he’d tarnished the natural grungy patina on the old silver pipes. So he went from upright to handrail, tarnishing pipes all the way up to the third floor. Neatness did not count. I assume he wanted to make them all look equally distressed.
A single round of applause echoed in the empty place, another mocking sound.
Tuxman and I whipped our gazes toward the intruder.
“You scared me,” Tuxman said. “I thought you went home with your brother.”
“Nah. I’m not scared,” a new voice said. He stood on the verge of adulthood but looked to be stuck there. His voice hadn’t yet changed, and he gave the impression of insecurity, like a tagalong unsure of his welcome, acting younger than his size and voice implied. Too young to be part of a murder.
“Nothing scares you,” Tuxman said, patronizing the lanky boy. “Did you hide yours yet?”
“Nah. Saw you hide yours, though. I might hide mine with Day’s toy cars.”
Tuxman slapped the kid on the back. “I’m not sure that a hiding place as close as Bradenton Cove is a good idea. You’d be better off to hide it on the Yachtsee.”
“I scavenged more junk than you. But I don’t got stair pipes to hide it in. I could stuff ’em down a drainpipe?”
“A heavy rain’ll wash ’em to the ground.”
“Oh.” The intruder’s shoulders went up, then fell in a dejected manner. “I would have won the scavenger hunt, if not for—” Quick switch of emotion, like a younger child, off to the next subject.
Tuxman clamped a bony hand on the young shoulder and squeezed visibly.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. Listen, kid, you did win. But you can never, ever tell.”
“Ohh-kay! Kin we play again tomorrow?”
Play? Like an innocent. Dante’s words came back to me. Someone who had been used.
What a misinterpretation of that night’s events.
Thirteen
I would like to say that I am not pessimistic about the future. Our assets are unrivalled. Inside this issue you will see some of Britain’s amazing new achievements. Some of them are frivolous. All are wildly exciting. I am one of them.
— JEAN SHRIMPTON,
VOGUE
, SEPTEMBER 15, 1964
“Am I not brilliant?” I asked.
Eve made a show of huffing and turning to face me from the passenger seat of her black Mini Cooper, since sleuthing made her too nervous to drive. And my Element was too big, boxy—and purple—to be inconspicuous.
“Madeira, you heard, in a psychometric stupor, a childlike scavenger say he’d hide something at Bradenton Cove. So forty years later you find the place and we, like idiots, head out to an estate that may, or may not, be the same Bradenton Cove?”
I knew for certain that it was one and the same. When I woke from my psychometric vision, I told Dante about it. He said the famous Bradenton Cove in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, known for their vintage car collection, was situated just the other side of Stonington and Mystic.
A founding country club family had owned the estate forgenerations. Dante gave no names. I asked for none. He’d played there as a boy and suggested removing the fifth chimney brick from the bottom left at the back of the garage for a key that should be used on the cellar door at the bottom of a dug-out stairway as a quiet means of entering the area where they kept the classic cars. But I couldn’t tell Eve that. She didn’t know that Dante existed. And she didn’t want to.
I dressed to sleuth in a Kamali jumpsuit, python bomber jacket, and a funky pair of Converse sneakers, the easier to climb around and run in, if necessary.
Of course the family, the cars, the garage—they might all be gone by now. But I had to try. For Robin. “You said you wanted to live dangerously,” I pointed out.
“So I did,” Eve admitted. “Which makes us both crazy, but it makes neither of us brilliant.”
“This is wildly exciting. Admit it,” I prompted her.
“I’ll let you know after I throw up,” she grumbled.
“Hah! Glad we’re in your car.”
“What does this
A single round of applause echoed in the empty place, another mocking sound.
Tuxman and I whipped our gazes toward the intruder.
“You scared me,” Tuxman said. “I thought you went home with your brother.”
“Nah. I’m not scared,” a new voice said. He stood on the verge of adulthood but looked to be stuck there. His voice hadn’t yet changed, and he gave the impression of insecurity, like a tagalong unsure of his welcome, acting younger than his size and voice implied. Too young to be part of a murder.
“Nothing scares you,” Tuxman said, patronizing the lanky boy. “Did you hide yours yet?”
“Nah. Saw you hide yours, though. I might hide mine with Day’s toy cars.”
Tuxman slapped the kid on the back. “I’m not sure that a hiding place as close as Bradenton Cove is a good idea. You’d be better off to hide it on the Yachtsee.”
“I scavenged more junk than you. But I don’t got stair pipes to hide it in. I could stuff ’em down a drainpipe?”
“A heavy rain’ll wash ’em to the ground.”
“Oh.” The intruder’s shoulders went up, then fell in a dejected manner. “I would have won the scavenger hunt, if not for—” Quick switch of emotion, like a younger child, off to the next subject.
Tuxman clamped a bony hand on the young shoulder and squeezed visibly.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry. Listen, kid, you did win. But you can never, ever tell.”
“Ohh-kay! Kin we play again tomorrow?”
Play? Like an innocent. Dante’s words came back to me. Someone who had been used.
What a misinterpretation of that night’s events.
Thirteen
I would like to say that I am not pessimistic about the future. Our assets are unrivalled. Inside this issue you will see some of Britain’s amazing new achievements. Some of them are frivolous. All are wildly exciting. I am one of them.
— JEAN SHRIMPTON,
VOGUE
, SEPTEMBER 15, 1964
“Am I not brilliant?” I asked.
Eve made a show of huffing and turning to face me from the passenger seat of her black Mini Cooper, since sleuthing made her too nervous to drive. And my Element was too big, boxy—and purple—to be inconspicuous.
“Madeira, you heard, in a psychometric stupor, a childlike scavenger say he’d hide something at Bradenton Cove. So forty years later you find the place and we, like idiots, head out to an estate that may, or may not, be the same Bradenton Cove?”
I knew for certain that it was one and the same. When I woke from my psychometric vision, I told Dante about it. He said the famous Bradenton Cove in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, known for their vintage car collection, was situated just the other side of Stonington and Mystic.
A founding country club family had owned the estate forgenerations. Dante gave no names. I asked for none. He’d played there as a boy and suggested removing the fifth chimney brick from the bottom left at the back of the garage for a key that should be used on the cellar door at the bottom of a dug-out stairway as a quiet means of entering the area where they kept the classic cars. But I couldn’t tell Eve that. She didn’t know that Dante existed. And she didn’t want to.
I dressed to sleuth in a Kamali jumpsuit, python bomber jacket, and a funky pair of Converse sneakers, the easier to climb around and run in, if necessary.
Of course the family, the cars, the garage—they might all be gone by now. But I had to try. For Robin. “You said you wanted to live dangerously,” I pointed out.
“So I did,” Eve admitted. “Which makes us both crazy, but it makes neither of us brilliant.”
“This is wildly exciting. Admit it,” I prompted her.
“I’ll let you know after I throw up,” she grumbled.
“Hah! Glad we’re in your car.”
“What does this
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