On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery by Sue Hallgarth

fork to try the apple pie, one forgot to notice. Women held the important place here, the center, the head. Men were off to the side, out of sight. And the women at Whale Cove meant to keep it that way. Only female rusticators allowed, Jacobus had drawn the line. Their bathing facilities, she explained when necessary, were limited to the small pool they dammed up in the brook and to an outdoor shower they called the Bower.
    Rustic, private quarters. A woman’s world. Their world for the moment. For as long as chivalry could keep men at bay. Edith’s fork slid down through inches of apples, slicing off a large chunk of the pie. No one at Whale Cove ever expressed a desire for electricity or modern plumbing. Outhouses, wood stoves, kerosene lamps. Small discomforts.
    The pie crust was warm and crisp. Could it be, as Winifred suggested, that Mr. Brown had threatened to interfere with the same sort of tranquility at the other end of the island and that was why he died? Certainly not. Edith savored the hint of nutmeg blended into the tart sweetness of the apples.
    C ONSTABLE D AGGETT would have to wait until morning to have any kind of extended conversation about yesterday’s passengers on the S. S. Grand Manan. The young agent was clearly annoyed. He had just pulled the office door shut and inserted the key when Daggett strode up.
    It was late, Daggett realized, and his own dinner long overdue. The young man’s too, he surmised.
    “Agent Feeney’s the man you want to see. He’ll be here first thing in the morning. Always opens early.”
    Feeney. Daggett hadn’t heard that name in a while, though he guessed he knew Feeney had come back after the war and trained as an agent. Daggett just hadn’t run into him, despite their proximity. Feeney. Robert Feeney. The fellows called him Rob. When they were being kind, Daggett remembered. Otherwise it was Feeney. Freaky Feeney, Wienie Feeney. Daggett had seen little of him since they finished school together. Feeney’s father had coached most of the men on the island in soccer. They had all at one time or another had Jagger Feeney for a coach. He was the only one who ever called his son Robert. Always in that odd, authoritarian voice of his that placed heavy emphasis on the ends of everything. Ert , Daggett remembered someone starting to call Robert, until he had flattened the fellow’s nose. Rob had had to fight often and hard to save his name. Daggett supposed he still did but hopefully without fists, almost middle aged, as he was, and unmarried.
    Daggett thanked the young agent, Dobbs he said his name was, and headed for his own office. It would help his state of mind if he took a moment to sort through and file his notes. Then he could take another moment to slip by the house for his evening meal. Elizabeth would be waiting for him.
    “Excuse me.”
    Daggett started, “Yes?”
    The young agent stood above Daggett on the steps, his brow furrowed. “The man who died. What do you think he was doing on a hiking trail in a pin-striped suit?”
    S ALLIE J ACOBUS sometimes arranged special activities after dinner, but the women of Whale Cove enjoyed nothing more than an evening’s conversation over a crackling fire in the sitting room of the main house. White with dark beams overhead, its walls lined with bookcases that rose to the mullioned windows and covered the whole of the wall leading into the dining room, the sitting room held several tables with straight-backed chairs so that small groups might pair off for playing bridge or quiet reading. But six or more of the women usually settled into the Queen Anne chairs and overstuffed couch surrounding the low coffee table in front of the fireplace. The hearth was large, with a pair of cranes on the left that had been used, when the house was built almost a century before, to suspend pots for cooking. Jacobus kept a fire throughout the season. Paired with the books, the chairs, and the bay window, with its small, leaded,