and I told her about the island, about Dwight, the Commander and Edith, the Crack, and about my new boat.
“You? A boat?”
“Hey, I come from a long line of seafarers. My ancestors sailed with Dennis Connor. Maybe you were unaware of that.”
She giggled. “How do I get there?”
I told her.
“Why don’t I rent a car at the airport? We could drive home slowly, stop at country inns and things. I’ve always wanted to stop at country inns.”
“You have?” I pictured intense Yankee carnality on a creaking four-poster—
Then she asked me about the status of the stalker, and I told her about Rand Dewy at the airport and how he knew not only that Jellyroll was being stalked but that we were leaving New York on that specific day.
“The figure skater?”
“Yeah, he’s the on-screen talent for
Celebrity Tonight
.”
“How did he know?…Shelly wouldn’t let it get out, would he?”
“No.”
“What about Clayton Kempshall?”
“No, he’d be afraid of Jellyroll’s clout. He’d never work again. He knows that. Besides, he’s a nice guy. He just wouldn’t do it.”
“What about Shelly’s detective? Have you talked to him?”
“The detective is Shelly’s brother-in-law.”
“No.”
“Shelly says he’s a retired New York homicide detective.”
“Do you think we should call in Calabash?”
“I tried him on Poor Joe Cay. His uncle said he’s at sea.” Then I told her all about the ax murder that had taken place in Micmac.
“I’m feeling real scared, Artie. Sometimes it comes over me in a wave.”
“No wonder you couldn’t get any position.” I told her I loved her.
“Look, there’s not really any point in hanging around here. Maybe I’ll head for Micmac right now. Okay? Maybe I can be there by tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up in my boat.” That was met with silence. “Don’t worry, I’m a master mariner.” We made kissing sounds into the receiver and then hung up. I sighed with expectation.
“Let’s go for a walk!” I said to Jellyroll. He pronked straight up in the air and bolted out the door. A full day ahead of us, it was time to do some exploring.
There were two hills on our side of the Crack. The view would be worth the trek to the top of either. I could climb the one thatcrested in the interior of the island; the trail up its steep flank began near Jellyroll’s woodpile in back. Or I could climb the hill that crested on the coast above the cove. That trail started right below the porch. Jellyroll sprinted off to the woodpile in the general direction of the former, so I followed. His chipmunk friend didn’t make an appearance to taunt him, and he seemed for a moment dispirited, ears dropped. That quickly changed to delight with the new, and he sprinted ahead.
The trail was well beaten, circling the base of the hill on flat ground through a garden of luxurious, leafy ferns. Jellyroll ran through them, leaving a wake of swaying plants. I wished I could do that. Maybe humans have always envied animals their undampened sensuality and absence of clothes. The trail steepened abruptly. Skull-sized rocks made the going precarious, requiring concentration, even for Jellyroll. We were passing through a thick forest of white pines and a few spruce trees with fat burls, like strange tropical fruit, hanging from trunks and limbs. The forest floor was covered with lichens, mosses, and ferns. It was a sweet forest, welcoming, nonthreatening. However, after about half a mile, the trail expired, and the grade steepened radically. Common sense told me to head back down the way I came. But I didn’t want to do that. I liked the isolation. I liked that the human presence didn’t figure here.
I climbed on, here and there scrambling on all fours. In stretches bipedalism was impossible. There were still trees and shrubs, there was still soil, but mainly it was a realm of rock. The whole island was a gigantic chunk of rock, fissured, broken, and eroded by eons of ice and wind and
“You? A boat?”
“Hey, I come from a long line of seafarers. My ancestors sailed with Dennis Connor. Maybe you were unaware of that.”
She giggled. “How do I get there?”
I told her.
“Why don’t I rent a car at the airport? We could drive home slowly, stop at country inns and things. I’ve always wanted to stop at country inns.”
“You have?” I pictured intense Yankee carnality on a creaking four-poster—
Then she asked me about the status of the stalker, and I told her about Rand Dewy at the airport and how he knew not only that Jellyroll was being stalked but that we were leaving New York on that specific day.
“The figure skater?”
“Yeah, he’s the on-screen talent for
Celebrity Tonight
.”
“How did he know?…Shelly wouldn’t let it get out, would he?”
“No.”
“What about Clayton Kempshall?”
“No, he’d be afraid of Jellyroll’s clout. He’d never work again. He knows that. Besides, he’s a nice guy. He just wouldn’t do it.”
“What about Shelly’s detective? Have you talked to him?”
“The detective is Shelly’s brother-in-law.”
“No.”
“Shelly says he’s a retired New York homicide detective.”
“Do you think we should call in Calabash?”
“I tried him on Poor Joe Cay. His uncle said he’s at sea.” Then I told her all about the ax murder that had taken place in Micmac.
“I’m feeling real scared, Artie. Sometimes it comes over me in a wave.”
“No wonder you couldn’t get any position.” I told her I loved her.
“Look, there’s not really any point in hanging around here. Maybe I’ll head for Micmac right now. Okay? Maybe I can be there by tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up in my boat.” That was met with silence. “Don’t worry, I’m a master mariner.” We made kissing sounds into the receiver and then hung up. I sighed with expectation.
“Let’s go for a walk!” I said to Jellyroll. He pronked straight up in the air and bolted out the door. A full day ahead of us, it was time to do some exploring.
There were two hills on our side of the Crack. The view would be worth the trek to the top of either. I could climb the one thatcrested in the interior of the island; the trail up its steep flank began near Jellyroll’s woodpile in back. Or I could climb the hill that crested on the coast above the cove. That trail started right below the porch. Jellyroll sprinted off to the woodpile in the general direction of the former, so I followed. His chipmunk friend didn’t make an appearance to taunt him, and he seemed for a moment dispirited, ears dropped. That quickly changed to delight with the new, and he sprinted ahead.
The trail was well beaten, circling the base of the hill on flat ground through a garden of luxurious, leafy ferns. Jellyroll ran through them, leaving a wake of swaying plants. I wished I could do that. Maybe humans have always envied animals their undampened sensuality and absence of clothes. The trail steepened abruptly. Skull-sized rocks made the going precarious, requiring concentration, even for Jellyroll. We were passing through a thick forest of white pines and a few spruce trees with fat burls, like strange tropical fruit, hanging from trunks and limbs. The forest floor was covered with lichens, mosses, and ferns. It was a sweet forest, welcoming, nonthreatening. However, after about half a mile, the trail expired, and the grade steepened radically. Common sense told me to head back down the way I came. But I didn’t want to do that. I liked the isolation. I liked that the human presence didn’t figure here.
I climbed on, here and there scrambling on all fours. In stretches bipedalism was impossible. There were still trees and shrubs, there was still soil, but mainly it was a realm of rock. The whole island was a gigantic chunk of rock, fissured, broken, and eroded by eons of ice and wind and
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