really
gotten it.
"And who killed the other guy, too," he enthused
to Sam. "I mean, hey, it ought to know."
Which I supposed was logical but would be unhelpful
even in the (I hoped) very unlikely event that it
happened; Ouija-board testimony, I felt sure, cut no ice
with district attorneys. What we needed was some
shred of actual proof.
But I didn't say this, not wanting to quash their
optimism; Sam had eaten all of his dinner and no
longer looked so depressed. When they'd finished in
the kitchen, they hurried off to tune in the pregame
show and question George about his knowledge of
Morse code; I heard him tapping dot-and-dash patterns
for them on the living room coffee table, while I wiped
off the counters a final time and Ellie hung the dish
towels on their hooks.
"Terence thinks one of the visitors for the Salmon
Festival may have had it in for Reuben," I said.
"That's possible." Wearing yellow rubber gloves,
she rinsed the dish sponge with scalding water, which
is what the plumbing in my old house delivers when it
is not delivering ice-cold. "But the problem with Reuben
is, there are so many likely candidates for his murder."
"So I gather. Too bad none of them were in possession
of the weapon. But I was hoping you could narrow
the field for me. You knowing just about everyone,
I mean."
She squeezed the sponge out and stripped off the
gloves. "We can't focus on all his enemies, that's a
given."
Like everyone, she seemed to assume that Reuben's
death was the important one, the other just a sort of
tag-along. Probably it hadn't seemed that way to the
guy with the tie in his throat; still, in terms of starting
to sort this whole mess out, it was very likely true.
She said as much. "Reuben was the one who
would have inspired the big-time motive, enough to
commit murder about. I really haven't heard anything
about the other guy, and I would have if he was in the
habit of doing anything even mildly interesting. So it
does make some sense to focus on Reuben."
She snapped off the kitchen light. "The trouble is,
there are hundreds of people in town now, not counting
the ones who live here, who knew Reuben and
didn't like him. To put it," she added, "mildly."
She spread her hands in a this-is-obvious gesture.
"We can't question them all about their history with
him, learn what they were doing before--and during--
the time he was being murdered."
"Right." I was getting impatient.
"But," she pointed out acutely, "there was only
one, thank goodness, of Reuben. We could focus on
him."
I noted that she'd begun using the first-person plural.
"We? Are you sure you want to be involved in this?
You don't even like Victor, and he's the one who's
really in trouble."
Besides, she already had a big project on her plate,
getting ready for the festival. And I hadn't missed her
visceral little shiver of distaste whenever the subject of
Reuben came up.
What I kept forgetting, though, were her bloodlines
full of seagoing rogues and rascals. Unlike their
tropical brethren, the old cold-water outlaws of the
downeast Maine coast were notorious not so much for
their savagery to outsiders as for their loyalty to one
another. Cross ways with them and they might only
relieve you of your valuables; injure one, and the rest
would grind your bones to make their bread.
"What else," she inquired, "are friends for?"
Later that evening Wade and I went over to
check on Victor's house; the state police,
Bob Arnold had let Wade know, were done
I with it for now, so we could lock it up.
The black arrowhead daggers of the old, ornate
cast-iron fence around the front yard seemed to bristle
at us as we opened the creaking gate. Six tall white
pillars formed a long, graceful colonnade along the
house front, dropping bars of deeper shadow onto the
porch. We passed the green-shuttered windows of the
front parlor to
gotten it.
"And who killed the other guy, too," he enthused
to Sam. "I mean, hey, it ought to know."
Which I supposed was logical but would be unhelpful
even in the (I hoped) very unlikely event that it
happened; Ouija-board testimony, I felt sure, cut no ice
with district attorneys. What we needed was some
shred of actual proof.
But I didn't say this, not wanting to quash their
optimism; Sam had eaten all of his dinner and no
longer looked so depressed. When they'd finished in
the kitchen, they hurried off to tune in the pregame
show and question George about his knowledge of
Morse code; I heard him tapping dot-and-dash patterns
for them on the living room coffee table, while I wiped
off the counters a final time and Ellie hung the dish
towels on their hooks.
"Terence thinks one of the visitors for the Salmon
Festival may have had it in for Reuben," I said.
"That's possible." Wearing yellow rubber gloves,
she rinsed the dish sponge with scalding water, which
is what the plumbing in my old house delivers when it
is not delivering ice-cold. "But the problem with Reuben
is, there are so many likely candidates for his murder."
"So I gather. Too bad none of them were in possession
of the weapon. But I was hoping you could narrow
the field for me. You knowing just about everyone,
I mean."
She squeezed the sponge out and stripped off the
gloves. "We can't focus on all his enemies, that's a
given."
Like everyone, she seemed to assume that Reuben's
death was the important one, the other just a sort of
tag-along. Probably it hadn't seemed that way to the
guy with the tie in his throat; still, in terms of starting
to sort this whole mess out, it was very likely true.
She said as much. "Reuben was the one who
would have inspired the big-time motive, enough to
commit murder about. I really haven't heard anything
about the other guy, and I would have if he was in the
habit of doing anything even mildly interesting. So it
does make some sense to focus on Reuben."
She snapped off the kitchen light. "The trouble is,
there are hundreds of people in town now, not counting
the ones who live here, who knew Reuben and
didn't like him. To put it," she added, "mildly."
She spread her hands in a this-is-obvious gesture.
"We can't question them all about their history with
him, learn what they were doing before--and during--
the time he was being murdered."
"Right." I was getting impatient.
"But," she pointed out acutely, "there was only
one, thank goodness, of Reuben. We could focus on
him."
I noted that she'd begun using the first-person plural.
"We? Are you sure you want to be involved in this?
You don't even like Victor, and he's the one who's
really in trouble."
Besides, she already had a big project on her plate,
getting ready for the festival. And I hadn't missed her
visceral little shiver of distaste whenever the subject of
Reuben came up.
What I kept forgetting, though, were her bloodlines
full of seagoing rogues and rascals. Unlike their
tropical brethren, the old cold-water outlaws of the
downeast Maine coast were notorious not so much for
their savagery to outsiders as for their loyalty to one
another. Cross ways with them and they might only
relieve you of your valuables; injure one, and the rest
would grind your bones to make their bread.
"What else," she inquired, "are friends for?"
Later that evening Wade and I went over to
check on Victor's house; the state police,
Bob Arnold had let Wade know, were done
I with it for now, so we could lock it up.
The black arrowhead daggers of the old, ornate
cast-iron fence around the front yard seemed to bristle
at us as we opened the creaking gate. Six tall white
pillars formed a long, graceful colonnade along the
house front, dropping bars of deeper shadow onto the
porch. We passed the green-shuttered windows of the
front parlor to
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