Billingsgate Shoal by Rick Boyer

and assumed others wouldn't be. One can
always tell older money by the fact that those who have it wear it
graciously, even casually, like an old cashmere sportcoat. We went
upstairs and wended our way to the end of the house where a separate
wing sprouted from it like an oversized limb. We opened double doors
and stepped down into a two-room suite. I realized then we were above
the double garage, in the old live-in maid's quarters.
    "I assume that your maid doesn't live in, but
shows up several times a week?"
    "What? Oh, yes. Walter took over this set of
rooms for his private retreat. During the past eight years, he seldom
left it except to eat and work. He even slept here; the next room has
a bed and bath."
    The room was paneled in dark walnut, with beams on
the ceiling. A magnificent burled oak desk dominated the center of
the room, which was lined with built-in bookcases. Every man's dream
of the perfect study. What struck me immediately, though, was the
nautical air of the place. Ship models in glass cases topped the
bookcases. Prints of clipper ships lined the walls. I noticed one
that was in my study as well: Montague Dawson's picture of Thermopolae Leaving Foochow .
There were charts of Cape Ann, charts of the Cape and the Islands,
charts of Boston Harbor. I noticed photographs too. Most of them
showed a gray-haired gentleman aboard a boat. Sometimes at the wheel,
sometimes hunched over a chart. One showed him in a wetsuit, hair
dripping over his forehead, triumphantly holding up a gold coin.
    Laura stopped before this last picture.
    "That's Walter—that was Walter—as you may
have guessed. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-one when he
made his first find."
    "What is it, a doubloon?"
    She bent forward, squinting at the picture closely.
    "That or a piece of eight, or something. .
.anyway, he found a small cache of them off P-town in 'seventy-one,
and from that time on thought about almost nothing else. Except
Jennifer and the other beach girls."
    "I take it, Laura, from the tone of your voice
and what you've said, that you and Walter weren't particularly close
during the last ten years or so."
    "That's putting it mildly, Doctor. I'm being
open about it because you'd discover it anyway if you asked enough
people."
    She ambled over to the leather easy chair with an air
of resignation and flopped down into it.
    "We weren't enemies you understand. We didn't
fight. To fight takes emotion—stress and strain. When the emotion
is gone, then there is only a void. A peaceful, blank void. He went
his way and I went mine. He went treasure hunting on his boat and I
played tennis. He had his friends and I have mine."
    She looked up quickly into my eyes during this last
remark. I could read between the lines, and let it pass. It was a
clear blueprint, a perfect scenario down to the last detail, of what
so often happens during a marriage in the late-middle years,
especially when there's adequate money—or even more often when
there's too much money; a growing apart. No fights, no divorce. No
separation or settlement. Just two roughly parallel lives lived out
under the same roof, each with its own concerns, hobbies, and lovers.
    "I see," I said finally. 'And now that
Walter is probably dead, will you keep this house?"
    She gave me a shrewd grin.
    "If that's your way of asking me the terms of
Walter's will, it's a very clever 0ne."
    I gave a short laugh—a genuine one. That wasn't my
intention; I was merely curious. But clearly Laura Kincaid had been
questioned a good deal during the past weeks by reporters and police
detectives. She was learning to spot the leading question
immediately.
    "Let me put it this way, Doctor Adams: Walter
left me sitting pretty. He was incredibly successful you know;
everything he touched turned to gold. I may keep the house; I may
sell it. But whatever happens, life will sweep on as usual for me.
This whole thing has left hardly a dent in my life, Doctor, one way
or another. I was born rich,