Following them around, maybe watching them with binoculars. The way you told Ellie and me that you’d been watching Faye Anne.”
Peter's mouth moved but no sound came out.
“Why, Peter,” Melinda breathed, “you naughty boy.” She looked at me, a bright note of query in her eyes.
But I wasn’t giving her anything. “ ’Bye, Melinda,” I said as they drove away down the ice-packed street: good riddance.
Still, I didn’t like seeing her going off with him. Melinda was shallow and manipulative, and she took a greedy, unseemly interest in the misfortunes of others. Cheap, too: the previous summer she’d gotten a town librarian fired on account of a quiet romance with a Bangor book salesman. “Conflict of interest,” Melinda had trumpeted, when in fact her campaign was retaliation for the librarian's not voiding her sky-high overdue fines.
She wasn’t all bad, though. She could work like a horse; Ellie said refreshments at the splinter-group garden club meetings were like champagne suppers. When Melinda said she would do something, she did it come hell or hibiscus, as Sam used to say.
And she was vulnerable in the way the truly oversized ego can be: the notion that she might ever come to harm never crossed Melinda's mind, I felt confident.
So I made a mental note to call her later; a word to thewise. Or unwise. Then I turned, meaning to head indoors; the wind had shifted and a breeze knifing in off the water made the sunshine little more than window dressing. But Monday yanked the leash, sniffing the air as if any minute she might meet up with a passel of cats. And Peter Christie had gotten my dander up with his impertinent I wants.
I wanted something, too: to be shut of this whole business. Even Ellie, surely, must know now that it was useless.
But before I could put Faye Anne Carmody's troubles out of mind altogether, there was a final question I needed to ask. And Kenty Dalrymple, bless her nosy heart, might have the answer.
A few cold blocks later I reached Kenty's cottage on High Street and knocked. She opened the door instantly as if she’d been waiting for me, hoping I would arrive.
Or that someone would.
Chapter 5
I don’t want to talk about it. It's none of my business ,” Kenty Dalrymple declared, closing the door behind me.
But Kenty had something she wanted to talk about, all right; it was in her expression and the way she seized my jacket, hanging it hurriedly on the hall coat tree as if she feared that I might go away again before she could unburden herself.
Outside, a white Channel 7 van sporting the logo of the Bangor station and the familiar peacock of the national network had slowed in front of the Carmody house as I climbed Kenty's front steps. Her lips tightening, Kenty peeked past the curtains at the parlor window. “Good, they’ve moved on,” she said with a frown.
Which I thought was odd. I’d have thought she might like getting attention from newspeople, especially since she had been in the television business herself, once. But her reaction to the news van wasn’t as odd as what came next.
It started out straightforwardly enough: “Good doggy,” she said to Monday, whose worried look faded as she determined that no enemies lurked in Kenty's furniture as they apparently did in mine.
Then: “I won’t gossip,” Kenty repeated determinedly, pouring tea from a china pot with a tremulous, freckled hand. “I’m not going to talk.”
Au contraire. But Kenty, I’d heard, wasn’t the sort of gossip who came on too strong, right off the bat. First I would have to make a show of persuading her, so she could tell herself she hadn’t volunteered anything; that instead I had inveigled it from her.
The hot, strong tea worked its magic swiftly, and the room's temperature was a good ten degrees above what I was used to at home; I began thawing as Kenty put her hands in her lap like a child awaiting a scolding. I got the message: I was to persuade, but not waste time doing
Peter's mouth moved but no sound came out.
“Why, Peter,” Melinda breathed, “you naughty boy.” She looked at me, a bright note of query in her eyes.
But I wasn’t giving her anything. “ ’Bye, Melinda,” I said as they drove away down the ice-packed street: good riddance.
Still, I didn’t like seeing her going off with him. Melinda was shallow and manipulative, and she took a greedy, unseemly interest in the misfortunes of others. Cheap, too: the previous summer she’d gotten a town librarian fired on account of a quiet romance with a Bangor book salesman. “Conflict of interest,” Melinda had trumpeted, when in fact her campaign was retaliation for the librarian's not voiding her sky-high overdue fines.
She wasn’t all bad, though. She could work like a horse; Ellie said refreshments at the splinter-group garden club meetings were like champagne suppers. When Melinda said she would do something, she did it come hell or hibiscus, as Sam used to say.
And she was vulnerable in the way the truly oversized ego can be: the notion that she might ever come to harm never crossed Melinda's mind, I felt confident.
So I made a mental note to call her later; a word to thewise. Or unwise. Then I turned, meaning to head indoors; the wind had shifted and a breeze knifing in off the water made the sunshine little more than window dressing. But Monday yanked the leash, sniffing the air as if any minute she might meet up with a passel of cats. And Peter Christie had gotten my dander up with his impertinent I wants.
I wanted something, too: to be shut of this whole business. Even Ellie, surely, must know now that it was useless.
But before I could put Faye Anne Carmody's troubles out of mind altogether, there was a final question I needed to ask. And Kenty Dalrymple, bless her nosy heart, might have the answer.
A few cold blocks later I reached Kenty's cottage on High Street and knocked. She opened the door instantly as if she’d been waiting for me, hoping I would arrive.
Or that someone would.
Chapter 5
I don’t want to talk about it. It's none of my business ,” Kenty Dalrymple declared, closing the door behind me.
But Kenty had something she wanted to talk about, all right; it was in her expression and the way she seized my jacket, hanging it hurriedly on the hall coat tree as if she feared that I might go away again before she could unburden herself.
Outside, a white Channel 7 van sporting the logo of the Bangor station and the familiar peacock of the national network had slowed in front of the Carmody house as I climbed Kenty's front steps. Her lips tightening, Kenty peeked past the curtains at the parlor window. “Good, they’ve moved on,” she said with a frown.
Which I thought was odd. I’d have thought she might like getting attention from newspeople, especially since she had been in the television business herself, once. But her reaction to the news van wasn’t as odd as what came next.
It started out straightforwardly enough: “Good doggy,” she said to Monday, whose worried look faded as she determined that no enemies lurked in Kenty's furniture as they apparently did in mine.
Then: “I won’t gossip,” Kenty repeated determinedly, pouring tea from a china pot with a tremulous, freckled hand. “I’m not going to talk.”
Au contraire. But Kenty, I’d heard, wasn’t the sort of gossip who came on too strong, right off the bat. First I would have to make a show of persuading her, so she could tell herself she hadn’t volunteered anything; that instead I had inveigled it from her.
The hot, strong tea worked its magic swiftly, and the room's temperature was a good ten degrees above what I was used to at home; I began thawing as Kenty put her hands in her lap like a child awaiting a scolding. I got the message: I was to persuade, but not waste time doing
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