Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

Constance hesitated. “I had rather planned on returning to the Inn.”

“Just a quick cup. Come on, it would be nice to chat. I’ll have the Inn send their car for you.”

“Very well.”

Paying off the driver, she stepped out of the car and into the teeth of the wind that whipped down the Exmouth main street, carrying with it the smell of salt air and seaweed. A few scraps of newspaper whirled along with it, while a pair of screeching seagulls wheeled about overhead. She followed the woman into her shop, wondering what it was Hinterwasser wanted to talk to her about — as that was clearly her intention.

“Sit down, please.” The shop, A Taste of Exmouth, sold mostly tourist bric-a-brac: local crafts, postcards, maps and charts, T-shirts, candles, shells, and potpourri, with tea and coffee served at three tiny tables in the back of the premises. Constance took a seat while Hinterwasser asked her shop assistant — a bright-eyed young woman with close-cropped blond hair — to make them a pot of tea. A few minutes later, the assistant brought over the tea on an antique silver tea set, with china cups, bread, butter, and marmalade. She set it down on a stand next to their table, laid out their cups and silverware.

“You’re the one helping that FBI agent with the wine theft, right?” she asked with ill-concealed curiosity.

Constance nodded, a little surprised at the forward nature of the question. “I am.”

“Thank you, Flavia,” Carole said in polite dismissal.

The woman smiled at them both in turn, then moved away.

Constance said, “She’s also a waitress at the Inn.”

“Flavia Strayhorn,” Hinterwasser said. “New in town. Native New Englander, but she spent the last few months hiking around northeast Asia. She’s earning money for graduate school. And she seems to be picking up our small-town avidity for gossip.” She laughed.

“People appear to be so curious about us.”

“Well, apart from your companion being an FBI agent, your old-fashioned way of dressing has been noticed. Is there any particular reason for it?”

“No, no, it’s just what I’ve always worn.” Constance realized that — at least for the purpose of excursions such as this — she should make an effort to update her wardrobe.

“Well, your bag is new, anyway,” Carole said, nodding at the saltwater crocodile bag that hung from Constance’s chair. “A Hermès Birkin, isn’t it?”

Constance nodded.

“Beautiful. It’s probably worth more than this entire building.”

Constance said nothing. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to bring the bag — a present from Pendergast on her last birthday. Really, when it came to interacting with outsiders in this modern world, she could not seem to get anything right.

“The tea’s almost ready.” Carole pointed to the steeping pot. “It’s my special blend — Exmouth Chai. Help yourself to bread and jam.”

“Thank you, this is most kind.”

“Not at all — it’s nice to have a chance to chat.”

Constance took a slice of bread — it was fresh and homemade — then spread on some butter and marmalade. She’d had nothing to eat all day.

Hinterwasser poured out their tea, with a generous addition of milk and sugar. “I’m glad I ran into you. Did you hear about the, ah, difficult words between Mr. Pendergast and Perce yesterday?”

She took a sip. “I did.”

“I want you to know how badly Perce feels about it. It’s true that he’s been having problems selling his work lately — you know how tastes change — and he’s a little sensitive about it. He didn’t mean to fly off the handle. He realizes in retrospect that an investigator has to ask questions, examine every angle, look into everyone’s background. Even my past — which isn’t squeaky clean, unfortunately, with a dreadful stain on my record. Imagine — shoplifting.” She gave a laugh.

Constance had the impression the woman was hoping to be asked about that theft. She let the moment pass.

“If I was Agent Pendergast, I’d look at all the angles, too. The point is, Perce is a proud man. That’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to ask you whether you might tell Agent Pendergast how embarrassed Perce feels about the whole thing. He would like to encourage Agent Pendergast to continue looking into the wine theft and hopefully not allow these murders, as horrible as they are, to deflect him completely from his original intention.”

“I can assure you he’s working hard on your case,” said Constance. She did not elaborate. In his unspoken way, her guardian had made it clear that the state of the investigation was never to be discussed with anyone until he deemed the time right.

“I’m so glad. This second murder has really thrown the town into a tizzy. I’ve never seen anything like it. The chief is in way over his head. Luckily, we’ve got Sergeant Gavin to take up the slack. Anyway, I understand Pendergast heard the actual killing when he was out in the marshes.”

“How did you know that?”

“Gossip spreads fast around here. The more grim or salacious, the faster it travels.”

“I see.”

“How horrible.” Hinterwasser shuddered. “At the time, Perce and I were at the classical guitar concert at the Little Red Church. Perce loves classical guitar music and brought the musician up from Boston himself, as part of the Exmouth Fall Concert Series. He’s on the board, you know.”

Constance took advantage of the stream of words to pick up a second slice of bread and slather it with butter.

“I wonder how you can keep such a trim figure,” said Hinterwasser with a laugh.

Constance took a sip of tea, put down the cup. “I seem to have an overactive metabolism.”

“Ah, to be a young lady again!” said Hinterwasser, refilling Constance’s cup.

There was a tinkle of a bell and a figure came into the shop.

“A customer,” said Hinterwasser, rising. “How rare; perhaps I ought to have him stuffed and put on display!” She went over while Constance finished her tea. The customer’s sale was quickly concluded. As if on schedule, the 1936 Buick Special 8 that the Inn used as a car to ferry guests to and from town pulled up.

“Your ride,” said Hinterwasser, plucking an item from a shelf and pressing it into her hand. It was a sachet of tea bags. “Here’s a little something to take home — my Exmouth Chai blend.”

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. Thank you for stopping in.” Hinterwasser pressed her hand again. “I hope you’ll remember what I asked. About speaking to Agent Pendergast, I mean.”

At ten o’clock, the Chart Room had almost emptied. Constance sat at a table in the corner, across from Pendergast, the remains of two portions of Filets de Sole Pendergast before them, prepared by Reginald Sheraton, along with an empty bottle of wine. It was a brutal night, with gusts rattling the windows and shaking the walls. The distant thunder of surf below the bluffs added a dark ostinato to the wailing of the wind about the Inn.

Constance nodded at the chalkboard that held the evening’s menu. “Your sole seems to have become a restaurant favorite. I noticed it being served to at least half of the tables.”

“I have always maintained Massachusetts to be a bastion of good taste.” Pendergast rose. “Shall we retire upstairs? We have some important — and confidential — matters to discuss.”

Constance rose and followed Pendergast past the bar, where he paused and spoke to the bartender, asking him to send up a dusty bottle of Calvados — which, by a minor miracle, he had spied on the back wall — and two snifters to his room.

She followed him up the steep, creaking stairs. Pendergast’s room, which she had not yet seen, was dominated by a large Victorian four-poster bed; at the far side was a small brick fireplace, a writing table, chair, and lamp. A fire had been laid but not lit.