Crimson Shore Read online

  Pendergast shot another glance at the chalkboard. “Perhaps later.”

  “A pint of the Riptide IPA for me, please.”

  The waitress went away and Lake turned to Pendergast. “Striking-looking girl. She’s new.”

  He could see Pendergast had so little interest he didn’t appear to have heard.

  Lake cleared his throat. “I hear you got yourself arrested today. It’s all over town, of course. You’ve made quite a splash.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I guess you had your reasons.”

  “Naturally.”

  The young waitress returned with their drinks, setting everything in front of Pendergast: glass; spoon—not slotted; a dish of sugar cubes; a small glass pitcher of water; and the absinthe in a tall glass. “I hope this is okay,” she said.

  “A credible effort,” said Pendergast. “Thank you.”

  “Looks like you’re about to conduct a chemistry experiment,” said Lake as Pendergast carefully arranged everything.

  “There is in fact some chemistry involved,” Pendergast said, placing a sugar cube in the spoon, balancing it over the absinthe glass, and carefully dribbling the water over it.

  Lake watched the green liquid turn cloudy. The scent of anise drifted across the small table and he shuddered.

  “There are certain oil-based herbal extracts in absinthe that dissolve in alcohol but have poor solubility with water,” Pendergast explained. “They come out of solution when you add the water, creating the opalescence, or louche.”

  “I’d try it if I didn’t hate licorice. Isn’t wormwood supposed to cause brain damage?”

  “The act of living causes brain damage.”

  Lake laughed and raised his glass. “In that case: to Exmouth and the mystery of the walled-up skeleton.”

  They clinked glasses. Pendergast sipped from his and set it down. “I’ve noticed a somewhat cavalier attitude in you,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “You’ve just lost a very valuable wine collection. Usually, burglaries leave people feeling unsettled, violated. Yet you appear to be in good spirits.”

  “And with you on the case, why not?” Lake sipped his beer. “I take life pretty easily, I guess. I learned to do that, growing up.”

  “And where did you grow up?”

  “Outpost, Minnesota. Quite a name, isn’t it? Just twenty miles south of International Falls. Population, one hundred and twenty. The winters were right out of Kafka. To cope, you either drank, went crazy, or learned to take life as it comes.” Lake chuckled. “Most of us chose the last option.” He took another sip of beer. “Had a quarry just outside of town. That’s how I got into working with stone. Plenty of time on my hands between November and April.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, there I was—a Midwestern farm boy, gone to New York to make it in the art world. It was in the early ’80s and my work somehow struck a chord. What’s old is new again, that was the idea. What a crazy place. As I became more successful, it went to my head—the money, the fame, the parties, the whole god-awful, pretentious, downtown-art-gallery world.” He shook his head. “Like everyone else, I got into cocaine. I finally woke up. I realized if I didn’t do something, get out of that environment, I’d lose my muse entirely.”

  “How did you pick this place?”

  “I’d met this great gal, and she was as sick of New York as I was. She’d spent summers in Newburyport as a child. We bought the lighthouse, restored it, and the rest is history. We had a good run, Elise and me. God, I loved her. Miss her every day.”

  “How did she die?”

  Lake was a bit startled by the directness of the question and the use of the word die, when everyone else employed such euphemisms as “passed.” “Pancreatic cancer. She was diagnosed, and three months later she was gone.”

  “You never get bored here?”

  “If you’re serious about being an artist, you need to work in a quiet place. You’ve got to retreat from the world, away from the bullshit, the curators, the critics, the trends. And on a practical level, I also needed space. I do big pieces. And I mentioned the wonderful source of pink granite just up the coast. I can go to the quarry and pick out my stone, and they custom-cut it and deliver. Luscious stuff.”

  “I’m somewhat familiar with your work,” said Pendergast. “You’re not afraid to avoid the trendy or the ephemeral. And you have an excellent feeling for the stone.”

  Lake found himself blushing. He sensed this man rarely, if ever, gave out praise.

  “And your new friend, Ms. Hinterwasser? How did you meet her?”

  This was becoming a little too direct. “After Elise died, I took a cruise. I met her there. She’d recently divorced.”

  “She decided to move in with you?”

  “I invited her. I don’t like being alone. And celibacy does not suit me—not at all.”

  “Does she share your enthusiasm for wine?”

  “She’s more a daiquiri and margarita drinker.”

  “We all have our flaws,” said Pendergast. “And the town itself? How would you characterize it?”

  “Quiet. Nobody here cares much that I’m a relatively famous sculptor. I can go about my business without being bothered.”

  “But…?”

  “But…I suppose all small towns have a dark side. The affairs and feuds, the crooked real estate deals, the incompetent selectmen—you know, New England’s version of town fathers—and of course, a chief of police who spends most of his time ticketing out-of-state cars to collect money for his salary.”

  “You’ve told me some of the chief’s history already.”

  “The rumor was he got into trouble down in Boston. It wasn’t enough to get him fired, just queered his career prospects. Bit of a yahoo, obviously, although he’s acquired a veneer of polish over the years.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “They say he put too much muscle on a suspect, coerced or threatened him into confessing to something he didn’t do. The guy was later exonerated by DNA and had to be released, won a big lawsuit against the city.”

  “And his deputy?”

  “Gavin?” Lake paused. “He’s a good fellow. Quiet. Native of Exmouth. His father used to be chief of police. College educated—U Mass Boston, I believe. Did well enough, majored in Criminal Justice. Everybody expected him to go on to great things. Instead, he came back to work on the same force his father had led—much to the town’s delight, I might add. Naturally, he has his eye on Mourdock’s job.” He paused. “Ready for a bite?”

  Another glance at the chalkboard. “May I ask if there is a better restaurant in town?”

  Lake laughed. “You’re sitting in numero uno. They just can’t get past the mind-set of New England pub fare: broiled scrod, burgers, fried clams. But there’s a new guy in the kitchen, they say he’s retired Navy. Maybe he’s going to improve things.”

  “We shall see.”

  Lake looked at him. “I’m sort of curious about you, Mr. Pendergast. I’ve been trying to place your accent. I know it’s from the South, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

  “It’s a New Orleans accent found in the French Quarter.”

  “I see. And what brought you to New York? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Lake could see, from the expression on the man’s face, that he did mind.

  “I came to New York on an investigation some years ago. The New York Field Office asked me to stay.”

  Trying to get back on safer ground, Lake asked: “Are you married? Any kids?”

  Now he could see this was one question too far. The gracious expression on Pendergast’s face vanished and there was a long silence before he said, “No,” in a voice that would freeze water.

  Lake covered up his embarrassment with another swig of beer. “Let’s talk about the case, then. I’m curious if you have any theories about whodunit.”

  “No theories that rise above the level of rank speculation.” Pe
ndergast glanced around, the blank look fading from his face. “Perhaps it would be more efficacious if you’d tell me about the people in this room.”

  Lake was a little taken aback by this request. “You mean, their names?”

  “Names, background précis, peculiarities.”

  Lake ordered a second beer—this time, a Thunderhead IPA. He had a big appetite and had to eat something soon. He leaned forward. “There’s one thing they can’t screw up in this restaurant: oysters on the half shell.”

  At this, Pendergast perked up. “Excellent suggestion. Let us order two dozen.”

  Lake waved over the waitress and placed the order. He leaned forward. “Let’s see. The new waitress—”

  “We need not discuss the waitress. Next?”

  “Hmmm…” Lake looked around the room. There were only two tables occupied in addition to the bartender and a man at the bar. “The man behind the bar is Joe Dunwoody. The Dunwoodys are an old Exmouth family, go way back to colonial times. His brother Dana is one of the selectmen, and a pretty shrewd lawyer to boot. You don’t cross him.”

  “And if you do?”

  “You might not get a permit for that garage you want to build. Or the septic inspector might show up and red-tag your system. Petty stuff—but annoying.”

  “Next.”

  Lake looked around. “See that busty woman in the corner nursing a Seven and Seven? Dolores Claybrook. Town busybody. Horrible woman, the very definition of schadenfreude. Her family was one of the wealthiest in town, made their money in Gloucester—shipbuilding. A branch moved here and got into the codfishing business. They went into a decline along with the cod. She’s the last one left, buried three husbands. If you winked at her and pinched her ass you could really get her talking.”

  “Perhaps some other time. Next?”

  “That couple at the table near the window—Mark and Sarah Lillie. He runs the local insurance agency, dabbles in small-town investments. They own a financial-planning business on the side. His family goes way back, too—guess almost everyone in Exmouth does. Originally from Oldham.”

  “Oldham?”

  “Small town that was situated on Crow Island, south of here. It was destroyed in the hurricane of ’38. Most of the residents settled in Dill Town, which had previously been abandoned. The Lillie family has since integrated itself with the blue blood of Exmouth—or what passes for it, anyway.”

  Pendergast indicated a tweedy man eating dinner at the bar. “And that rather curious fellow, the one with the leather patches on his jacket?”

  “He’s not from around here—obviously. English. He was here a few weeks ago, doing historical research on a maritime mystery rather famous in these parts. Now it seems he’s back, I don’t know why.”

  “A maritime mystery?”

  “The 1884 disappearance of the SS Pembroke Castle, out of London, bound for Boston. It vanished at night in a nor’easter somewhere along the stretch of coast between Cape Elizabeth and Cape Ann. Not a trace was found, not even a broken spar. You get people coming through from time to time, trying to figure out what happened. It’s like the Flying Dutchman or the Marie Celeste.”

  “Curious. And the gentleman’s name?”

  “Morris McCool.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “No. But I must say, there’s something suspicious about him. If he wasn’t from ‘away,’ he’d be my first suspect for the theft of my wine cellar. Morris McCool…there’s a made-up name if ever I heard one.”

  “On the contrary, no one would invent a pseudonym like that.”

  Lake paused while the waitress brought them a large platter of raw oysters on a bed of crushed ice, with a side of cocktail sauce, grated horseradish, and lemon slices.

  “How do you like them?” Lake asked.

  “Lemon and no more.”

  “There’s my man.” Lake squeezed lemon over the glossy, fat oyster-bodies, watching the edges curl as the acid hit them.

  “After you.”

  Pendergast picked up one and, with a quick gesture, brought the shell to his lips, soundlessly sucked in the oyster, laid the empty shell down with feline delicacy, and dabbed at his lips.

  Lake took another and they fell into silence as they proceeded to suction in one plump oyster after another in rapid succession until the platter was nothing but glistening, empty shells.

  Pendergast gave a final dab to his lips, then folded up the napkin and glanced at his watch. “Now I must be on my way. That was most enjoyable—thank you for the suggestion.”

  “My pleasure.” There was something about this fellow that Lake found curiously attractive: the keen marble face, the black suit, the austere look…and, not least, his avidity for oysters.

  7

  Morris McCool departed the Captain Hull Inn, feeling quite expansive despite the shepherd’s pie that lay heavily in his gut. While the meal had been a travesty of the real dish, he was quite surprised at the fine range of local beers and ales now available in America; on his last visit, twenty years before, he’d been hard-pressed to find something other than Coors.

  McCool was an enthusiastic walker. Back in his village in Penrith, Cumbria, he always took a walk after dinner to aid digestion. He was a great believer in fresh air and exercise, and it was on these after-dinner walks that he’d had many of his historical insights and ideas.

  But this would be a walk with a purpose. Taking a hand-sketched map from his pocket, he perused it, oriented himself, and started toward a silvered wooden staircase leading down the bluffs to the beach below.

  The rollers came in on a regular cadence, thundering and hissing up the strand, withdrawing in a sheen and repeating. Keeping to where the sand was still firm from the dampness of the retreating tide, he continued down the beach toward the broad marshes where the river Exmouth flowed into the bay. The infamous “greenheads,” which dominated the heat of the day, had retired for the cool October evening.

  He inhaled the salt air with satisfaction. He was so close now…so very close. While there were still some puzzling—indeed, quite inexplicable—aspects, he was sure he had solved the main mystery.

  The beach was deserted, save for a small figure behind him enjoying a similar evening stroll. The figure seemed to have appeared rather suddenly, out of the marshes. McCool was not pleased that someone might note where he was going, and he quickened his pace to leave the fellow traveler behind. Even as he walked, the lighthouse on the distant bluff began winking on and off, no doubt automated to come on as the sun set. And the orange globe of the sun was sinking down into the skeleton pines along the verge of the marsh.

  The beach turned inward where a ribbon of the Exmouth entered the ocean, the current flowing out of the broad estuary with the ebbing tide, exposing dark gray mudflats. There was a rich but not entirely unpleasant smell coming off the flats. As he made the turn, he glanced back and was considerably startled to see the figure behind him was much closer. The man must have been walking briskly, perhaps even jogging, to have gained on him that much. Was he trying to catch up? Even from a distance McCool didn’t like the look of the man.

  A faint trail led through the marsh grass along the edge of the trees, and he quickened his pace even more. The man was perhaps a hundred yards behind now, dressed in rough-hewn and rather obscure-looking clothing. Or at least that was McCool’s impression from a quick glance.

  He walked along the trail, checking the rude map. The nineteenth-century working waterfront, long abandoned, was around the next bend of the estuary. As he turned the corner, it came into view: a series of old wooden pilings extending in parallel rows of stubs into the bay, the decking long gone. Massive granite pilings, formed of rough-cut blocks, still stood along the shore—and would stand to the end of time—the granite foundations of loading docks and wharves, along with a ruined fish-processing plant. McCool had carefully mapped this area, using historical documents and photographs to re-create the waterfront of the 1880s. This was where the draggers and s
einers and coasters had plied their trade, having endured a long economic decline from the whaling heyday of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The moribund waterfront had finally succumbed to the infamous “Yankee Clipper” hurricane of 1938. The modern waterfront had been rebuilt farther up the estuary, in a more protected location. But the town had never really recovered.

  As the rotting piers came into view, McCool heard a sound behind him and turned to find the man approaching him at a determined rate. And now he noticed what a peculiar and frightening figure this was: with a strangely warped face, a Brillo-brush of wiry red hair, disturbing wet lips thicker on one side than the other, a splotch of diseased-like freckles, a three-pointed beard, and a projecting brow with a single bushy eyebrow straight across. McCool thought he knew everyone in town, but he had never seen this fellow before. He was the stuff of nightmares.

  He carried a bayonet in one hand, which—as he approached with fast stride and gleaming eyes—he unsheathed with a zing of steel.

  With an involuntary cry of confusion and fear, McCool turned and ran toward the old piers. His pursuer also broke into a run, keeping pace, not closing in or dropping behind, almost as if driving him forward.

  McCool cried out for help once, then again, but he was far from the town and his voice was swallowed by the vast marshlands beyond the rotting piers.

  In an effort to escape his pursuer, he plunged off the trail, scrambled up an embankment above the first pier, vaulted over a stone foundation, and clawed his way through a thicket of raspberry bushes. He could hear his pursuer crashing along behind.

  “What do you want?” McCool cried, but received no answer.

  The brambles tore at his pants and shirt, scratching his face and hands. He burst out the other side of the thicket and continued along the contours of the embankment, stumbling past a rotting, caved-in fish house and a tangle of rusted cables and chains.

  This was insane. He was being pursued by a lunatic.

  He sobbed in panic, gasping, sucking in air. In his terror he tripped over another broken foundation and rolled partway down the embankment, regained his feet, then sprinted into a broad area of marsh grass. Maybe he could lose the man in the grass. He pushed forward, pinwheeling his arms, pressing through the thick grasses. He glanced back; the red-haired lunatic was still following, eyes like coals, sweeping effortlessly along, bayonet in hand.