis Stevenson and Herman Melvil e out of business. Iâ€™l turn the list of names over to Mitch to finish

checking out, but we have at least seven people in this area who hadâ€”or say they hadâ€”missing table legs. Any one of them could be lying. Of the ones I spoke with, a nasty character named Quinn and the Reverend Bartles

seem only real bets. Quinn looks like he could go for rough trade, and Bartles lied to me . . . I just know it.â€

â€œSo what should we do?â€ Peter asked.

â€œNothing. We havenâ€™t proved a thing. Weâ€™ve just muddied the waters. But it does make it more plausible that you, too, had a missing legâ€”not that you used it for a weapon and then tossed it or burned it. And it makes it

possible that one of those people got four perfectly good legs and used one to kil Lewis. And there is one other thing . . . identifying that SUVâ€”or vanâ€”that Harmon saw.â€

â€œI hear heâ€™s been al over town saying heâ€™s now sure Iâ€™m the kil er.â€ Wolf sighed. â€œBecause heâ€™s sure it was our SUV he saw late that night.â€

I reached and patted his knee. â€œWolf, Iâ€™d hate like hel to be a lawyer knowing my case depended on Harmonâ€™s testimony about anything, especial y something he saw at four in the morning. Iâ€™m surprised he didnâ€™t swear your

vee-hicle was pink with big ears. Seriously, anybody might mistake a van for an SUVâ€”or vice versaâ€”in the middle of a rainy night, when it has just almost run you off the road at high speed. That doubles the possibilities right

there.â€ I sipped my coffee and returned the cup very careful y to the table.

â€œNow, just from memory. Choate El is has a white one and Jared Mather has a cream one. Diane Mil er has a light green van that could be mistaken for tan in a bad light. Bartles himself has a light-colored van. Also, the

famous Mary Sloan has a tan Santa Fe.â€

â€œOh, delightful! Have her arrested on general principles.â€ Wolf grinned.

â€œThere you go. If need be, Iâ€™l ask Nacho to check registrations around the area. Five gets you ten she turns up at least a dozen.

And Iâ€™l bet not more than three of them could prove they werenâ€™t on Race Point Road. Mitch doesnâ€™t have a leg to stand on.â€

As I completed that reassuring statement, Mitch rang the doorbel , standing firmly on both legs. He was accompanied by Jeanine and Pete, both in ful uniform with al the accoutrements. Somehow I knew they were not

col ecting for the Police Athletic League.

â€œMay we come in, Mr. Wolfman? Mr. Mel on?â€

I donâ€™t know who would have refused them. Wolf and Peter both nodded and retired to the couch. Mitch headed for the piano bench, I re-took my chair. Ominously Pete and Jeanine stopped behind the couch and stood there.

â€œMr.Wolfman, Mr. Mel on, I need to ask some questions. Alex, this doesnâ€™t concern you, if youâ€™d like to leave.â€ Wel , thank you, Mitch!

â€œWe would like her to stay, detective. She is our advisor and friend. I think we need a friend here, donâ€™t you?â€ Peter stil had claws and they were out. I looked at Mitch and grinned. He ignored me.

â€œVery wel . Gentlemen, where were you last night, from eight

p.m. til two a.m.?â€

â€œHere we go again.â€ Wolf sighed. â€œAbout seven-thirty we went to the Wharf Rat for dinnerâ€”in view of at least a dozen people we know. We left around nine and came home. We watched most of a movie on TCM. I can tel you

al about it if you wish.â€

â€œPerhaps later, thank you,â€ Mitch continued quietly. â€œDid you encounter Mr. Benjamin Fratos at the Rat?â€

They both thought a moment and then looked at each other, as if deciding who would answer. Peter said, â€œNot at the Rat. Walking home, we passed him walking toward the Rat. His car was parked across the street from our

place.â€

â€œDid you encounter Mr. Harmon Kil ingworth at the Rat?â€

â€œWho? Oh, Harmon, yes, he was there, drunk as a lord.â€

â€œWas he stil there when you left?â€

Peter looked questioningly at Wolf before he answered. â€œIâ€™m sorry, I donâ€™t recal . Wolf? Did you notice him?â€

â€œYes.â€ Wolf gulped at his cocktail. â€œYes, I remember, he was there.â€

â€œDid you steal Mr. Kil ingworthâ€™s truck?â€

â€œMitch!â€ I exploded. â€œHave you lost it completely? The other day you insinuated prostitution. Youâ€™ve practical y accused them of murder and now youâ€™re trying grand theft auto? Nobody in the world is desperate enough to steal

that old death trap. Donâ€™t say another word, guys, either heâ€™s crazy or itâ€™s a very un-funny joke.â€

â€œShut up, Alex, or Iâ€™l book you for obstruction.â€ What on earth had gotten into this nice young man? Focus was one thingâ€”obsession was another.

â€œYou can book me for grand treason,â€ I snapped. â€œI stil advise them not to say another word without a lawyer. The mood youâ€™re in, youâ€™d cal it a confession if they said the Lordâ€™s Prayer.â€

He looked hurt for a minute, before he put his tough face back on. It gave me hope he was stil in there somewhere. â€œAl right,â€ he said. â€œIf you donâ€™t want questions, Iâ€™l give you answers. Some I know, some I am pretty sure of.â€

He yanked out his notebook and started making that noise with his tongue again. I didnâ€™t like it any better this time.

â€œI know that about eleven last night, Harmon rol ed into the police station, wailing that somebody had stolen his truck from in front of the Rat. Sergeant Juvenal was in charge and, like al of Ptown, he knows Harmon always

leaves the keys in. So, Juvenal figured one of two things happened. Either Harmon forgot where he parked the truck, or some kids swiped it and weâ€™d find it in some sil y spot come daylight. So he did exactly what I would have

doneâ€”sent him home in a squad car and told him weâ€™d find it.â€

Wolf and Peter were leaning forward, as if enrapt by an ancient storytel er. â€œNow, around three,â€ Mitch continued, â€œHarmon got up to . . . er, relieve himself. At that time, Juvenal received a hysterical phone cal from him. The

truck was now in his yard. There was a bloody tire iron in the back that wasnâ€™t his and the truck bed was covered in blood. They got me up and I went over.â€

â€œWhat did you find, a gal on of ketchup?â€ I chortled.

â€œNo. I found an old tarp in the back of the truck with considerable blood, and I found a tire iron with the business end caked in blood, hair and brain matter.â€

â€œJesus,â€ I breathed. â€œWas there a body? Who . . . ?â€

â€œNo body at Harmonâ€™s, but on a hunch I drove out to the amphitheater. There he was, laid out just like Schley . . . Ben Fratos.â€

I sagged in relief. â€œMy God,â€ I said. â€œHalf the town would as soon see him dead. He spies on everybody. I swear heâ€™s a voyeur, heâ€™s got a brutal temperâ€”he tried to break my jaw over nothing the other day. Youâ€™l be hard put to

find six pal bearers for Ben Fratos.â€ Wolf looked white and sick, but Peter was sitting straight and alert, not missing a word. I was beginning to change my mind about who had the real strength in that couple.

Mitch nodded. â€œI agree, Alex. You might like to know I recommended his private investigatorâ€™s license be revoked last year. But heâ€™s an ex-cop and Anders wouldnâ€™t back me with the chief. Anyway, he has been brutal y

murdered and I have a job to do.â€

â€œWere there prints on the tire iron?â€ I asked. â€œDo you have any real evidence, Mitch?â€ I realized too late that my voice sounded condescending, not guaranteed to make Mitch more helpful.

â€œThe evidence is a police matter, Alex, but hereâ€™s what I think happened. Last night, Wolf, I think you and Peter ran into Fratos as you walked homeâ€”Iâ€™l even say he was waiting for you. He told you he knew something about

the Schley murder that would incriminate you. He may have told you he was going to the police with it. More likely, I think he told you that for money, he wouldnâ€™t go to the police with it. Blackmail would not surprise me. I think you

lured him to your garage, tel ing him your safe or your cash was hidden there. I think one of you picked up the tire iron and kil ed him.â€

It sounded too damned logical to reassure Wolf, Peter or me. We al looked at each other and then looked back to Mitch as he resumed his narrative.

â€œThen one of you remembered Harmonâ€™s nearby truck and stole it and brought it to your house. You loaded Fratos in the rear, and late at night you drove him to the amphitheater, laid him out like Schley, took Harmonâ€™s truck

home and left it. Complete with the tire iron from your garage.â€

I couldnâ€™t let him sound so sure. â€œMitch, this is highly circumâ€”â€

â€œOh, I forgot one thing,â€ he interrupted. â€œI found this stuck in the brace of the tailgate. It was apparently used to wipe fingerprints from the murder weapon.â€ Mitch took out a clear plastic bag with a manâ€™s handkerchief in it. It was

stained with what looked like blood and perhaps oil and in the corner were the initials FW. â€œIs this your handkerchief?â€ Mitch asked Wolf, holding out the bag.

Wolf took it gingerly and grimaced. Before I could say anything, he answered, â€œWel , I guess so. It looks like it. Iâ€™ve got about a dozen of them. They were a Christmas gift from Bobby Helms last year,â€ he added, as if that

explained everything.

â€œHave you any idea how it got into the truck?â€

I had to intercede here. â€œBe quiet, Wolf. Mitch, I have no desire to impede your finding the kil er. I hope you do find himâ€”or herâ€” Lord knows there are women in this town with plenty of reason to bash Fratos. But I do not think

this interview should continue without a lawyer. Iâ€™l stop down later. I have some information you may find useful. Right now, I think you should go.â€

â€œYou may be right.â€ Mitch stood and for some reason we al stood with him. â€œFrank Wolfman, I arrest you for the murders, and Peter Mel on, I arrest you as an accessory to the murders, of Lewis Schley and Benjamin Fratos.â€

He nodded to Jeanine and Pete. â€œRead them their rights and cuff them.â€

Wolf looked like he was going to col apse, but Peter was straight as a board. â€œDetective, please, handcuffs are not necessary. Neither of us would humiliate ourselves by trying to run. Alex, would you kindly cal John Frost, I

guess heâ€™s about the best criminal lawyer in town. And one big favor.â€ He reached back to the couch and stroked the gray blob huddled there. â€œWould you please take Pewter to the vet and have him board her? Her carrier is in

the pantry. Sheâ€™l be terribly upset.â€ For the first time his voice broke. He turned and walked out the door, Jeanine lightly holding his arm. They left, Mitch bringing up the rear like the sergeant of a sad platoon. I said Shit! loudly

and Fargo looked at me in alarm. â€œNot you, sweetheart, just everybody else.â€

I cal ed Frost. He was out, of course. I left a detailed message with his secretary, and she assured me he would contact Peter and Wolf as soon as he could. I found the pantry and took the cat carrier into the living room. I went

back to the kitchen, stuffed our breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and hit â€œrinse and hold,â€ wondering just how long â€œholdâ€ might be. I turned the thermostat to fifty, put on a hal light and figured that was about al I could do.

Back in the living room I spotted Pewter, sitting in front of the door, staring fixedly at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn at Wolfâ€™s or Peterâ€™s hand. My eyes smarted badly and I yel ed Shit! again. I took the carrier back to the

pantry and stuffed it with cat food. Struggling, I picked up Pewter under the other armâ€”the damned tub must weigh thirty pounds! I managed to open the door, very nearly locked Fargo inside and final y made it to the car. Panting

and swearing, I dumped Pewter and the carrier in back and let Fargo in front.

We made the surprisingly lengthy drive home with Pewter yowling piteously and Fargo barking threats at the windshield. Wel , damn, what the hel else could I have done?

Chapter 18

Pewter had to explore the house inch by inch, with Fargoâ€™s nose about three inches behind her tail al the way. That chore finished, she went and sat by the back door and cried, and Fargo sat close beside her, whining in

some apparent gesture of canine support. Figuring one or both might be feeling a cal of nature, I went out with them. I was right on both counts. Technical y, I knew Pewter could go over the fence; I just hoped she was too fat to

try.

Then, kindly animal-person that I am, I opened food, freshened water and uncapped a Sprite for me. I reached the living room and just had the can tilted as great yowls and spits and growls and shrieks issued from the kitchen.

Going on the happy assumption it was al talk, I sat down and took a mighty swig. They both immediately came into the living room and lay down amiably on the rug. Itâ€™s hard to produce high drama when your audience is

yawning. I knowâ€”Iâ€™ve tried it.

We had enough real drama. I felt tremendous sympathy for Wolf and Peter, even if they werenâ€™t guilty. Lord knows their lives would never be the same, no matter what the outcome. I went over the latest events in my mind. That

Ben Fratos was capable of blackmail was a given. If he knew, or thought he knew, anything damaging against Peter and the Wolf, he might wel have tried it. But if Wolf and Peter were innocent of his accusations, I couldnâ€™t

believe they were too dumb not to string him along until they could reach me and get some advice on what to do.

The tire iron was generic and might have belonged to anyone whoâ€™d ever had a car or truck. But the handkerchief was not. The initials were damning, and Wolf had virtual y admitted it was his. It was easy to see why they

might have kil ed Fratos. But Lewis was less clear.

Yes, he had disappointed them, inconvenienced them, hurt their feelings. But weâ€™ve al had those things happen to us. If we al kil ed over it, you could shoot skeet in downtown Boston. Stil , Lewis had damaged a much-loved

heirloom and humiliated Peter in the so-cal ed fight. Two dangerous things to doâ€”no one likes others to be careless of their valuables, and no oneâ€”gay or straightâ€”likes to be shamed in a fight. Despite the fact that Wolf was

under arrest for the actual murder, I thought Peter the more likely candidate. I could see him getting even for many real and presumed wrongs with every blow he struck.

I knew Lewis was the key. Fratos was just an afterthought, whoever did it.

And I knew I had to do something or Pewter was mine for life. Maybe Iâ€™d try Bartles again. He was hiding something; the question was whether it mattered.

I mul ed this over as I had another soda and a cheese sandwich, careful y watched by Fargo and Pewter. Apparentlyâ€”obviouslyâ€” she was used to tidbits. I shared. I freshened up and picked up the car keys. Not wanting to

leave Pewter alone, I told Fargo he couldnâ€™t go. This resulted in a grand display of groveling and keening on his part and sympathetic mewing on Pewterâ€™s. I slammed the door on this opera and left, not in a charitable mood.

My first stop was the police station, to give Mitch my list of â€œleglessâ€ customers of Woodâ€™s Woods. He listened to my theory and agreed it had merit. He agreed to check out the people I had missed and look further into ex-cop

Quinn. He also agreed to check on vee-hicles similar to Wolfâ€™s and Peterâ€™s. But I knew it would be perfunctory. In his mind he had the â€œdoersâ€ back in two cel s of the jail. I asked to see them but was told they were currently â€œbeing

processed.â€ I was getting just a bit tired of Super Cop.

As I left, Jeanine pul ed me aside. She was a buxom young woman in her thirties, married, with a couple of kids, and the epitome of kindness. She was also strong as an ox and had no compulsion about tossing an ornery

drunk onto his backside and headfirst against a wal . She said softly that she had spoken with Wolf and Peter and agreed to bring them any personal items they needed. I explained about the cat, and she offered to tel them

Pewter was with me. She was sure it would cheer them up.

She cheered me up, and I moved on to Bartles in a somewhat better frame of mind. The day was warm and sunny, and I guess that helped. Once again, the van was not in evidence, but I went around back and, once again,

found the Rev. Bartles up to his elbows in dishwater.

â€œWel , hel o,â€ I said from the doorway. â€œArenâ€™t you the diligent homemaker!â€ He nodded and turned back to his chore.

â€œHere, Iâ€™l dry.â€ I picked up a towel and went to work, which earned me a smal , grateful smile. We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, before I asked the obvious question. â€œWel , Lawrenceâ€”if I may be informal

â€”why did she leave you?â€

He kept his head down so he didnâ€™t have to meet my eyes and turned on his plummy voice. â€œBless her! Sheâ€™s just worn out with al our endeavorsâ€”plus the baby. I insisted she accept an invitation from an old col ege chum. Do

her a world of good!â€

â€œCan it, Lawrence! Where did she real y go? Home to mother? Why? Did you abuse her? Abuse the baby? Cheat on her? Did she cheat on you?â€

He careful y put a plate in the rack, took the dishtowel from me and wiped his hands. â€œCome and sit down, Ms . . . Alex. Itâ€™s a crazy situation.â€ He poured coffee into two mugs I had just dried and sat down. He took a deep

breath, let it out in a puff. â€œEmmy is at her motherâ€™s. She real y is tired. We have not broken up, and nothing is seriously wrong. Our marriage is fine.â€

â€œIâ€™m glad to hear it. So what isnâ€™t fine?â€

â€œWe did have a row. Over money.â€ He grinned sheepishly.

I laughed. It had cost him something to say that. I guess sometimes even preachers can need someone to talk to. â€œAt least itâ€™s normal.â€

â€œYes and no,â€ he said. â€œSunday when I went into the chapel to get ready for services, I noticed a thick envelope on the floor, pushed through the old mail slot in the door.â€ He stood up and left the room for a moment, returning

with a cheap white envelope, stuffed about to capacity. â€œHere.â€

It was ful of money. Trying to touch both the envelope and its contents as little as possible, I eased the money and a sheet of writing paper out onto the table. â€œDid you count this?â€ I asked.

â€œYes. Thereâ€™s three hundred seventy dol ars there.â€

I gently pushed the money aside and unfolded the paper. The note was formed by letters cut from magazines and glued to the paper. The letters were in various sizes and colors, but the message was easy enough to read:

THIS IS DIRTY MONEY CLEANSE IT IN THE SERVICE OF THE LORD AMEN. I looked questioningly at Bartles. He shook his head. â€œI have no more idea than you what it means or who sent . . . delivered it.â€

â€œAnd you and Emmy fought because . . .â€

â€œWe need so many things for the Mission. That kind of money looks like a mil ion to us! I wanted to keep it and use it. She felt that someone had had a crisis of conscience over an il egal bet, or perhaps a drug sale. Or that

someone had been robbed in some way, and the robber repented but was afraid to return the money. She hoped we could somehow return it to the rightful owner. We kept reading the paper for news of a robbery or mugging.

The story about Lewis said nothing of robbery.â€

â€œI think the police were hoping if they didnâ€™t release that fact, someone might start flashing a lot of money he shouldnâ€™t have. Didnâ€™t either of you think of just giving it to the police?â€ I refolded the note, trying to touch only the

edges.

â€œYes. But quite honestly, we thought it might just get shuffled around in the bureaucracy and final y get put into some general fund and disappear. We wanted either to return it to the owner or obey the letter and use it in Godâ€™s

work.â€

â€œWould it surprise you to know that Lewis Schley was believed to be carrying between three-fifty and four hundred dol ars the night he was kil ed?â€

â€œAnd you think he brought it here as some sort of atonement and then was kil ed? Poor Lewis. So he actual y had gained something from his time here! He must have been so closeâ€”I think he real y was beginning to work

through his homosexual problem.â€

â€œWhat problem was that?â€ I asked smoothly. â€œThe problem of being a liar? A thief? Of providing sex to anyone who made it worth his while? I was not aware those problems were limited to homosexuals.â€

Bartles set his mug sharply on the table. â€œDonâ€™t be condescending, Alex. You know perfectly wel what I meantâ€”the basic problem of being homosexual, a sin against God.â€

â€œHold it, Reverend.â€ No way could I let that one go. â€œYou might somehow, someday have made an honest man out of Lewis, but you could never have made a heterosexual out of him . . . any more than you made him gay.

Neither of those things is done. There are two statements I have never, ever heard from a homosexual. I never heard, â€˜When I decided to become gay . . .â€™ and I never heard, â€˜When he/she made me gay.â€™ Many times Iâ€™ve heard,

â€˜When I discovered I was gay . . .â€™ or â€˜When I finally realized I was gay . . .â€™ but not the others.â€ I lit a cigarette and pul ed over a saucer as ashtray. Like it or lump it, fel a.

â€œI fol ow you, Alex.â€ His voice was conciliatory. â€œYou think being gay is genetic, and Iâ€™l admit to the possibility you are right. And remember, itâ€™s the sin we hate, not the sinner.â€ Suddenly I had a vision. I saw Bartles in a slick,

shiny suit with a bright shirt and loud tieâ€”standing in front of a sign reading A-1 Used Cars and Redemption Center.

He continued his smarmy pitch. â€œWe have discovered that many gays can marry, have children, lead normal lives if they real y want to. Faith in God, prayer, wise counsel and community support can truly work wonders. Itâ€™s not

the genes we have, itâ€™s what we do with them!â€

It was fortunate there was not a loose table leg handy. I hate to think what I might have done with it. â€œReal y, Lawrence? Funny, everything Iâ€™ve read on that subject says it rarely works for long and often has real y bad emotional

side effects on al the persons involved. Oh, and a question. Al those weâ€™s in your little speech . . . were they the royal we, the editorial we or the we meaning you, too, have some naughty genes?â€

He turned beet red and started to shake. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. â€œI am not gay! I am perfectly happily married. I was trying to help Lewis because I sensed he was not happy in his life, and you are trying

to distort it into something salacious!â€ He stood and turned away, staring out the window. â€œI think you had better leave.â€

I trotted out my sweetest smile. â€œI apologize for the crack about your genes. It was uncal ed for. But, Lawrence, youâ€™re a bright fel a. Now use your imagination. Pretend you are Gul iver. One night you are walking home, looking

forward to being with your beloved wife. You step into a dark hole, and when you awake, you are in a society where the norm is for women to marry women and men to marry men.â€ I reached for a cigarette but didnâ€™t light it. I

didnâ€™t want to give him time to interrupt me.

â€œIf you donâ€™t conform you are ostracized, punished social y, maybe legal y andâ€”in a few casesâ€”kil ed. Final y, under terrible pressure you conform and marry a man. A nice guy, maybe a friend in another world. But to you it is

abnormal. You dread his most casual touch for fear it may become amorous. You lie tight as a drum in bed, waiting for his breathing to change. But heâ€™s young and healthy, and he often wants you. The feel of him, his sweat, his

body fluids . . . they disgust you. The smel of him, the taste of him makes you retch.â€ I paused. â€œDo you think prayer and wise counsel would help you, Lawrence?â€

He looked at me with pained eyes, pain from his imagined situation or a real one, I could not tel . â€œI do not know. That wil take some thought. Not now.â€

â€œAnd we should get back to the immediate problem,â€ I agreed. â€œWhere did al that money come from? I donâ€™t think Lewis brought it here. I think his kil er did.â€

â€œWhy are you so sure?â€ He poured us more coffee and sat again.

â€œThe word cleanse for one thing. Not Lewisâ€™s style, too literate, too biblical. And Lewis was drunk and high on mischief that night. He might have hit you up for dinner and made a big thing out of handing you ten dol ars

because he felt generous. But I donâ€™t think â€˜dirty moneyâ€™ was on his mind. Also,â€ I quibbled, â€œI personal y donâ€™t think he ever made it near here. I think he was kil ed early and taken to Race Point much later.â€

â€œI guess Iâ€™d better get this to the police.â€ He tapped the fat envelope, rather sadly I thought.

â€œSounds good to me. Sorry, it could have been your ticket to a dishwasher.â€

â€œEmmy says it keeps me humble. Iâ€™l have to cal her. God, I miss her.â€ He actual y sounded human.

â€œBy the way.â€ I stood, prepared to leave. â€œWhile weâ€™re on this truth kick, was Emmy real y here with you Saturday night?â€

He sighed. â€œYes and no. I wasnâ€™t entirely honest. In the early evening she and a girlfriend drove up to Hyannis to some mal to buy some baby things at a sale. They had pizza afterwards and Emmy got home something after

ten-thirty.â€ I nodded. Emmyâ€™s absence put Bartles alone during Mitchâ€™s favorite time frame of the murder.

Of course, it put her alone, too. Or had she walked in on something, grabbed a table leg and beat the hel out of the sinful little queer while her husband explained none of it was his fault?

I felt I had labored in the Lordâ€™s vineyardsâ€”or kitchenâ€”long enough. Leaving Lawrence to explain to the police why he had sat on stolen money for a week, andâ€”perhapsâ€”why he lied about being alone Saturday night, I

retired to â€œmy other officeâ€ for sustenance. The subject of people hating themselvesâ€”or othersâ€”for whom they loved just made me sad.

It looked like half the town was in the Rat, al gathered around the front table with our star performer of the afternoonâ€” Harmon. He had several free beers lined up in front of him and was tel ing his tale for the umpteenth time,

each account more richly embel ished than the last. I sat down at the empty bar and waited for Joe to find a minute for me. He final y came over. â€œSorry, Alex, itâ€™s a little busy.â€

â€œYouâ€™re getting rich. Give me a bourbon, Joe. Itâ€™s already been a long day.â€

â€œI imagine so, Alex. Theyâ€™re your friends, I know. Do you think theyâ€™re guilty?â€

â€œNo. But the police are pretty sure they are, or they wouldnâ€™t have arrested them. Itâ€™s like I decided you belted Bil ie last night. Can you prove you never touched her?â€

â€œNope. I get your point. Wel , I hear they got John Frost. Heâ€™s good. Say, have you found my wicked witch yet? Cassie says you think she real y put a spel on you.â€

â€œCassieâ€™s mouth is sometimes in overdrive,â€ I answered sourly. And wouldnâ€™t you knowâ€”I picked up my drink and slopped it. I sipped at the bourbon, but the noise and laughter in the Rat bothered me. I knew whom the

laughter was about. Anyway, there was a cal I should make. So I ordered two plain burgers for the kiddies, a fancier one for myself, along with some fries, and went home.

The house was intact. Iâ€”or at least the hamburger treatâ€”was greeted joyously, and the kiddy dinner hour went without incident. I felt that bonds were being forged here, and it probably was just as wel . Pewter might prove to

be a permanent guest.

I cal ed John Frostâ€™s office and managed to connect with him. He thanked me for recommending him, and I knew that in the future some of his P.I. needs would come my way, which was a happy thought, though the

circumstances were dismal.

I told him about the table legs, assuming Mitch might not have. I was right. The little fink hadnâ€™t said a word to Frost about them. John was particularly interested in Quinn.

â€œMaybe there isnâ€™t an obvious connection between Lewis and Quinn in Ptown, but maybe there was one earlier in Worcester,â€ John mused. â€œI know one of the prosecutors down there. Iâ€™l make a cal .â€

And I told him about Bartles, who presumably would have been to the police with the letter and money by now. â€œYou would have to decide, John, but that letter and money seem to put Peter and Wolf in a position at least to get

bail. Right?â€

â€œOh, definitely. I canâ€™t get to a judge for a hearing before Monday, but Iâ€™l have them out of the Ptown Hilton as soon as I can.â€ He laughed. â€œOf course, Mitch wil probably try to say they did the letter themselves as a ruse to throw

suspicion elsewhere.â€

â€œJohn, take my word for this. They might possibly have done the letter, but the thought of their giving nearly four hundred dol ars to a born-again preacher manâ€”even to stay out of jailâ€”is ludicrous. They would sautÃ© it and

serve it with tartar sauce first!â€

He laughed again and then said, â€œBy the way, Alex, are you working for them?â€

â€œItâ€™s a gray area. They sort of asked me to help them out and I sort of agreed. Nothing was signed or real y discussed regarding fees. It doesnâ€™t matter. I havenâ€™t done al that much, and I hate to take my little tray of homemade

cookies to the jail and then say, â€˜Oh, yes, hereâ€™s my bil .â€™ â€I propped the phone on my shoulder and went through the contortions of lighting a cigarette.

â€œOh, Iâ€™d say youâ€™ve done quite a lot, and Iâ€™d appreciate it if youâ€™d keep at it. What do you make of the two of them, anyway?â€

I shrugged at the phone. â€œIâ€™ve known them for years but never wel until the last week or so. Could they have done it? Yes. Did they? I donâ€™t think so. Donâ€™t be confused by Wolfâ€™s wil owy effete act. I think heâ€™s quite pragmatic.

And Peter is far from the southern bel e with the vapors he wants you to think he is. He is a survivor and heâ€™s smart. And to me, they donâ€™t add up to two hysterical old queens who got al flustered and beat a guy to death, even

over a valuable watch. I donâ€™t mean they werenâ€™t angry and humiliated by Lewis. I just hope they are too sensible to have murdered over it.â€

John was silent for a moment, then replied, â€œOkay, I can accept that. Not them, then. But somebody who had a better reason. Unfortunately, hisâ€”or herâ€”reason may make sense only to him or her. You and I might have a hard

time uncovering itâ€”or recognizing it when we do.â€

â€œYes. And to make it more difficult, I think youâ€™l find he or she is otherwise quite moral, the old pil ar-of-the-community routine.â€

â€œWhy?â€ I heard a lighter click, fol owed by Johnâ€™s exhale.

â€œThe money. He didnâ€™t know what to do with it. He didnâ€™t want to take it for himself. But like most of us, he couldnâ€™t bear to destroy it. So he gave it to a church.â€

â€œInteresting. And why that church? Not one of the more traditional ones. Although perhaps there are none needier than Bartles. But I seem to hear in your voice that you like Bartles for this. Right?â€

I moved a few things aimlessly on the desk, trying to align my thoughts. â€œHeâ€™s a definite maybe. What if he is gay, and al this â€˜helpâ€™ is just cover? Say he and Lewis were lovers and had a fight. Maybe Lewis wanted money. Or

he wanted Lewis as a lover and Lewis laughed or threatened to tel his wife. Or say Bartles is straight, Lewis made a grossed-out pass and Bartles freaked. Put it this way, I think Lewisâ€™s murder was very personal, mixed with a

lot of anger. I donâ€™t think it was triggered by a broken watch and some unmade beds.â€

â€œInteresting,â€ he said again. â€œLook, Alex, keep track of what your bil would be, and stay on this. Weâ€™l get these guys off yet. And when we do, the Town of Provincetown wil happily pay your bil and mine and a few other things

to avoid a suit for false arrest. Do anything you need to. I think youâ€™re closer than you know you are. It just hasnâ€™t clicked yet. Stay in touch.â€ He hung up.

I was glad he hung up before I had to reply to his instructions to do whatever I needed. Frankly, I hadnâ€™t the faintest idea what I should do. Wel , yes, I needed to eat.

So I heated up my burger and fries, popped a beer and clicked on the TV. Unfortunately, it was the pyramids again.

Chapter 19

Sunday was delightful y, wonderful y, gloriously normal. With an absolute minimum of guilt, Fargo and I left Pewter in the middle of my bed, looking like a furious Sitting Bul , and headed for the bayside beach. We walked

along on the wet sand as the tide finished its ebb and were joined, as usual, by Toby the Terrible. He raced from his hiding spot under the deck of the Old Dockside Inn and attacked Fargo with gusto.

Toby needed al the gusto he could get to leap for Fargoâ€™s ears and tail. He rarely connected but got in an occasional nip, which would result in Fargoâ€™s bowling him over and literal y rubbing his nose in the sand. This morning

they contented themselves with chasing outgoing wavelets. Fargo would playful y prance out of the way of incoming waves while Toby ran in desperate arcs to keep from being inundated. Eventual y he trotted home, swinging his

little round bottom like a fin de siecle Parisian tart, headedâ€”no doubtâ€”for a wel -deserved nap.

Fargo and I continued to the store, where we picked up the New York Times, some melt-in-your-mouth French crul ers and Fargoâ€™s weekly rawhide, augmented today by kitty treats. On our return Pewter decided sweetness

might be the best way to get some of the pastry and curled back and forth between my legs until I was ready to boot her through the goalposts. Final y, I got settled with food, my special Sunday Blue Mountain coffee and the

crossword puzzle and was bril iant in the solving of it.

I did a couple of chores and then rewarded myself by settling on the sofa with cigarettes, a beer and the Titans-Steelers game. The Titans were somehow keeping the Steelers out of sync, and the score was a surprising and

gratifying 21â€“3, Titans. I wondered briefly if Sonny and Paula might be in the stadium, and then decided Nashvil e was nowhere near Gatlinburg.

I hoped Sonny was having a good vacation. He rarely got much consecutive time off and I hoped he was having fun. I wasnâ€™t too sure, though. Heâ€™d sounded a little tense on the phone. And Mom said sheâ€™d gotten a postcard

with the picture of some mountain cal ed Clingmanâ€™s Dome and the cryptic message: You and Aunt Mae would love it here, Sonny. He didnâ€™t sound especial y thril ed. I yawned and felt my hand slide off the couch onto furâ€”I

wasnâ€™t sure whose.

Thatâ€™s the last I remember until the phone rang. I picked it up and a manâ€™s pleasant voice said, â€œHi. Alex? This is Larry Bartles.â€ Gee whiz, we were getting chummy! â€œSomethingâ€™s come up. Iâ€™ve handled it, but I just thought you

ought to know. Another letter and some money arrived. Iâ€™ve given it to Detective Mitchel .â€

I sat up, now wide awake. â€œHow much? What did it say? How was it delivered?â€

â€œIt was there when I went into the chapel this morning, slipped through the slot like the other one. Looks like the same type of paper and says â€˜make this clean thru God.â€™ Itâ€™s made of pasted letters like the last one. And there

was fifty-seven dol ars in it.â€

â€œAn odd amount of money.â€ I deliberated. â€œBut maybe not, Ben Fratosâ€™s wal et and watch were taken, of course, to raiseâ€”at least theoretical yâ€”the question of robbery. And that amount would probably be about what the

average person carries. You know, enough to cover most immediate needs, but not enough to ruin you if you lost it.â€

â€œYes, that sounds right. Maybe his wife could tel you more.â€

â€œHe was divorced, lived alone. Speaking of wives, what about yours?â€

â€œRight here,â€ he answered. I could hear a smile in his voice.

â€œGreat! Iâ€™l say no more. Were the cops pleased with your good citizenship?â€

â€œNot so youâ€™d notice. The detective turned to a lady officer and said, â€˜Damn! They couldnâ€™t have done this one.â€™ Whatever that means.â€

I laughed. â€œIt means the two men they have under arrest just took a giant step toward freedom! Huzzah! They were the wrong ones anyway. Wel , I wonâ€™t keep you from your reunion. Stay in touch, ah, Larry.â€

We hung up. Larry Bartles grew on you, and I could see why my Aunt Mae liked him. I stil didnâ€™t like his brand of religion, but maybeâ€”just maybeâ€”I had opened a tiny window in his mind yesterday. He seemed intel igent and

there was always hope. Of course there was always the possibility he was a charming kil er, too.

Which made me unhappy at the train of thought stil chugging through my mind. Suppose Bartles was the worldâ€™s most accomplished liar and al this religion was just a hoax. Say the kitchen table components had been

spread out in the backyard for assembly. Suppose something triggered a fight between Bartles and Lewis. Bartles picked up a leg and hit Lewis. Maybe Lewis managed to get up and try to run, and Bartles downed him in the

sawdust of the garden. Then he either lost it and kept beating him, or beat him on purpose to make it look like a crime of passion. I wished Mitch could have forensics examine Bartlesâ€™s van and that sawdust mulching his

garden.

Now, suppose Fratos saw something. He decides to approach Bartles. If there is no money to be had for blackmail, he can stil have Bartles under his thumb, which would be almost as rewarding to slime like him. Fratos has

a few at the Rat to work up his courage. When he walks out, he sees Harmonâ€™s old truck with the keys in it and decides he can double his fun. Heâ€™l drive over and park it at the mission, where Harmon would never look for it in a

mil ion years, and have a nice threatening scene with Bartles. Only Bartles panics and kil s him.

The only thing I couldnâ€™t account for was Wolfâ€™s handkerchief. Maybe Harmon had done some work for Wolf, needed a handkerchief and just picked it up, or Wolf gave it to him. Or maybe he simply found it somewhere. It could

have been in the back of his truck forever with other junk and just used on the tire iron because it came to hand.

Bartles had al the time in the world to make up those letters, while his wife was gone, and then fake their delivery. Wel , it was a reasonable theory. And with the case against Peter and the Wolf getting weaker, maybe Mitch

would final y look into it. I almost hated to cal him. Mitch and I real y seemed to be at cross-purposes these days, and I hated finding us in an adversarial position. Iâ€™d considered us friends and wished we could get back on good

terms.

I knew at least some of his problems. Sonny and the Chief were both away. Anders hadnâ€™t had an original thought since first grade. Mitch probably felt as if he were a lone sergeant who had suddenly been left in charge of D Day. This was the first murder case under his responsibility. I remembered Sonny with his first homicide. He had a theory he was determined was correct, and he would have sworn the moon was blue cheese if it had reinforced

that theory. Of course, he just happened to be right.

Iâ€™m sure Mitch felt I had been no help and was working against him. And now John Frost had been added to the equation. Wel , perhaps if I was very tactful we could bring this mess to an accurate conclusion that would

preserve Mitchâ€™s self-esteem. I would try. I cal ed and asked him over for a drink, and he accepted, although I sensed reluctance in his voice.

When he arrived I mixed us a highbal . I lifted mine, saying, â€œTo friends.â€

He smiled and clicked his glass against mine. â€œAbsolutely, Alex. To friends.â€

We kicked the case around, from first report to last, but made little progress. Neither of us could explain Harmonâ€™s ongoing peripheral involvement, nor could we believe he was seriously implicated. Peter and Wolf could not

have sent the second letter to Bartles, since they were in jail.

â€œOf course, they could have gotten someone else to send it for them,â€ Mitch said.

â€œNot unless they had considerable help from someone in your department,â€ I retorted. â€œNobody else would know what it looked like.â€

â€œOh, I donâ€™t know,â€ he said with a smile, â€œthereâ€™s always Bartles . . . or you.â€

â€œOh, go check the garbage for cut-up magazinesâ€”and while youâ€™re there, get your head stuck in the can!â€

â€œWel , whoever it was, they meant it to be long-lasting. Forensics tried to get the letters loose, to see what magazineâ€”or what kind of magazineâ€”they came from. No go. The paper wil have to grow old and rot around it

before those letters fal off.â€

â€œStrange,â€ I agreed. â€œMaybe it was al they had handy.â€

â€œMaybe. Itâ€™s some kind of real strong stuff, Iâ€™m told. Something you might find at Woodâ€™s Woods, although I doubt Wood is involved.â€ He looked at me impishly over the rim of his glass. â€œAnd youâ€™l be happy to know, we found

nothing like it at Peter and the Wolfâ€™s.â€

â€œYou went back?â€

â€œYeah, I figured the warrant was stil good. Look, Alex, Iâ€™m just trying to wrap this up, one way or another.â€

â€œMitch, if you could just bear with me for a moment. If it is not Peter and/or the Wolf, and if it is not a vagrant robber . . . who is it?â€

â€œCould be the Governor, for al I know. I have no idea. Do you?â€

â€œNot real y. What about Bartles?â€ I recounted my scenario. â€œAnd he has no alibi for last Saturday night or for Fratos. He told me his wife was shopping with a girlfriend down at the mal Saturday night. Then they had a fight over

the money in the envelope on Sunday, and she trotted home to Mumâ€™s.â€

Mitch covered a yawn. If I hadnâ€™t known his lost sleep was mainly due to pursuing Peter and the Wolf, I would have felt sorry for him. â€œI know,â€ he said. â€œShe didnâ€™t get home til this morning late. Bartles told me about the

shopping and the fight. He was aware it put him alone at the time of both murders, but it didnâ€™t seem to bother him. His fingerprints are on letter number one and its envelope, along with smal er prints, probably his wifeâ€™s. Weâ€™re

going to check that.â€

I got up and made him a refil as he continued. â€œThe money has prints galore. His, the ones we think are the wifeâ€™s, Wolfâ€™s, Peterâ€™s and enough unidentified ones to start a whole new file. And donâ€™t tel meâ€”I know Peter and

Wolf usual y paid Lewis in cash.â€

â€œWel , at least that pretty wel confirms it was Lewisâ€™s money. And I donâ€™t see Lewis dropping it off at the church on his way to Race Point to get himself kil ed. Itâ€™s got to be from the murderer, Mitch. You know, Bartles could have

done the letters and faked the delivery. That would give him a logical way to explain to his wife how he got the money.â€

Mitch looked stubborn, as if he didnâ€™t want to admit ministers had been known to kil . But I went on. â€œLook, he knew Lewis, and I stil think itâ€™s a bit strange Lewis visited Bartles. There could have been something between them

. . . sex, drugs. Bartles had what could be the weapon. And thereâ€™s the sawdust. And his van. Come on, Mitch, itâ€™s more than you have against Peter and the Wolf.â€

â€œMaybe.â€ He sounded part amused, part aggravated. â€œWel , I stil say itâ€™s weak, but Iâ€™l see about a warrant to look at the sawdust and the van. Happy now?â€

I grinned. â€œYeh. And if it isnâ€™t Bartles, what about a hate crime? Lewis was openly gay, openly for rent and a wise-ass to boot.â€

He fought off another yawn. â€œThought about that. But for one thing, a hate crime is usual y committed by more than one person. Usual y, one of the group gets drunk and has to brag, or somebody knows something and talks.

And, more often than not, they take some sort of credit. Maybe a piece of paper pinned to the body. â€˜Queers Beware. The Committee for a Pure Town.â€™ You know what I mean, the usual high-blown crap.â€

â€œYes. Youâ€™re right. No rumors? No tips?â€

â€œNada. Nil. Nothing, Alex. Nary a word. Thereâ€™s stil Quinn. Thus far heâ€™s known at the Harbor Bar, but not where any of the gay guys hang out. On the other hand, his ex-sergeant tel s me he was on report twice for roughing up

suspectsâ€”both gay. They werenâ€™t sorry to get rid of him. We havenâ€™t written him off.â€

â€œDamn!â€ I was out of ideas. â€œHave you talked to Sonny, other than that once? Did he give you his number?â€

â€œNo. He didnâ€™t and I donâ€™t think itâ€™s necessary. I donâ€™t want to start W-W-Three, Alex, but nobody fits as wel as Wolf and Peter.â€

â€œWhat about letter number two and the fifty-seven bucks?â€

â€œA misguided friend.â€

Was he stil thinking of me? It seemed so. Before I got good and mad, I shrugged and said, â€œWel , I suppose so. What about prints? I bet they belong to Ben Fratos.â€

â€œBartlesâ€™s are on the envelope. Not the letter. He says he remembered not to open it until he put on a pair of his wifeâ€™s gloves, if you can imagine! Lots of unknown prints on the moneyâ€”not Peter, or Wolf, or Bartles. I imagine

youâ€™l be right about Fratos.â€

â€œFratos!â€ I slapped my forehead. â€œI forgot to tel you. The other evening he came into the Wharf Rat, started to sit with Chief Mather, but Mather gave him a dirty look and he moved on. Later, he cornered Mather up by the street.

Fratos was talking and Mather looked disgusted . . . angry. Maybe Fratos was bragging about some dirt heâ€™d uncovered somewhere. Heâ€™d love to know something foul about a man like Bartles. Maybe you should ask Mather. Iâ€™m

sorry I didnâ€™t tel you sooner. Iâ€™ve been sort of . . .â€

â€œPreoccupied lately?â€ Laughing, Mitch finished for me. â€œWith the Curse of the Ptown Witch?â€

â€œShit. Is that going around now?â€

Mitch drained his drink and smiled. â€œOh, lots of people know. Joe has kept us al up to date. But I donâ€™t have to ask Mather. He mentioned it himself. It seems Fratos has been trying to get an increase in his pension but Chief

Franks kiboshed it. Fratos was trying to exert some pressure through Anders and the selectmen and anybody else who might lean on Franks. He begged Mather to put his oar in the water. Mather was disgusted, said there was

nothing wrong with his leg in the first place.â€

I looked at him quizzical y. â€œYou going steady with Mather these days?â€

He had the grace to blush. â€œAh . . . wel . . . heâ€™s been kind of nice to me. He said he knew with Sonny and Chief Franks away, I might feel a little uneasy and heâ€™d be glad to help any way he couldâ€”even if I just wanted

someone to talk to. Heâ€™s real y a stand-up guy, Alex, though I can understand why you donâ€™t care for him.â€

â€œHeâ€™s okay in his own way.â€ I set my glass down. â€œHas he been helpful?â€

â€œSome. Youâ€™l be glad to know heâ€™s not at al sure about Peter and the Wolf. He thinks maybe Lewis came on to some skinhead-type tourist who got mad and kil ed him, maybe having seen he had a lot of money on him. Then

the kil er posed him at the amphitheater just for kicks.â€

â€œWhat does he think was the weapon?â€

â€œHe didnâ€™t have anything specific. He thought there might have been more than oneâ€”and maybe more than one person. Like maybe somebody hit him with a block of wood or a hockey stick, and the other wounds came from

the handle of a jack, or even somebody wearing a large ring and hitting him with his fist.â€

Mitch stood. â€œWel , we havenâ€™t come up with anything real y new. I wil check into Bartles, and we havenâ€™t crossed off Quinn or the skinhead theory. I am real y sorry, Alex, but I stil think itâ€™s going to end up Peter and the Wolf.â€

I wanted to stamp my foot and scream, â€œIs not, not, not!â€ But that would not convince Mitch of anything but my lunacy. We said a muted but cordial farewel .

I let Fargo and Pewter out and stood in the doorway as they went on final patrol. Something was nibbling around the edge of my thoughts but wouldnâ€™t take hold. Maybe tomorrow.

Chapter 20

I had let the animals out for their Monday morning patrolâ€”I was getting entirely too used to saying animals in the pluralâ€”while I showered and donned my usual sweatshirt, jeans, crew socks and sneakers. I let them in, gave

them dry food and fresh water. Then I sat down with my first cup of coffee and cigarette. If there is any better combination than those two things I havenâ€™t found it yet. And I donâ€™t need a lecture. This was number one and today I

was counting. I would not exceed five, in al probability.

I finished the news portion of the paper and turned to the week-ahead horoscope for my morningâ€™s intel ectual touch. I looked at Leo and learned I would benefit from the generosity of friends but might have an unpleasant

experience dining out. I looked at Sagittarius and was told that Fargo should be careful playing games and not to be judgmental in making new friends. â€œOkay, Fargo, we hope for a check, eat at home, stay away from Frisbees

and be nice to Pewter.â€

At that, Pewter began to run frantical y between the back door and the front, yowling shril y. Fargo looked at me in confusion: what was this? I didnâ€™t know either. For an absurd second I wondered if Pewter was upset because I

hadnâ€™t read her horoscope. A car door slammed, and Fargo joined the racket, lustily, if late.

I looked out the door and did not recognize the car but shortly recognized its occupants. Wolf and Peter came in, laden with two bottles of MoÃ«t champagne, Russian caviar, a dozen long-stem yel ow roses and a dozen red,

plus an enormous rawhide and a catnip toy. The reunion was unanimously joyous. Eventual y I got the flowers into vases, while Peter made toast points and boiled a couple of eggs for the caviar and Wolf wrestled the shrink-wrap

off the presents for the kiddies.

Final y, we got ourselves settled at the dining table. The champagne was cold and beautiful y dry, the caviar the best I had ever tasted. Did drinking in the morning count if you had caviar with it? It didnâ€™t seem as if it should.

Peter and the Wolf were exultant at being out of jail and reunited with Pewter, who pretended she didnâ€™t care.

â€œJohn Frost must have gotten the judge out of bed at six a.m.,â€ Peter told me. â€œWe were in court at nine sharp and out in twenty minutes. But would you believe Mitch got the D.A. to make John promise to col ect our passports

and turn them over to the court. Does he think we have a Swiss bank account and a pied a terre on the Riviera?â€

I thought it mere petulance on Mitchâ€™s part, but I just smiled. â€œWel , at least youâ€™re back in your own home, and things look better al around.â€

â€œDonâ€™t count on that,â€ Wolf said. â€œGuess who was waiting when we got home?â€

â€œNot Mitch!â€ I couldnâ€™t believe it. Hadnâ€™t our conversation last night gotten through to him at al ?

â€œGive the lady a silver dol ar. I guess you noticed weâ€™re driving a rental.â€ I shook my head; I hadnâ€™t thought about it. â€œWel , we are. Mitch took our Explorer last week and now our old Nissan. He said Ben Fratosâ€™s kil er had got

blood on the clutch of Harmonâ€™s truck, and heâ€”Mitchâ€”wanted to make sure there was none transferred from the truck to our car. He wonâ€™t find any. I just hope he doesnâ€™t put some there.â€

â€œHe wonâ€™t do that.â€ I put more caviar on my plate and reached for the little bowl of chopped eggs, trying to look casual, not greedy.

â€œIâ€™m not sure of anything anymore, Alex. He real y wants us for this.â€

â€œItâ€™s not real y that he wants you two so much as he wants some body. And he canâ€™t come up with anyone else who real y makes sense. Except Bartles, and Mitch has a mental block there. Iâ€™m sure you didnâ€™t do it,â€ I added

hastily. â€œBut I canâ€™t prove it yet. And Mitch is getting pressure from Anders, whoâ€™s getting it from the selectmen, whoâ€™re getting it al over town.â€

â€œWhat about Righteous Brother Bartles?â€ Peter asked.

â€œItâ€™s a gray area.â€ I wasnâ€™t about to go into details. â€œAnd Lewis never mentioned anything going on with Bartles to any of his buddies. The cops asked around.â€

â€œWel , somebody did it and Iâ€™m getting damn sick of it looking like us.â€ Peter tossed off his remaining champagne and reached for the bottle in the ice bucket. He didnâ€™t seem to care if he looked greedy.

â€œYeah, Iâ€™m sure,â€ I sighed. â€œI donâ€™t suppose any of your guests had reason to want Lewis dead.â€ I made it a question.

They looked at each other and shook their heads. â€œI canâ€™t think so.â€ Peter shrugged. â€œThere were a couple of incidents. It must be three weeks ago now. Walter Harris was a guest and came to us saying he was missing a ring.

He was sure it was taken off the bureau. We were asking what it looked like and when heâ€™d last seen it, when Lewis came downstairs with the ring. Said he found it behind a bureau leg while cleaning. I just assumed Walter had

missed it when he first looked. Now I think maybe Lewis conveniently found it when he heard us talking. But I doubt Walter kil ed him.â€

â€œNo. You said a couple of things . . . ?â€

â€œOh, back the end of September, a guest thought he was missing fifty dol ars. We were very upset. Wolf offered to make it good. Then the guest got al flustered and said he wasnâ€™t real y sure, heâ€™d been drunk the night before

and may have given it to Lewis as a tip.â€ Wolf stretched. â€œExcuse me . . . my back. I donâ€™t recommend the beds in that hotel.â€

â€œAre you saying Lewis figured he deserved a tip and helped himself?â€ I asked.

â€œPossibly. Or the guest was drunk and gave it to him, or spent it somewhere or lost it. Again, I doubt it would have ended in murder. Anyway, he hasnâ€™t stayed at the inn since, if heâ€™s been in town.â€

â€œMaybe he came back to town, stayed somewhere else, got in a dust-up with Lewis and kil ed him,â€ I suggested.

â€œWhere would he have gotten a table leg, assuming that was the weapon?â€ Peter inquired.

â€œOh, just about anywhere.â€ I gestured around me grandly. â€œThey seem to be popping up al over town. Even my Aunt Mae now has a spare.â€

Wolf laughed and topped off my glass. â€œHave a little champagne, Alex. The caviar is getting to you.â€

Peter and I giggled and we gave up any hope of serious talk. Eventual y, they left with many thanks to Fargo and me for our hospitality toward Pewter. Wolf took Pewter in his arms and they walked toward the door. Fargo gave

Pewter a farewel sniff, and she bopped him on the nose with her claws out. Fargo sat down looking dismayed, and I led him away by the col ar before he could jump into my arms. It was Panalog timeâ€”and good stuff it was. My

leg was healing nicely.

First aid complete, I realized I was getting a whopping headache. Champagne and caviar for breakfast might be terribly sophisticated, but obviously I wasnâ€™t meant for it. Cool fresh air seemed a good idea but I didnâ€™t think

driving was, so we walked down the bay side. Of course, here came Toby, abbreviated legs churning through the sand, bright beady eyes alert with mischief. He had picked the wrong day. Having lost his playmate and been

given a bloody nose by her as a final humiliation, Fargo was in no mood for smal -dog antics. Poor Toby spent their entire meaningful moments with his head pushed into the sand and Fargoâ€™s broad, heavy paw in the middle of

his back. Final y Toby managed to free himself and stompâ€”if dachshunds can be said to stompâ€”off the field, whiskers puckered into a moue of disgust.

As my head cleared, I realized that while caviar made a delicious and unusual breakfast, it did not make a fil ing one. One of Joeâ€™s pastrami sandwiches and some fries took care of the emptiness. Iced tea helped the sudden

thirst. As Joe cleared my plates he asked, â€œAny news on the murder . . . murders?â€

â€œNot real y. Peter and the Wolf are out on bail, which is overdue, as far as Iâ€™m concerned.â€

â€œYeah, most people I talk to canâ€™t picture those two great ladies kil ing anybody. You donâ€™t figure this for a hate crime, do you, Alex?â€ His forehead creased in a frown.

I took a good-sized gulp of tea. â€œItâ€™s hard to believe in Provincetown. Of course, anything is possible. But if that was true, why kil Ben Fratos? He wasnâ€™t gay. Though he was sure easy to hate. Have you heard something?â€

â€œOh, nothing about a hate crime. The majority say Ben saw something and tried to blackmail the kil er, who then kil ed him, too. A few folks vote for Ben having kil ed the Schley fel ow for his money, and one of Schleyâ€™s pals

kil ed him in revenge . But thatâ€™s pretty far out. Of course, Harmon is stil saying itâ€™s something about drugs and cigarette boats and a Hol ywood connection. But his story is now so confused, he canâ€™t even remember how it goes.â€

â€œGod, poor Ben was sure popular, wasnâ€™t he? Thief, blackmailer, murderer. Makes you scared to get kil ed around here for fear of what people wil say!â€ I laughed.

â€œYeah. Say, howâ€™s the wicked witch? Did you find her yet? I hear youâ€™ve been patrol ing the streets.â€

â€œShe was last seen circling over your house, coming in to land.â€

â€œWhat the hel , Iâ€™m already married. Whatâ€™s one more?â€ Joe ended the conversation and went to wait on another customer. I felt better after eating and figured Fargo might, too. I took him out some sliced chicken and water,

and then we walked home via the street. I didnâ€™t think either of us was up to Toby.

The phone was ringing as I walked in the door. I almost let the machine pick up. I was working toward a nap and didnâ€™t need irritation. But I picked it up and was glad I did. It was the bankâ€™s decorator, cal ing from Boston.

She would be over on Friday, she said, for a 10 a.m. appointment with a Mr. Jared Mather to look at some carvings. Could she come to my house around 11:30, or would that be too close to lunch? I said it was fine and

suggested I take her to lunch afterwards. I thought that was what she was angling for, and sure enough, she became considerably more gracious. But I didnâ€™t care. I wanted that photo of Fargo and the gul and/or the one of him

with the squirrel used at the bank. Maybe buying lunch would make that happen.

Nap forgotten, I went into my office/studio and started looking at photos. I grouped them, shifted them, discarded some, but somehow my heart wasnâ€™t in it. As I looked at photos of Fargo laughing, a cat smiling, a starling

glowering, I thought of Jared Mather and didnâ€™t know whyâ€”perhaps wondering how a man so blatantly miserable could carve birds in such obviously joyful flight.

I moved to the kitchen and a beer, sat down at the table and just let my thoughts drift. They moved, like a compass needle returning north, to Jared Mather. I saw him in his uniform, straight and military. I saw him relaxed and

pleasant with Sonny and my mother. I saw him in jeans and T-shirt on his back porch that fateful Saturday Iâ€™d walked up his driveway. Always when I thought of Jared, it was in connection with his years as a policeman. I rarely

thought of him in connection with his woodworking and carving skil s.

I set the beer down careful y, back in its same little circle of wetness on the coaster. But Mather was a man who worked with wood. And wood meant splinters, chips, sawdust.

I remembered Mather talking to both Lewis and Fratos before each was kil ed. Maybe a few hours before their respective deaths, possibly only a few minutes.

It seemed strange that Mather would have been talking to either of them at all. Mather was obvious in his disapproval of Lewis. That had been easy to see al along, and his â€œWel done, soldier,â€ speech to me had underscored

it. Yet just a few minutes after that speech, I had seen them talking together at the head of the al ey. Certainly, their voices had not been raised in any confrontation, nor were they whispering, they were just . . . normal.

And Fratos. I could visualize Fratos walking into the Rat and heading for the stool next to Mather. Mather gave him a ferocious glare, and he veered off. Then I saw them on the street. Tension. How did I know? Heads forward,

voices low, urgent, not wanting to be heard. Fratos was leaning toward Mather, pressing a point. Mather looked tight, nodded, said a word or two.

The unthinkable thought floated up unaskedâ€”could Mather be the kil er?

He had the possible weapon and the opportunity. But was he a kil er? He disliked gays but had never used his official position to mistreat them. Fratos had been a fel ow officer, but Mather didnâ€™t like him, and didnâ€™t support

his try for more money. Mather seemed a man of high morals and the guts to live up to them.

But what if heâ€™d had sex with Lewis and Lewis threatened to go public? And what if Fratos knew it and tried some form of blackmail?

I couldnâ€™t believe Jared would let two innocent men be convicted. By serving as advisor to Mitch, he would be kept abreast of the workings of the case and could promote his skinhead theory. Anders would support thatâ€”it

was close enough to his own solution, and the investigation would simply wither into â€œunsolved.â€

Assuming they were innocent, neither Peter and Wolf norâ€”to a lesser degreeâ€”Rev. Bartles would consider it a happy ending. They would never be free of suspicion, even though they were never tried. But it would probably

be about the best Mather could arrange. It would be like it had been in the old eighteenth-century Scottish courts: a verdict of innocent, guilty or â€œnot proven.â€

I knew I could never, ever convince Mitch of my new theory. I needed to get a good look at that table leg in Aunt Maeâ€™s kitchen, and I needed to do it without her knowledge. She would be terrified and horrified if I simply walked

in, explained my thoughts and crawled under the table with a flashlight. Iâ€™d have to think of a way.

I drained the beer and stared out the window for a while. Then I went into the office and dug around until I found the card with the phone number of the Mekong Mariott or wherever Sonny was staying these days, and sat down

to make the cal . â€œFargo, the time has come to cal the Mounties. I am not easy about al this. I think itâ€™s time we update Sonny.â€

Hearing Sonnyâ€™s name, Fargo looked hopeful y at the door. â€œNot yet, angel dog, but probably soon.â€

After various recorded messages, menus and instructions I reached their room and Paula picked up. â€œHel oo-o-o.â€

â€œHi, Paula, itâ€™s Alex. I hope I didnâ€™t catch you at a bad time.â€

There was a momentary pause, just long enough to tel me she had to stop and think who I was. Gee, I loved this girl. Then she began to gush.

â€œNot a bad time at al ! Iâ€™ve just been to the spa and had a massage. Donâ€™t you just love them! So-o-o relaxing; stress just melts away. I may take a swim before dinner, just to stay loose. Although I need my hair done. And Iâ€™ve

got to have my nails done, but theyâ€™l take me anytime. And I want to check this little boutique that the masseuse recommended. But Iâ€™l fit it in somehow!â€ She sighed with the enormity of it al , and I spoke quickly before she

pressed the â€œplayâ€ button again.

â€œIs Sonny by chance around?â€

â€œOh, dear, no. Heâ€™s out with Dave, golfing or riding . . . canoeing. Shal I have him cal you?â€

Dave? Who the hel was Dave? â€œYes, would you, please?â€ â€œAbsolutely. And you have a good afternoon, now, honey.â€ She giggled. â€œIâ€™m just getting too Southron!â€

I said â€œUmâ€ and we both hung up.

Sonny didnâ€™t cal until after six and sounded as if he might have had a drink or two. My opening words were, â€œWhoâ€™s Dave? I thought you were down there with Paula.â€

â€œJust a guy I met. Weâ€™ve been having some fun together.â€

â€œWorking my side of the street?â€ I laughed. â€œPaulaâ€™s apparently about to make you turn gay. Sheâ€™d have me in a nunnery in a snap. But at least the hotel seems to meet with her approval . . . sounds like the Boston Sheraton to

me.â€

â€œIt is. Thatâ€™s the whole ideaâ€”you travel a thousand miles and you stay in a hotel just like the one two blocks from your office.â€ I heard ice cubes rattle.

â€œI hope, for the sake of your evening together, sheâ€™s not hearing this. Anyway, things are perking right along here in the old vil age. Weâ€™ve had another murder.â€

â€œAnother one! No kidding?â€

â€œSonny,â€ I answered sharply. â€œBen Fratos was kil ed. I didnâ€™t like him either, but you sound like a kid whoâ€™s just been given a three-pound Milky Way.â€

â€œSorry. Itâ€™s just that a second murder gives me a perfect . . . Wel , never mind. Fil me in a little here.â€

I did so, and at the end of it Sonny definitely thought it time to come home. Much as it pained him, duty cal ed.

â€œIâ€™l get there as soon as I can. That may not be easy. Knoxvil e is not the airline capital of the world. But Iâ€™l get there.â€

Iâ€™m not sure who was happierâ€”Sonny saying the words, or me hearing them. Then he had to go and spoil it al .

â€œOh, and Alex, youâ€™ve done a great job for your clients. You have also helped the police with their inquiries. Now get the hel out of it. It could be turning dangerous now. You hear me? Leave it alone.â€

Chapter 21

April may be the cruelest month, but November is high in unpredictability. Wednesday morning felt like a warm spring day, thereby giving me immediate spring fever. There was nothing I had to do. I had to admit I was tired of

chasing table legs. And I had been warned off the case by none other than Detective Lieutenant Edward J. Peres. That was my cachet for a do-nothing day. Yay!

I started with a leisurely shower, fol owed by a pot of my treasured Blue Mountain coffee and cigarette number one. Resolutely, I did not think of dead vil ains or living suspects. I thought of my now-cozy relationship with the

bank and the possibility of adding a â€œmaster suiteâ€ to the houseâ€”how cosmopolitan it sounded. Oh, I was somewhat fatigued and spent the evening relaxing in the master suite. Maybe Iâ€™d include one of those showers that

came at you from every angle and possibly a delightful female who did the same. My main decision come spring would be whether to have the contractor go up or out . Up would be cheaper to build and to heat. Both my mother

and my aunt voted for, â€œUp if youâ€™re going to sel it soon, out if you plan to grow old in it. When you get to be our age, whatever you want wil be upstairs if youâ€™re down, and downstairs if youâ€™re up. Avoid stairs.â€ My contractor

agreed.

He had done a back-of-the-envelope sketch that showed not only how easy it would be, but how I would lose little of my yard and gain both a breezeway to the garage and a sheltered patio that would be very usable on a day

like this. I sighed my indecision and Fargo took that to mean I needed his advice. He went to the back door and stared at me with deep meaning. Obviously out was his choice, so I fil ed a covered mug with coffee and we made

our way to Herring Cove.

The day was such that tourists had reemerged in our midst. They never entirely went away anymore. Fargo immediately found a playmate, a large golden retriever who raced him pace for pace along the shal ows. Then, at

some unheard signal, they made a turn into the sea and began to swim, breasting the waves easily, burnished heads smoothly parting the water at amazing speed. Iâ€™d begun to wonder if their next planned stop was the Azores

when they turned again as one, again for no visible reason, and streaked for shore.

After a great shaking off of water and rol ing in dry sand and shaking some moreâ€”earning black looks from nearby strol ersâ€” they seemed ready for rest. Fargo and I started for the car and a drink of water and coffee. I

asked the goldieâ€™s owner if heâ€™d like a drink for his dogâ€”I didnâ€™t offer to share the coffeeâ€”but he said thanks, he had a stash in his own car. Manners minded, Fargo and I went our way.

As I approached the turnoff to Aunt Maeâ€™s house, I had to stop to al ow a huge moving van to swing wide and make the turn into her street. The lettering on the van said: Hart Brothers Moving and Storage, Providence, R.I.

Being a trained detective, I swiftly deduced this would be the van carrying Cindyâ€™s household effects to my auntâ€™s cottage.

Cleverly, I decided to fol ow it, inferring that if the van was here, Cindy would not be far ahead or behind it. I stopped again and held my breath as the van negotiated its way into Aunt Maeâ€™s narrow driveway. And sure enough,

there stood Cindy and Aunt Mae, signaling it toward the cottage.

I parked out of the way and strol ed toward them. The van looked even bigger up close. â€œBoy, when you say youâ€™re going to get a moving van, you real y mean it,â€ I commented. â€œThat looks like you could furnish the White House

out of it.â€

â€œDonâ€™t be fooled.â€ Cindy smiled. â€œMy stuff is taking up about a tenth of the space. The rest belongs to some people moving to Freeport, Maine. This is just a little side trip and a brief stop.â€

â€œAh.â€ I nodded. Cindy was holding a rather skinny half-grown cat in her arms, black with three white socks and a chin that looked as if sheâ€™d dipped it in the milk. Her face looked sweet and very feminine. â€œWhoâ€™s your friend?â€ I

asked.

â€œWel s.â€

â€œWel s?â€ I stared at the cat and then at the dog. â€œFargo?â€

â€œVery good! Her Wel s, him Fargo.â€

I must have looked as stupid as I felt, for Cindy couldnâ€™t keep a straight face.

â€œYou should see your expression,â€ she chortled. â€œItâ€™s priceless! Actual y, I doubt if the poor thing even has a name, and she just now became mine, I guess. The people who lived here deserted her. Your aunt has been feeding

her and looking for a home. She canâ€™t have her inside the houseâ€”sheâ€™s al ergic, as you doubtless know. Soâ€”o, it seems sheâ€™s mine. I havenâ€™t given a thought about a nameâ€”I just wanted to tease you.â€

â€œWel s sounds fine to me. Sheâ€™s a pretty little thing.â€

â€œYes. Does Fargo like cats?â€ He was sitting at Cindyâ€™s feet, looking up at the cat with a phony ingratiating grin. He wouldnâ€™t hurt her, but heâ€™d love to put her up a tree. It took a Sumo wrestler like Pewter to bring him into line.

â€œOh, heâ€™s harmless,â€ I temporized. Cindy gently put the kitten on the ground. Fargo put his derriere up and his front paws out in front, the universal play signal, and pounced toward the cat. She bristled, hissed, bopped his nose

and then jumped back into Cindyâ€™s arms. Fargo sat, stunned, with hurt feelings. Clouted again?

I saw him stiffen, about to jump into my arms, which would have resulted in my landing ignominiously on my back. Quickly, I grabbed his col ar. â€œIâ€™l take him up to the house and put some cream on his nose,â€ I said. â€œTel Aunt

Mae where Iâ€™ve gone. Be right back.â€

At that point, Aunt Mae joined us. â€œIâ€™m glad you came by, dear. Would you run up to the house and turn the soup to simmer. I forgot. And give it a stir. Iâ€™l just stay here and make sure these young men donâ€™t drive across the herb

beds on their way out.â€

God help â€™em, I thought, if they nick a dil sprig. Sheâ€™d be less upset if they took the porch off the house.

â€œBy the way,â€ she continued, â€œIâ€™m making the soup for dinner tonight. Iâ€™ve asked Cindy, she certainly wonâ€™t be prepared to make her dinner. Your motherâ€™s coming, and Sonny wil try. You must come, too, if you can.â€

â€œSure, love to. You said Sonny? Heâ€™s back?â€

â€œYes. Jeanne said he got in early this morning, looking exhausted. But heâ€™s gone to work anyway.â€

So, he did make it home. I was glad he was back. I left Aunt Mae and Cindy directing men carrying things into the cottage and walked toward the house. I heard a car toot its horn and looked up. It was Jared Mather in his

SUV, driving toward his home, lumber sticking out the back. I assumed the horn was a greeting to Aunt Mae and didnâ€™t bother to raise my hand.

Walking across the back porch, I noticed the spare table leg stil propped against the wal . Apparently Aunt Mae had been in no hurry to return it to Woodâ€™s Woods. In the house, I rummaged through Aunt Maeâ€™s medicine chest

and found some Neosporin and rubbed a bit gently onto Fargoâ€™s battered nose.

Back in the kitchen I turned the heat down under the soup. A large spoon was propped nearby, and I removed the lid from the pot and gave the soup a stir. She was making Portuguese soupâ€”my personal favoriteâ€”thick with

pieces of sausage, fresh kale, navy beans, tomatoes and onions. I knew sheâ€™d serve it with hot homemade bread. She had one of those machines where you dump al the ingredients in one end, and about eight hours later a loaf

of bread comes out the other. Iâ€™ve never understood how it works, but I understand hot fresh bread and sweet butter al too wel . Sonnyâ€™s orders aside, here was my chance to get a look at the table leg without upsetting my aunt. I

put the spoon down and crawled under the table. Even in the poor light I could see the top of the leg was slightly battered and had a sizeable splinter or two missing. There was a widespread discoloration on the top and partway

down one side of the leg. It could have been oil or stain . . . or blood, but it was definitely more than just â€œa flaw in the wood.â€ Obviously, whatever it was, there had been some effort to wipe it off. I was glad Sonny was around. For

my money, this leg was now a police matter. I sat there, under the table for a moment, wondering how on earth to explain this to Aunt Mae without absolutely horrifying her.

Footsteps clattered across the porch and I peeked out. But instead of Aunt Maeâ€™s sensible low heels, I saw highly shined military oxfords topped by sharply creased khakis.

â€œMae, are you home?â€ Mather cal ed pleasantly. He stepped inside the screen door and cal ed again. â€œMae, itâ€™s Jared.â€ I was not pleased to see he was holding a fresh-wood-smel ing table leg in his hand.

I had the childlike impulse to shrink smal against the wal and hope he wouldnâ€™t see me. Unfortunately, I wasnâ€™t sufficiently childlike in size to have that work. Mather bent over with an amused look. â€œWel , Alexandra! Are we

playing hide and seek? Iâ€™m seeking your aunt.â€

â€œAunt Maeâ€™s not here, Chief. No hide and seek today.â€ I managed a smal laugh and held up my hand. â€œI dropped my ring and it rol ed under the table. Iâ€™l tel Aunt Mae you stopped by.â€

â€œFine.â€ He waggled the leg. â€œMaeâ€™s been using a faulty leg on her table. I made her a good one. Iâ€™l just put it on for her while Iâ€™m here.â€ Obviously he was going to brazen this out.

Certainly I couldnâ€™t let him leave with the stained leg. It would be gone forever. â€œWel , gee, Chief, I wouldnâ€™t feel quite right changing her things around when sheâ€™s not here, you know?â€

â€œAlexandra, I am simply replacing a bad leg with a good one, not redecorating the house. Now stand aside, please.â€ He gave a smal smile. If it was meant to be reassuring, it failed.

I crawled out from under the table and stood up. I didnâ€™t feel quite so helpless on my feet. I took a deep breath. â€œSorry, Chief. The answer is no.â€ I was not happy to see him scowl and begin to swing the leg in little circles.

His voice was sharp. â€œYou think you have things al figured out, donâ€™t you? You think you know something about these murders, donâ€™t you? Wel , you donâ€™t. Youâ€™re dead wrong. Youâ€™ve let your imagination run away with you. You

always were flighty. Let this end here and now and weâ€™l both just forget it. Stand aside.â€

â€œNo, Chief. I canâ€™t do that. The leg is evidence. You cannot take it away.â€ There, it was said. Fargo nuzzled my hand nervouslyâ€”he probably heard fear in my voice. I hoped Mather didnâ€™t.

He answered gently. â€œNow just what makes you think itâ€™s evidence? What dastardly thing do you think you have detected? What are you confused about? What could be so bad?â€

I made my first mistake. â€œItâ€™s nothing so bad at al , Chief. Iâ€™ve known it for years. And I never thought badly of you. Iâ€™ve felt sorry for you, that you made yourself carry such a burden. But Iâ€™m not the least confused. I do know.â€

He seemed stunned. â€œYou know what?â€ Then the penny dropped. â€œThat day . . . Maeâ€™s broken window . . . you came to my house. That must be it.â€ The circles became faster, his voice higher. â€œYou peered through my bedroom

window, you prying bitch. Listened outside my house! You wanted something on me. So you could tel your family, poison me with Sonny. Ruin me in the town! Who have you told, bitch?â€ He swung the leg wider. Fargo and I back pedaled, stopped by the chair behind us.

â€œNo, Chief, I never told a soul! And I didnâ€™t look in your window. I wouldnâ€™t do that. I just accidental y heard you and . . .â€

He was white as a snowbal , and his whole body began to shake. â€œNever told a soul. Hah! You think your il -gotten knowledge gives you power over me, wel it doesnâ€™t. Power! I am the one with power! I am the one who keeps

down Satanâ€™s serpent!â€

He swung the leg dangerously close. â€œYou have no idea what it is like. My father caught me with another boy when I was young. We werenâ€™t actual y doing anything, but my father knew where it was leading. He beat me nearly

unconscious so I would know the depth of my sin.â€

His eyes widened so the whites showed large, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. â€œThen the preacher came and I was on my knees throughout the night. Praying for forgiveness. My mother sobbing and praying for my

soul. My father and the preacher reminding me of the hel that would await me. But I beat Satanâ€™s serpent! I beat it down and I keep it down every day of my life! Sometimes it tries to rise, rise! But I beat it back. I am pure. I have

the power! I have the pain.â€ He touched his chest. â€œBut I have the power.â€

He took a shuddering deep breath and spoke calmly. â€œLook, Alexandra, it was quite simple. You sawâ€”outside the Rat. Iâ€™d heard Lewis say he was going to Bartlesâ€™s place. I offered him a ride if heâ€™d help me load some

benches Iâ€™d made for Bartlesâ€™s church into my SUV. And it was about to rain, no reason for him to get wet. Simple.â€

I wondered if I could edge around him to the door, but he sidestepped with me. â€œBut he had to make it dirty! He laughed and said, â€˜Iâ€™ve never done it on a church bench, might be fun. Sure, Pops, Iâ€™l help you.â€™ Help me! Help

me! We got to my shop and he came up behind me, rubbing against me. His hands went around the front and I . . . you know . . . got hard.â€

I swal owed a bolus of pity and disgust and tried to calm things down. â€œListen, Chief, if there was some accident with Lewisâ€”or provocationâ€”and if Fratos was blackmailing you, you know Sonny, and the prosecutor, would

both help you al they could.â€

His laugh was awful to hear. â€œSo you could take the stand and tel the world Iâ€™m queer? You want stil more power over me? Never. You wil never have it. I have power, you are a sniveling lesbi-an sinner! No, Alexandra, I got

enough help from Lewis . I shoved him away, harder than I meant, but I was angryâ€”at him, myself, God. I pushed. He fel against the lathe. A terrible, terrible head injury. I should have cal ed the police. It was an accident! A

simple, tragic accident. But you know what I did? I picked up that leg.â€ He gestured toward the table. â€œAnd I beat him until you couldnâ€™t tel what had caused the wound. And he was very, very dead. So lovelyâ€”and so dead.

Satanâ€™s serpent was dead.â€ His eyes teared up.

Now I made my second mistake. Iâ€™d had enough of his cant and my own temper flared. â€œCut the shit, Mather. I used to see you drive round and round â€˜patrol ingâ€™ Gay Beach, to make sure there was no â€˜raunchy behavior.â€™ Yeh.

Getting an eyeful of al those cute buns and the bikinis showing off the size of the equipment. Probably masturbating as you drove.â€

I read his eyes and grabbed for the wooden kitchen chair behind me, holding it up in front of me, rather like a lion tamer. He spat at me. â€œYou have no idea of the torture it is. You Whore of Babylon! You bed with any pretty

woman as casual y as you drink a cup of coffee.â€ I thought that was a bit overstated, but it didnâ€™t seem the time to be picky. â€œYou have not felt the pain of looking, longing, even loving in vain, knowing it can never be. Rarely have I

given in, the agony is not worth the momentâ€™s pleasure. The Serpent wil die!â€

He swung again and the score immediately went to Lions 3, Tamers 0. I was left holding the top of the chair with a few dangling slats. The rest of it splintered and fel to the floor.

Aunt Mae picked that moment to walk quietly in the back door, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. I didnâ€™t want Mather to become aware of herâ€”she might stil be able to get out. So I tried to keep his attention.

â€œWhat happened, Jared baby? You sobbed over his body while you jerked off? And Fratos saw it and blackmailed you, so you kil ed him, too?â€

â€œFilthy-minded fornicator!â€

Several things happened at more or less the same time. Jared swung, the rest of the chair disintegrated and my right arm went numb. Fargo made his terrified â€œleap to safety,â€ pushing me into Matherâ€™s embrace, as it were.

And Aunt Mae poured the soup over Jaredâ€™s head.

He screamed in surprise and pain and I didnâ€™t blame him. I could feel stinging little needles of spatters hitting my neck and forearms. My feet began to slide on the wet, food-strewn kitchen floor. My right arm now felt on fire to

the elbow. I clutched desperately at Mather with my other arm, and we began a kind of clumsy, slow-motion skatersâ€™ waltz in the soup. We went down together and he lost hold of the leg. I fel on top of him, trying to keep him from

reaching it again, but he was strong. My right arm was useless and my left arm wasnâ€™t going to stop him for longâ€”it had barely recovered from its Hal oween sprain.

At this point Fargo landed on top of both of us. I think he had it figured for a new and wonderful game. He barked excitedly into Matherâ€™s face and my ear, pausing from time to time to lick a morsel of food from Matherâ€™s neck

and shirt. Mather looked distraught, but wasnâ€™t distracted enough to quit inching his hand for the leg, and I was losing my grip on his arm.

Aunt Mae stood over us, looking fearful and distressed, stil clutching the soup pot. â€œHit him on the head!â€ I yel ed. She looked at me blankly. â€œHit him!â€

Final y she tapped him on the head with the empty pot. He bel owed with anger but was very much stil with us. â€œHit him hard! â€ I screamed desperately.

â€œI donâ€™t want to kil him,â€ she wailed.

â€œWhy not? Itâ€™s what heâ€™s going to do to us!â€

That got through to her. She brought the pot down on his head like a woodsman fel ing a tree. Matherâ€™s eyes rol ed back and I felt him go limp beneath me. I dumped Fargo off my back, rol ed off of Mather and sat up.

Cindy ran through the back door, did a surprisingly graceful glissade across the kitchen, crashed into the sink, grabbed it and turned aroundâ€”a little pale and out of breath. â€œIâ€”I cal edâ€”cops. Cel â€”phone. Theyâ€™re onâ€”the

way.â€

â€œSplendid! How did you ever know to do that?â€

â€œThe noise.â€

She looked as if I should have known that, and probably I should. I was a little scattered right then. â€œYou done good. Could you give me a hand up?â€

â€œOh, sure.â€ She walked careful y to me and extended her hand.

â€œOther hand, please.â€

She then looked at my visibly swel ing right hand and arm, and put out her other hand. â€œYouâ€™re right,â€ she said gently, â€œdefinitely not that hand.â€ With great care she got me to my feet and over to a chair.

â€œNow,â€ I said, â€œPlease kick that table leg aside. Donâ€™t touch it. If Mather moves, break his ankle with the pot.â€

I turned and rested my arm on the table, which helped. Police sirens sounded comfortingly near. Cindy picked up the pot and stood alertly near Mather. Aunt Mae and I sat quietly.

And thus were we posed when Mitch ran through the back door, .38 in hand, slipped, fel flat on his back and fired his pistol through the kitchen ceiling.

Chapter 22

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soup pot threateningly. A large chunk of the on-duty Provincetown Police Force tumbled through the back door and went through various contortions to maintain their balance, and everybody began to talk at once.

Final y, Sonny yel ed, â€œEverybody shut up!â€ and everybody did.

By the time I had given a fairly coherent description of the recent events, Mather groaned and stirred. Pete Santos and Jeanine got him into the only remaining chair and stood beside him watchful y. Al four cops looked at my

tumescent arm and then at Mather, and I got the feeling his prior rank would earn him no favors at the Ptown jail.

Mather blinked and then looked at me, completely calm. â€œIâ€™ve hurt your arm, Alexandra, and I am truly sorry. Could I have some water? So much has gone wrong . . .â€ He looked around until his eyes met Sonnyâ€™s. â€œOh, Sonny, so

much.â€

Sonny hoisted himself onto a counter. â€œYou want to tel me what happened, Jared? Shal we do the Miranda thing?â€

â€œDonâ€™t be sil y, I know the Miranda warning perfectly wel . Oh, yes, Iâ€™l tel you what happened . . . what little Alexandra hasnâ€™t already spread around town!â€ He was revving up again. â€œMae, she used our friendship to try to gain

power over me! I never knew it at the time. She sneaked up to my house and peeked through windows and listened from outside.â€ He sipped the water Aunt Mae handed him. Sonny and Ptownâ€™s Finest were staring open mouthed as he rambled on. â€œI assure you, it was one of the few times I gave in! I have sought the Lordâ€™s forgiveness, but Alexandra, here, thinksâ€”â€

Sonny leaned forward. â€œJared, Iâ€™m not quite sure where youâ€™re going with this.â€

â€œOh, of course . . . the murders. Ah, Lewis, that beautiful, beautiful boy, headed for hel . Yes, I kil ed him. He cal ed me â€˜old man.â€™ I hated that.â€

Mather reached in his shirt pocket. We al tensed. He pul ed out a cigarette pack and lit one. His eyes were slightly unfocused, as if he were watching a distant scene unfold. â€œFrankly, I think the wound was fatal, but I should

have tried.â€

He closed both fists and beat them gently on the table, cursing himself, I thought. He went on softly. â€œBut I wasâ€”stil very excitedâ€”and mad. I was afraid people would guess what had happened, and what a joke that would be!

The anti-gay copâ€”of course I had been anti-gay. I hated the sin within me and within them al . Now the anti-gay cop would be the laughingstock of the town.â€ He stopped, as if he were finished.

Sonny final y spoke. â€œJared, Iâ€™m not quite clear . . .â€

â€œAlexandra wil tel you later. Iâ€™m tired.â€

I asked, â€œWhy did you take him to the amphitheater?â€

He shrugged. â€œIt was off the beaten track. It could have been days before he was found. Who knew that damned meddling Harmon would be on one of his drug-busting crusades? And, it seemed appropriate. Lewis . . . so

handsome lying on stage, like a young Greek god fal en in battle. He deserved that. His life had been so sordid. In death he was glorious.â€

My arm was throbbing with a drumbeat far from glorious. I mouthed the word â€œiceâ€ to Cindy. She quietly picked up a tea towel, put some cubes in it and placed it softly on my arm. It helped some, and I didnâ€™t want to miss this.

Jared Mather had tried to be a good manâ€”by his lightsâ€”and he had tried to be a good cop. It seemed tragic his efforts to attain those ambitions had led him to madness.

Sonny noticed the ice pack and asked, â€œAre you al right? We can finish this later, and Iâ€™l take you to the clinic. That looks broken to me.â€

â€œIt feels broken to me, but I want to hear this. Maybe some Tylenol.â€

He nodded and slithered off to the bathroom, returning with four capsules. I can count on Sonnyâ€™s knowing when to be generous. Now Mitch was asking, â€œMr. Mather.â€ It was strange how nobody was cal ing him c hief anymore .

â€œMr. Mather, did you empty his pockets?â€ Poor Mitch had to be furious and humiliated, knowing now that Mather had used him as a handy tool for getting information and planting false ideas.

â€œSure. I wanted to suggest simple robbery. I found a handkerchief that probably belonged to Frank Wolfman. I put that in my pocket, mostly to get it out of my way. I emptied his wal et, you know what I did with the money. It

never occurred to me Alexandra would wrangle it out of Larry Bartles that he had received it. I thought he would have spent it on the mission in an hour. The wal et itself and Lewisâ€™s watch I tossed in one of the ponds.â€

He was beginning to sound spent. â€œAt home I shoveled the bloody sawdust around the garden. I rinsed the table leg in solvent and tossed it on the scrap heap. Another mistake, I should have burned it. But then, Sergeant, you

had Mel on and Wolfman burning things, didnâ€™t you?â€ He gave a sour grin. â€œThey certainly did al they could to look guilty until Alexandra started butting in and until Mae showed up without her glasses and said the leg looked fine.â€

Sonny put him back on track. â€œWhy did you kil Fratos? Blackmail?â€

â€œYes. Slimy bastard. He cornered me outside the Rat. Told me heâ€™d been at Race Point the night Lewis was kil ed. He saw me driving back, thought nothing then, but put it together later.â€

â€œWhy had Fratos been at Race Point in the middle of the night?â€ Mitch queried. â€œDid he tel you?â€

â€œNo. But it was his favorite pastime. He loved to sneak up on couples parked out there, shine a light into the car and scare them half to death. Thought it was funny. Sometimes he would show his old police badge, and offer

not to arrest them for â€˜public indecencyâ€™ if they gave him money. But nobody was ever wil ing to go into court against him, and we could never prove it. He was a rotten cop!â€

Mitch was writing quickly in his notebook, with no clicking noises, thank God. He looked up as Mather spoke. â€œAnyway, Fratos demanded money. I told him Iâ€™d have it at my house at ten oâ€™clock. Then I noticed Harmonâ€™s old

truck . . . with the keys in it. I saw a way to take care of Fratos and get a little revenge on Harmon. I took the truck and hid it behind my shop.â€

In the midst of this Aunt Mae had somehow made a pot of tea. She placed a steaming mug in front of me, laced with rum and heavily sugared. Nothing had ever tasted better. I smiled my gratitude silently. Jared stil had the

floor. Like Bartles, when he decided to talkâ€”he talked.

â€œI was ready for Fratos, with a spare tire iron, when he got out of his car. I put him and the iron in Harmonâ€™s truck and went to wash up. I noticed Wolfmanâ€™s handkerchief on the window ledge, where Iâ€™d tossed it, and put it in the

truck. I drove to the amphitheater and arranged the body . . . no reason, just mischief. The same with his money, more confusion. I drove Harmonâ€™s truck to his house, Fratosâ€™s car to his apartmentâ€”and went home.â€

He smirked slightly. â€œIncidental y, Mitchel , I knew you would never get any real evidence on Mel on and Wolfman. Much as I detest them, I wouldnâ€™t have let them go to trial. I figured it would just fade away into one of those

unsolved murders, assumed to be a transient hate crime or robbery.â€

Sonny slid off the counter and stretched. â€œWel , I guess that covers it, Jared. Weâ€™d better get moving. I want to get Alex down to the clinic.â€

â€œYes. Yes, of course. Again, Iâ€™m sorry, Alexandra, but you shouldnâ€™t be so nosy. Itâ€™s unbecoming.â€ I was feeling worse by the minute. I nodded silently. I guess there was nothing to say.

â€œOne thing, Sonny,â€ Mather added. â€œI want you to know I greatly regret Lewisâ€™s death. I would do anything to reverse it. As to Fratos, I could as easily have kil ed a fly.â€

Mather stood up but grabbed the table, grimacing. â€œSorry, Iâ€™m stil a little dizzy, and I seem to have done something to my knee. Jeanine, Pete, can you help me here, please?â€ Automatical y both officers walked over to him.

Sonny turned to Mitch with some litany of instructions. I cradled my aching arm and started for the back door. Mather had an arm over the shoulders of Pete and Jeanine, limping heavily and groaning with each step. I fol owed

them out, tel ing Cindy and Aunt Mae Iâ€™d catch up with them later. Cindy looked like she wanted to cry.

Mather seemed to stumble on the top step, but his grip on the two cops looked, if anything, tighter than ever. They al tumbled down the steps into a heap.

I heard Pete yel , â€œShit!â€

Jeanine wailed, â€œOh, goddammit! Noo-oo!â€

Mather was already on his feet, backing away with no sign of a limp, and with Peteâ€™s .38 revolver in his hand. â€œStay back!â€ he cal ed. â€œI donâ€™t want to hurt anybody. Donâ€™t come this way.â€ He reached the driveway as Sonny

reached the top of the steps.

Jeanine had her pistol out and pointing at Mather. Pete stood clasping and unclasping his fists helplessly. Mitch had gone out the front and come around the side of the house. Mather saw him and swung the .38 toward him.

â€œStop, Mitchel , Iâ€™l shoot if you come closer.â€

Sonny spoke calmly from the porch, his gun stil holstered. â€œJared, you know you canâ€™t escape. Please donâ€™t make this worse. Toss that piece onto the grass and stand stil .â€

â€œIâ€™m not going to hurt anybody, Sonny. Try to remember I was an honest cop. Mae, Iâ€™m sorry to do this here.â€

He put the barrel of the pistol to his temple and pul ed the trigger.

Chapter 23

In the open air the crack of the pistol sounded more like a medium-sized firecracker than a lethal weapon, but there was no doubting the reality of the blood, bone and brains that spewed across the driveway. For two or three

eternal seconds nobody moved, and nobody spoke, as Jared Mather stil stood there, a slightly bemused look on his face. Then he began slowly to crumple and the police converged.

Pete got there first and knelt beside him, looking sick, as he felt for a pulse. â€œHeâ€™s gone. He shot straight.â€

â€œHe would,â€ Sonny said with infinite sadness. â€œHe was a cop.â€

I looked at Sonny and said softly, â€œThatâ€™s why you didnâ€™t remind them to cuff him when they took him out? You figured he would do this.â€

Sonny shrugged. â€œI donâ€™t know. Maybe. I know there was no way would he go to prison. No way.â€

He turned and said to Mitch, â€œWrap it up. Iâ€™m getting Alex patched up now.â€

â€œYes. Good luck, Alex, hope itâ€™s minor. Sonny, should I put Pete and Jeanine on report?â€

Sonny looked startled. â€œWhatever for?â€

â€œFor neglecting to cuff Mather, plus Pete let him take his gun.â€

â€œSure. And add your name to the list. Youâ€™re their superior officer.â€

Mitch blanched. â€œYes, sir.â€

â€œAnd add mine, too. Iâ€™m senior officer present. And Alexâ€™s, she noticed the omission but said nothing. And Aunt Maeâ€™s. She bopped Jared in the head, although she did manage to subdue him without shooting up the ceiling.

Mitch, there are times I despair. Come on, Alex.â€ He actual y held the car door for me.

He stayed with me as we sat in the waiting room, and sat in the examining room, and sat in the X-ray room and sat in the examining room again. Sometimes my brother could be quite sensitive. As time passed, I began to get

shaky. I wanted something to take my mind off the events of the day and the throb of the arm. â€œIâ€™m tired of murders and suicide. I want something more pleasant. Tel me about your vacation.â€

â€œThe most amazing thing about my vacation is that it didnâ€™t end in murder and/or suicide.â€

â€œThat good?â€

â€œIt started as we drove down the main drag of Gatlinburg. Paula thought it looked hokey. Wel , it does, but it never claimed to be the Vatican. We got to the hotel I showed you in the brochure. It was too rustic. We never even

got to the room. She didnâ€™t like the lobby! So, we went to this big hotel downtown . . . just like any fairly good hotel in any town youâ€™ve ever been in. I swear even the pictures in the rooms are the same.â€ He walked to the window,

spread the blinds with two fingers and stared out.

â€œWhatâ€™s the town like? And the people?â€ I asked.

â€œVery friendly. And what scenery! Youâ€™ve got to see those mountains someday! Anyway, we went horseback riding, and the horses were nags. We went on a helicopter sightseeing ride in one of the little bubble-canopy jobs

and she got vertigo. We took a hike and she was afraid of bears. We went fishing and the rocks were slippery. The town was too touristy and the people too hil bil y.â€

I was dying for a drink and a cigarette but didnâ€™t know where to find the one and figured two oxygen tanks in the corner precluded the other. â€œWhat did you do, hang her in the closet?â€

â€œFortunately, we met this couple, Dave and Ann. Ann was Paulaâ€™s soul mate and Dave and I got along. The women spent al day in the beauty salon or spa or the boutiques. Dave and I took some horseback rides, tried some

golf, hiked, had a little fun. We got to some of the real craft shops, and they were interesting. I had never seen a dulcimer before, much less watched one being made. They come in different ranges, like a sax.â€ Count on Sonny to

find the unusual.

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. â€œThe most fun was the trip home. We get to the Knoxvil e airport and Paula announces sheâ€™s not riding to New York, Cattle Car Class. She asks the agent about upgrading to First Class, and

he says three-fifty plus the ticket she holds. She says fine and whips out the old plastic. I say Iâ€™m not spending that kind of money for a two-and-a-half-hour flight. She shrugs and says sheâ€™l see me at LaGuardia. So we fly to New

Yorkâ€”separate tables, if you wil .â€

â€œI donâ€™t believe this.â€ I did believe it. It sounded like Paula.

â€œThe best is yet to come. In New York I say we have to hurry to get a late Boston shuttle. She says sheâ€™s going to spend the night in the suite her fatherâ€™s business keeps at the Helmsley, and asks if I wish to accompany her

there. I thought for a minute and then had to say I real y couldnâ€™t think of any place I would wish to accompany her. And that was that. She caught a taxi, I caught the shuttle, missed the last Ptown flight and spent the rest of the night

on a bench.â€

â€œYou should have cal ed Cassie.â€ I sounded grumpy. Actual y, I wanted to cry. He looked like a hurt little boy.

â€œI was so mad I unfortunately didnâ€™t think of it.â€

The doctor final y showed up again, waving a soft cast. â€œHad a heck of a time finding this in the right size,â€ he said. â€œSorry for the delay. Now letâ€™s see.â€ He put the cast on my arm and snugged it down, and I felt immediately

better. â€œOkay!â€ His round cheerful face moved on into a smile. â€œWeâ€™l leave that for a couple of days. Come back when the swel ing subsides and weâ€™l see if you need a hard cast. Maybe notâ€”it is a simple fracture a couple of

inches above the wrist. By the way, how did you do this? You work in a restaurant and slipped in some grease or something?â€ He sniffed. It was a logical assumption. I was generously perfumed in Aunt Maeâ€™s soup.

Before I could answer, Sonny spoke sharply. â€œI donâ€™t think we need to get into a lot of detailed history, doctor. If youâ€™re finished, weâ€™l be leaving.â€

The doctor stared up at Sonny, total y unintimidated. â€œPlease return to the waiting room, sir, I wish to speak with this young lady alone.â€

â€œLook, doctor, Iâ€™m Lieutenant Peres andâ€”â€

â€œI donâ€™t care if youâ€™re Captain Marvel. Wait outside.â€ Sonny rol ed his eyes and left. I stuck my tongue out at him and he sort of growled. The doctor looked at my chart and said, â€œNow, Ms. Peres . . . Peres? The same name?

Whatâ€™s going on? How did that arm get broken?â€

â€œDoctor, the lieutenant is my brother. Heâ€™s a cop. Heâ€™s very tired and has lost an oldâ€”acquaintance today. Please forgive his rudeness. Itâ€™s been a tough time. I guess he just doesnâ€™t want to release details yet. I donâ€™t real y

know why. Right about now, the guy who did thisâ€â€”I lifted my armâ€”â€œis being carried through your backdoor in a body bag. Believe it or not, Sonny is one of the good guys.â€

â€œIâ€™l take your word for it,â€ he said, running his fingers through crinkly red hair. â€œA body bagâ€”livens up a dul day. I guess Iâ€™l get some details sometime. Wel , here.â€ He handed me a smal envelope and a pil and a smal cup of

water. â€œTake this now and one every four hours for pain, as needed. Watch the alcohol and donâ€™t drive as long as youâ€™re taking them. Iâ€™l see you in three daysâ€” sooner if the pain and swel ing donâ€™t improve.â€

â€œThank you. And thanks for making sure everything was al right.â€

â€œI like to check. Youâ€™d be surprised how often the injury was inflicted by the doting companion.â€

â€œDoctor, while Iâ€™m here . . . this may not be your bailiwick but . . . wel , oh, hel .â€ I took a fast pace around the room, his eyes fol owing me patiently. â€œOver Hal oween, this witchâ€”this old lady dressed like a witch put a curse on

me. Ever since, Iâ€™ve been tripping and walking into doors and dropping things. I know curses arenâ€™t real, but could it be? Is it coincidence? Or am I making myself do these things, or what?â€ I ran down.

He walked over to the cabinet and murmured something. â€œIâ€™m sorry,â€ I said. â€œI didnâ€™t hear you.â€

â€œI said that you seem to have a hearing problem in your right ear. Thatâ€™s the third time youâ€™ve asked me to repeat when Iâ€™ve been on your right.â€

â€œOh, God,â€ I said. â€œYou mean Iâ€™m going deaf? That is al I need!â€

â€œNo, I said you werenâ€™t hearing wel in your right ear. Let me have a look.â€ He got out that little gizmo with the flashlight on the end and stuck it in my ear. â€œYep. Eardrum is inflamed, and I imagine thereâ€™s a low-grade infection of

the inner ear. It has thrown your balance off a bit and made you clumsy. Nothing to worry about.â€

He walked over to the desk. â€œIâ€™l give you a prescription for antibiotics that should do it. If they donâ€™t, cal Dr. Ewing . . . heâ€™s our ENT man. There you go.â€

â€œYou mean thatâ€™s it? Thatâ€™s my curse? An infected ear?â€

â€œItâ€™s nice when a curse wil respond to an antibiotic, isnâ€™t it? Ding, dong, the witch is dead.â€

I thanked him profusely as I left.

Lighter than air, lighter than air! Bright as a feather and lighter than air! Huzzah! I felt a hundred pounds lighter. What was a mere broken arm, a little infection? Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Mean old witch! Wicked old witch!

â€œWel ?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œI told him youâ€™re having a bad hair day but are essential y harmless. Ding, dong, letâ€™s go!â€

At home, I managed a fairly successful, if somewhat painful, shower by the simple expedient of removing the cast and holding my arm over my head so I couldnâ€™t bump anything. I dressed slowly but without incident and was

replacing the cast when I heard Sonny come in from the drugstore. The phone rang and Sonny picked it up in the kitchen, and a moment later he came into the bedroom.

â€œMom is at Aunt Maeâ€™s. Theyâ€™ve ordered antipasto and pizza for al of us, but Mom says if youâ€™d like just to go to bed, sheâ€™l come over and make something here.â€

â€œNo, no! Tel her Iâ€™m fine, never better. Donâ€™t let her come over here, Sonny, for Godâ€™s sake. Sheâ€™l make poached eggs. She thinks poached eggs on dry toast cure everything from a hangnail to a fractured skul . I hate poached

eggs.â€

â€œI know,â€ he laughed, â€œsheâ€™s my mother, too. Okay. Iâ€™l ward her off.â€

We arrived at Aunt Maeâ€™s to find al back in perfect order. The floor was mopped and the kitchen table was replaced for now by a card table. Fargo had been bathed. My mother held me very tight for a moment and tried to

control the tears. I hugged her back, suddenly terribly glad she was there . . . poached eggs or no.

Cindy told me, in an aside, that Jeanine and Pete had cleaned and hosed the driveway. When they came in to take the table and extra leg to forensics, Aunt Mae had given strict instructions that they were never, ever to be

returned. The dining room table was set, and as soon as the food was delivered, we went in to eat. I, for one, was starved.

We were a rather silent group, al doubtless thinking of the dayâ€™s events. I looked around the table and realized that had things gone as Mather planned, I wouldnâ€™t be here. Iâ€™d be down at the morgue. So, quite probably, would

Aunt Mae andâ€”less likely but possiblyâ€”so would Cindy. It was disquieting and I was glad when Sonny opened the wine and poured. It was a Portuguese red that would have been perfect with the soup but went quite nicely with

the antipasto and pizza. I figured a half-glass wouldnâ€™t be more than the doctor would approve.

I lifted my glass, took a sip, smooshed it around in my mouth and swal owed loudly. â€œA-ah-ah, a rough and ready little wine, yetâ€”â€

Cindy interrupted me. â€œYes, the definite sturdy character of the Tagus hil country with just a touch of the warm, open plains.â€

My family looked at her askance. Final y, Mom said, â€œSo, Cindy, may we assume you are a wine expert?â€

â€œWel , I suppose you might,â€ she answered smoothly. â€œAlex taught me everything she knows.â€

There was silence, then a roar of laughter, and the tenor of the evening improved greatly, although every few minutes my mother would reach out and touch my arm, as if to make sure I was stil there.

Sonny recounted some amusing events of his vacation. He had been introduced to grits and red-eye gravy and found he liked them both. He recounted how heâ€™d enjoyedâ€”from a safe distanceâ€”a mother bear with her cub,

flicking fish from a quiet pool in a mountain stream. He told of the grizzled guide who had led them on a horseback ride. As they had passed under a giant stone overhang, one member of the party had questioned its stability.

The guide had answered, â€œThem geologist fel ers say sheâ€™s been right thar a mil ion or so years. Stil , if Iâ€™se you, I wouldnâ€™t jump up and down on her.â€

â€œSounds like Harmon,â€ I noted.

â€œDonâ€™t talk to me about Harmon,â€ Sonny grumbled. â€œI hope this at least teaches him to be careful who he IDâ€™s and to take the keys out of that damn truck. Not that it real y would have changed anything.â€

Sonny turned to me and raised his glass. â€œWel , youâ€™re the heroine of the day. You and Aunt Mae. What the hel was Jared rambling on about you and his big secret and power?â€

I told them what I had known about him and why I vowed to keep quiet about it.

â€œVery noble,â€ my mother said dryly. â€œSo noble it almost got you kil ed! And Iâ€™ve known it al my life.â€

â€œJeanne!â€ Aunt Mae looked stunned. â€œI had no idea.â€

â€œHis younger sister Betsy was a friend of mine in high school. She told me her father caught him with another boy and just lost it. I guess he beat him half to death when he found outâ€”raving about sins against God. Cal ing in

some preacher, I donâ€™t know what al .â€ She took a sip of her wine. â€œThe father was sort of nuts, he was just as bad with Betsy going out with boys. You know, no makeup, no dances, no dates except on her own front porch. Poor

Betsy nearly wore out her bedroom window climbing out it almost every night. She was a wild one.â€

â€œShe left home shortly after graduation, didnâ€™t she?â€ Aunt Mae asked.

â€œVery shortly. After graduation we al went back to the gym to turn in our rented caps and gowns. She picked up her suitcase and went from gym to bus.â€

â€œWel , weâ€™l be looking for her,â€ Sonny announced through a bite of pizza. â€œI guess sheâ€™s next of kin. Any idea where she is?â€

â€œPortsmouth, ages ago. We wrote for a while. She got a job, did pretty wel . Then we both got married and, you know . . .â€ Mom made a little waving motion with her hand. â€œChristmas cards and then nothing. Iâ€™ve got her

address somewhere.â€

Between the pain pil and few sips of wine, I was feeling rather dreamy. â€œStrange how things go. Nobody has a single good thing to say about Ben Fratos, and not much good about Lewis. Nobody had too much bad to say

about Mather, but he kil ed them both and now heâ€™s gone. Would have liked to take me with him.â€

â€œNot real y, Alex.â€ Sonny came to his defense. â€œHe just final y snapped. First he feared Lewis would smear him al over town, then Fratos blackmailed him. He was carrying those two murders on his conscience. Plus the stress

of years of secrecy and dread of exposure. Then you got him right between the eyes.â€

â€œYou mean he final y had to face who he was?â€

â€œOkay, okay. Youâ€™re right.â€ Sonny pushed his plate away. â€œBut the way he told it, the way Mom recal s it, you canâ€™t blame Jared entirely. Blame the father, it was his fault.â€

â€œThat would have been a great comfort to me if my daughter and sister were lying dead tonight,â€ my mother snapped.

â€œYeah!â€ I chimed in bel igerently and reached for my wineglass, only to find that Cindy had quietly moved it away. I looked at her owlishly and then grinned. â€œGood idea. Iâ€™m a little squiffed. But the three of them . . . al very

different, but al just as dead.â€ I giggled. â€œGod works in mysterious ways.â€

â€œOr as we say in the police department, sometimes you wonder whom to arrest, the victim or the perp.â€ Sonny sounded a little squiffed also.

Aunt Mae sat Victoria-like, unamused. â€œThree men are dead and others have been hurt and endangered because Jaredâ€™s emotional pain and guilt overcame his good sense,â€ she said testily. â€œWe may never understand it al ,

but I think we can surely hope that al three have found peace . . . something they never apparently enjoyed in life.â€

Mom nodded in agreement. Cindy gave Aunt Mae a slight smile. And Sonny and I, I suppose, looked suitably chastened.

The party broke up shortly after that. Sonny offered to drive me home, but I thought the walk would be a good idea, especial y after Mom announced she would be over in the morning to help me with a shower and make me a

nice breakfast. The doctor had been rightâ€”the pil s and wine were not the best mix. Sonny and Fargo and I walked Cindy down to the cottage.

Sonny walked on ahead with the dog, and I took Cindyâ€™s hand with my good one, recal ing Cassieâ€™s advice once more. â€œCindy, if youâ€™re afraid to stay alone after al thatâ€™s gone on today, I could sleep on your couch andâ€”â€

She gently put two fingers across my lips and said, â€œSssshh. Thatâ€™s the wine and pil s talking. Iâ€™m not at al frightened. I am worn out. You are hurt and strung out. Go home, rest. Come over tomorrow and help me unpack. We

have time, my dear, and al is wel .â€ She pul ed my head down to hers and gave me another one of those kisses. And everything did seem fine.

Sonny and I strol ed home in the chil y darkness, with Fargo trotting ahead and making occasional little side trips to explore some intriguing smel . It was home. It was my town. It was peaceful. Indeed, I thought, never to feel

peace must be a terrible thing.

Suddenly an old woman came out of a darkened yard, walking swiftly, almost running toward us. She seemed to be wearing nothing but a nightgown and one slipper. â€œMy God, Sonny, itâ€™s my witch!â€

â€œWhat witch? Are you crazy?â€

I had no time to explain. I grabbed her arm as she would have passed us. â€œExcuse me, maâ€™am, but arenâ€™t you the witch who cursed me in front of the Wharf Rat a couple of weeks ago?â€

â€œNow why would I curse a pretty girl like you? Unless, of course, you are a prostitute.â€ She shook her finger at me. â€œIf you sel yourself upon the street, you wil cringe when Saint Peter you meet.â€

Poor thing was mad as a hatter. I had let this send me into a spiral for three weeks? I must be as nutty as she!

Sonny was looking pole-axed as a heavy, middle-aged woman panted up to us, carrying a slipper. â€œOh, thank you for stopping her! Mama, how did you get out this time? We try to keep up, but sheâ€™s too slick for us. Here, put

on your slipper. Over Hal oween my daughter left her witchâ€™s costume on the hal chair. Mama found it and wandered off. It was hours before we found her, â€™way downtown, half frozen and yel ing curses. She used to work for a

greeting card company and al she does now is talk in verses. Oh, Lord! Now Iâ€™m doing it! Sheâ€™s going to a lovely h-o-m-e next month if we al live that long. I tel you . . .â€

Iâ€™ve no idea what further news might have been imparted to us, but my brother could stand no more. â€œExcuse us, maâ€™am, if youâ€™re both al right, we have to get going.â€ Not waiting for an answer to his implied question, he strode

off, pul ing me with him.

â€œHave a lovely wedding day, enjoy your happiness in every way!â€ my witch sang after us. We looked at each other and started to giggle . . .

â€œYou are going to explain al this arenâ€™t you?â€ Sonny asked.

â€œYes, not now.â€

â€œOkay, later. I wonder if that lady could figure out how to rhyme the curse Harmon already put on us a while back. Remember?â€

â€œKind of. What exactly was it?â€ I asked. I was fading fast.

He altered his voice to imitate Harmonâ€™s high-pitched rasp. â€œThem two Peres kids, they never did have no luck with women. Hel , even thâ€™ dogâ€™s fixed, so he canâ€™t have no luck neither.â€

We both laughed, and Fargo barked to join the chorus. I took Sonnyâ€™s arm. I smiled to myself and felt a warmth in the chil night. Harmon wasnâ€™t always right.

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 spent 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 right 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.

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ONCE UPON A DYKE: NEW EXPLOITS OF FAIRY-TALE LESBIANS by Karin Kal maker, Julia Watts, Barbara Johnson & Therese Szymanski. 320 pp. Youâ€™ve never read fairy tales like these before! From Bel a After Dark.

ISBN 1-931513-71-6 $14.95

FINEST KIND OF LOVE by Diana Tremain Braund. 224 pp. Can Mol y and Carolyn stop clashing long enough to see beyond their differences? ISBN 1-931513-68-6 $12.95

DREAM LOVER by Lyn Denison. 188 pp. A soft, sensuous, romantic fantasy. ISBN 1-931513-96-1 $12.95

NEVER SAY NEVER by Linda Hil . 224 pp. A classic love story . . . where rules arenâ€™t the only things broken. ISBN 1-931513-67-8 $12.95

PAINTED MOON by Karin Kal maker. 214 pp. Stranded together in a snowbound cabin, Jackie and Leahâ€™s lives wil never be the same. ISBN 1-931513-53-8 $12.95

WIZARD OF ISIS by Jean Stewart. 240 pp. Fifth in the exciting Isis series. ISBN 1-931513-71-4 $12.95

WOMAN IN THE MIRROR by Jackie Calhoun. 216 pp. Josey learns to love again, while her niece is learning to love women for the first time. ISBN 1-931513-78-3 $12.95

SUBSTITUTE FOR LOVE by Karin Kal maker. 200 pp. When Hol y and Reyna meet the combination adds up to pure passion. But what about tomorrow? ISBN 1-931513-62-7 $12.95

GULF BREEZE by Gerri Hil . 288 pp. Could Carly real y be the woman Pat has always been searching for? ISBN 1-931513-97-X $12.95

THE TOMSTOWN INCIDENT by Penny Hayes. 184 pp. Caught between two worlds, Eloise must make a decision that wil change her life forever. ISBN 1-931513-56-2 $12.95

MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Discover delicious recipes for romance by the undisputed mistress. ISBN 1-931513-61-9 $12.95

THE WAY LIFE SHOULD BE by Diana Tremain Braund. 173 pp. With which woman wil Jennifer find the true meaning of love? ISBN 1-931513-66-X $12.95

BACK TO BASICS: A BUTCH/FEMME ANTHOLOGY edited by Therese Szymanskiâ€” from Bel a After Dark. 324 pp. ISBN 1-931513-35-X $14.95

SURVIVAL OF LOVE by Frankie J. Jones. 236 pp. What wil Jody do when she fal s in love with her best friendâ€™s daughter? ISBN 1-931513-55-4 $12.95

LESSONS IN MURDER by Claire McNab. 184 pp. 1st Detective Inspector Carol Ashton Mystery. ISBN 1-931513-65-1 $12.95

DEATH BY DEATH by Claire McNab. 167 pp. 5th Denise Cleever Thril er. ISBN 1-931513-34-1 $12.95

CAUGHT IN THE NET by Jessica Thomas. 188 pp. A wickedly observant story of mystery, danger, and love in Provincetown. ISBN 1-931513-54-6 $12.95

DREAMS FOUND by Lyn Denison. Australian Riley embarks on a journey to meet her birth mother . . . and gains not just a family, but the love of her life. ISBN 1-931513-58-9 $12.95

A MOMENTâ€™S INDISCRETION by Peggy J. Herring. 154 pp. Jackie is torn between her better judgment and the overwhelming attraction she feels for Valerie.

ISBN 1-931513-59-7 $12.95

IN EVERY PORT by Karin Kal maker. 224 pp. Jessica has a woman in every port. Wil meeting Cat change al that? ISBN 1-931513-36-8 $12.95

TOUCHWOOD by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Rayann loves Louisa. Louisa loves Rayann. Can the decades between their ages keep them apart? ISBN 1-931513-37-6 $12.95

WATERMARK by Karin Kal maker. 248 pp. Teresa wants a future with a woman whose heart has been frozen by loss. Sequel to Touchwood. ISBN 1-931513-38-4 $12.95

EMBRACE IN MOTION by Karin Kal maker. 240 pp. Has Sarah found lust or love? ISBN 1-931513-39-2 $12.95

ONE DEGREE OF SEPARATION by Karin Kal maker. 232 pp. Sizzling smal town romance between Marian, the town librarian, and the new girl from the big city.

ISBN 1-931513-30-9 $12.95

CRY HAVOC A Detective Franco Mystery by Baxter Clare. 240 pp. A dead hustler with a headless rooster in his lap sends Lt. L.A. Franco headfirst against Mother Love.

ISBN 1-931513931-7 $12.95

DISTANT THUNDER by Peggy J. Herring. 294 pp. Bankrobbing drifter Cordy awakens strange new feelings in Leo in this romantic tale set in the Old West.

ISBN 1-931513-28-7 $12.95

COP OUT by Claire McNab. 216 pp. 4th Detective Inspector Carol Ashton Mystery. ISBN 1-931513-29-5 $12.95

BLOOD LINK by Claire McNab. 159 pp. 15th Detective Inspector Carol Ashton Mystery. Is Carol unwittingly playing into a deadly plan? ISBN 1-931513-27-9 $12.95

TALK OF THE TOWN by Saxon Bennett. 239 pp. With enough beer, barbecue and B.S., anything is possible! ISBN 1-931513-18-X $12.95

MAYBE NEXT TIME by Karin Kal maker. 256 pp. Sabrina has everything she ever wantedâ€”except Jorie. ISBN 1-931513-26-0 $12.95

WHEN GOOD GIRLS GO BAD: A Motor City Thril er by Therese Szymanski. 230 pp. Brett, Randi, and Al ie join forces to stop a serial kil er. ISBN 1-931513-11-2 $12.95

A DAY TOO LONG: A Helen Black Mystery by Pat Welch. 328 pp. This time Helenâ€™s fate is in her own hands. ISBN 1-931513-22-8 $12.95

THE RED LINE OF YARMALD by Diana Rivers. 256 pp. The Hadraâ€™s only hope lies in a magical red line . . . climactic sequel to Clouds of War. ISBN 1-931513-23-6 $12.95

OUTSIDE THE FLOCK by Jackie Calhoun. 224 pp. Jo embraces her new love and life. ISBN 1-931513-13-9 $12.95

LEGACY OF LOVE by Marianne K. Martin. 224 pp. Read the whole Sage Bristo story. ISBN 1-931513-15-5 $12.95

STREET RULES: A Detective Franco Mystery by Baxter Clare. 304 pp. Gritty, fast-paced mystery with compel ing Detective L.A. Franco. ISBN 1-931513-14-7 $12.95

RECOGNITION FACTOR: 4th Denise Cleever Thril er by Claire McNab. 176 pp. Denise Cleever tracks a notorious terrorist to America. ISBN 1-931513-24-4 $12.95

NORA AND LIZ by Nancy Garden. 296 pp. Lesbian romance by the author of Annie on My Mind. ISBN 1931513-20-1 $12.95

MIDAS TOUCH by Frankie J. Jones. 208 pp. Sandra had everything but love. ISBN 1-931513-21-X $12.95

BEYOND ALL REASON by Peggy J. Herring. 240 pp. A romance hotter than Texas. ISBN 1-9513-25-2 $12.95