tables, talk of the money and the murders was beginning to flag, replaced by gossip about the other big doings around town: preparations for Felicity Abbott-Jones’s visit.
People were sticking cut evergreen trees into holes in their yards, to hide their satellite dishes. They were dumping beach gravel on driveways to conceal neat, mud-resistant macadam. And they were soaking old dilapidated wooden storm windows in Git-Rot, trying to make them solid enough to hang for a few days.
Most of those windows were so rotten that afterwards (and in spite of the Git-Rot, a miracle substance so effective that it will make, for a while, anyway, solid wood out of sawdust and termite droppings) people could spray them off with garden hoses.
But longevity was not the requirement. The requirement was that Felicity not see the draft-proof, watertight, aluminum double-hungs with which most of those old houses were actually furnished—historical authenticitybeing, in the middle of a Maine winter, pretty chilly.
Ellie listened silently to the talk at our table, and at the others. She had been quiet and subdued ever since we found Tim, and she had not mentioned the Bisley again.
“This is the guy,” Wade asked, frowning, “that Ken was pals with? Back when they were in jail together?”
“Ayuh,” George agreed. “Told Arnold he didn’t know anything about Crow Island. But Arnold says the guy is from down around Searsport way. He probably knows how to handle a boat all right.”
“He does,” Ned Montague put in from the next table. His face, normally mild as a pan of milk, wore a look of grim anger.
“Ike Forepaugh,” Ned pronounced the name scornfully, “was the one who stole that dragger out of Machiasport, couple years ago.”
“Hey, Ned,” George said expressionlessly.
“Sorry for your loss,” said Wade, not turning to include Ned in the conversation, even though Ned was Tim Mumford’s nephew, and Ken’s cousin, which officially made him a bereaved relative.
Undiscouraged by the snub, Ned turned his chair. At his table with him were his wife, a tired-looking woman with faded blonde hair and a sweatshirt that read I LOVE YA HONEY, BUT THE CAT SAYS YOU GOTTA GO, and his little girls: one the plump, gap-toothed picture of health, the other a wan, grey-faced miniature of her mother, picking sadly at a chocolate sundae.
“Eat that up, now, honey. Daddy bought it for you,” the woman urged, as the child stared hopelessly at it.
Ned set his coffee cup on our table, uninvited. “Listen,” he said to Ellie. “I know it must have been an awful thing, finding old Tim like that. And finding Ken, too.”
Ellie regarded him: a small, pale man with pink-rimmedeyes and hands as soft and ineffective-looking as little paws. His wispy hair was combed to cover the thinning place on top.
“You’ll be hearing from the ladies at the church guild,” she said. “About the arrangements.”
He nodded. “I know I haven’t been on the ball about that.”
Throughout the afternoon, Ellie had been at my house, on the telephone, doing what Maine women have done for generations without fuss or fanfare: making things happen. There was the hall to be set up, funeral hymns to be chosen, and the church altar to be decorated: lupine, everyone agreed, and vases of
rosa rugosa
.
“That’s all right, Ned,” Ellie assured him. “I know you’ve got your hands full.”
At the other table, Ned’s wife began spooning tiny amounts of melting ice cream into the thin little girl’s mouth, while the plump child sighed with exaggerated impatience.
“It’s all taken care of,” Ellie said with as much kindness as she could muster.
She liked Ned all right as far as it went, but she knew he was a milquetoast. Ned didn’t like getting his hands dirty; he turned down good jobs that involved going out on the water, or even onto the dock. The only useful thing he owned was a big old truck with a cargo box that he took out on day jobs, small
People were sticking cut evergreen trees into holes in their yards, to hide their satellite dishes. They were dumping beach gravel on driveways to conceal neat, mud-resistant macadam. And they were soaking old dilapidated wooden storm windows in Git-Rot, trying to make them solid enough to hang for a few days.
Most of those windows were so rotten that afterwards (and in spite of the Git-Rot, a miracle substance so effective that it will make, for a while, anyway, solid wood out of sawdust and termite droppings) people could spray them off with garden hoses.
But longevity was not the requirement. The requirement was that Felicity not see the draft-proof, watertight, aluminum double-hungs with which most of those old houses were actually furnished—historical authenticitybeing, in the middle of a Maine winter, pretty chilly.
Ellie listened silently to the talk at our table, and at the others. She had been quiet and subdued ever since we found Tim, and she had not mentioned the Bisley again.
“This is the guy,” Wade asked, frowning, “that Ken was pals with? Back when they were in jail together?”
“Ayuh,” George agreed. “Told Arnold he didn’t know anything about Crow Island. But Arnold says the guy is from down around Searsport way. He probably knows how to handle a boat all right.”
“He does,” Ned Montague put in from the next table. His face, normally mild as a pan of milk, wore a look of grim anger.
“Ike Forepaugh,” Ned pronounced the name scornfully, “was the one who stole that dragger out of Machiasport, couple years ago.”
“Hey, Ned,” George said expressionlessly.
“Sorry for your loss,” said Wade, not turning to include Ned in the conversation, even though Ned was Tim Mumford’s nephew, and Ken’s cousin, which officially made him a bereaved relative.
Undiscouraged by the snub, Ned turned his chair. At his table with him were his wife, a tired-looking woman with faded blonde hair and a sweatshirt that read I LOVE YA HONEY, BUT THE CAT SAYS YOU GOTTA GO, and his little girls: one the plump, gap-toothed picture of health, the other a wan, grey-faced miniature of her mother, picking sadly at a chocolate sundae.
“Eat that up, now, honey. Daddy bought it for you,” the woman urged, as the child stared hopelessly at it.
Ned set his coffee cup on our table, uninvited. “Listen,” he said to Ellie. “I know it must have been an awful thing, finding old Tim like that. And finding Ken, too.”
Ellie regarded him: a small, pale man with pink-rimmedeyes and hands as soft and ineffective-looking as little paws. His wispy hair was combed to cover the thinning place on top.
“You’ll be hearing from the ladies at the church guild,” she said. “About the arrangements.”
He nodded. “I know I haven’t been on the ball about that.”
Throughout the afternoon, Ellie had been at my house, on the telephone, doing what Maine women have done for generations without fuss or fanfare: making things happen. There was the hall to be set up, funeral hymns to be chosen, and the church altar to be decorated: lupine, everyone agreed, and vases of
rosa rugosa
.
“That’s all right, Ned,” Ellie assured him. “I know you’ve got your hands full.”
At the other table, Ned’s wife began spooning tiny amounts of melting ice cream into the thin little girl’s mouth, while the plump child sighed with exaggerated impatience.
“It’s all taken care of,” Ellie said with as much kindness as she could muster.
She liked Ned all right as far as it went, but she knew he was a milquetoast. Ned didn’t like getting his hands dirty; he turned down good jobs that involved going out on the water, or even onto the dock. The only useful thing he owned was a big old truck with a cargo box that he took out on day jobs, small
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