Douglas Preston: Crimson Shore

“Where are you from?” the woman asked.

“New York.”

“I didn’t know there were Amish in New York.”

Constance stared at her. “We’re not Amish.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I just assumed, with the man in the black suit, and you with that dress...” Her voice trailed off. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

“Not in the least.” Constance looked at the woman more closely. She was about fifty. The avid look on her face spoke of dull routine and a thirst for gossip. Here was someone who would know everything going on in the town. “We’re just old-fashioned,” she said, with another forced smile.

“Are you here on vacation?”

“No. We’ve investigating the burglary of Percival Lake’s wine cellar.”

A silence. “The man in the black suit is a private investigator?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m his assistant.”

The woman became nervous. “Well, well,” she said, cracking some papers on the desk and shuffling them about, suddenly busy.

Perhaps she should not have been so quick to disclose their purpose in town. She would try a new tack. “How long have you worked here?” Constance asked.

“Twenty-six years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a nice town. Friendly.”

“Do you have much crime here?”

“Oh, no. Hardly any. The last murder we had here was in 1978.”

“Other crimes?”

“The usual. Mostly kids. Vandalism, shoplifting, underage drinking — that’s about it.”

“So this is unusual? Arresting someone for loitering and disturbing the peace?”

A nervous hand adjusted her hairdo. “I can’t say. Excuse me, I have work to take care of.” She went back to her paperwork.

Constance felt chagrined. How on earth did Pendergast do it? She would have to pay more attention to his methods.

It was late afternoon when the young policeman came back out and gave some papers to the lady behind the desk.

“Miss Greene?” the lady asked.

She rose.

“Bail has been set. Five hundred dollars.”

As Constance wrote out the check, the woman explained the terms and slid the paperwork toward her. She signed it.

“It won’t be too much longer,” the woman promised.

And it wasn’t: five minutes later, Pendergast appeared in the doorway in surprisingly good spirits. The bag with the Hawaiian shirts had vanished.

“Excellent, most excellent,” he said. “Let us go.”

Constance said nothing as they walked to the car.

“How did you get the car here?” Pendergast asked, seeing it at the curb.

She explained.

Pendergast frowned. “I would have you keep in mind that there are dangerous characters buried in this little town.”

“Trust me, he wasn’t one of them.”

As they got into the car, Constance felt her irritation rising. He held his hand out for the keys, but she made no move to give them to him.

“Aloysius.”

“Yes?”

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You deliberately provoked the chief and got yourself arrested. Several hours ago. And I assume you didn’t tell him you’re an FBI agent.”

“No.”

“How, exactly, is this supposed to help our investigation?”

Pendergast laid a hand on her shoulder. “I want to commend you for your restraint with the chief, by the way. He is a most unpleasant man. Now to answer your question: this will directly help our investigation.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“I would not. All shall become clear, I promise you.”

“Your inscrutability is going to drive me mad.”

“Patience! Now, shall we return to the Inn? I have an engagement with Percival Lake. Would you care to join us for some dinner, perhaps? You must be famished.”

“I’ll have dinner in my room, thank you.”

“Very well. Let us hope it proves less disappointing than this morning’s breakfast.”

They were driving along a narrow lane between old New England stone walls. Now the trees parted, revealing the Captain Hull Inn: a large, rambling Victorian sea captain’s house, shingled in gray with white trim, standing by itself in a broad meadow, packed tightly around with Carolina rose bushes heavy with hips. It had a large wraparound porch with white pillars and a dozen rocking chairs looking out to sea, with a view of the Exmouth lighthouse about a half mile down the coast. The crushed-oyster-shell parking lot contained several cars. Constance had found her room, which she’d checked into the night before, pleasantly old-fashioned.

“When is your trial?” Constance asked. “I understand that small towns such as this often believe in dispensing swift justice.”

“There will be no trial.” Pendergast looked at her, evidently absorbing the expression on her face. “Constance, I’m not trying to be deliberately perverse. It is simply better for your education into my methods if you witness how events unfold naturally. Now, shall we?” And with that he put his hand on the frame of the roadster, got out, and opened the door for her.

Percival Lake paused in the doorway of the Chart Room restaurant, spotting Pendergast immediately among the knots of diners. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, all black and white among this crowd of New England folk in madras and seersucker. In Lake’s experience, even eccentric and unconventional people carefully curated their persona. Very few truly didn’t give a goddamn what others thought. Pendergast was one.

Lake rather liked that.

Pendergast was gazing at the chalkboard — the Chart Room of the Captain Hull Inn had no printed menus — with a frown. As Lake threaded his way through the tables, Pendergast glanced up, then rose. They shook hands.

“I love this room,” said Lake as they sat down. “The old sawn pine planks on the floor, the nautical instruments, the stone fireplace. It’s very cozy, especially now, in the fall. When it gets chillier they’ll light the fire.”

“I find it rather like a coffin,” said Pendergast.

Lake laughed and glanced at the chalkboard. “The wine in here is rotgut, but the Inn has a nice selection of craft beers. There’s a local one I highly recommend—”

“I am not a drinker of beer.”

The waitress — a young woman with close-cropped hair almost as blond as Pendergast’s — came over to take their orders. “What can I get you gentlemen?” she asked perkily.

A silence as Pendergast glanced over the bottles arrayed behind the bar. Then his pale eyebrows shot up. “I see you have absinthe.”

“I think it’s sort of an experiment.”

“I’ll have that, if you please. Make sure the water you bring with it is fresh springwater, not tap, and absolutely ice cold but without ice, along with a few sugar cubes. If you could manage a slotted spoon and a reservoir glass, that would be most appreciated.”

“A reservoir glass.” The waitress scribbled everything down. “I’ll do my best.”

“Shall we order dinner?” Lake asked. “The fried clams are a specialty.”

Pendergast shot another glance at the chalkboard. “Perhaps later.”

“A pint of the Riptide IPA for me, please.”

The waitress went away and Lake turned to Pendergast. “Striking-looking girl. She’s new.”

He could see Pendergast had so little interest he didn’t appear to have heard.

Lake cleared his throat. “I hear you got yourself arrested today. It’s all over town, of course. You’ve made quite a splash.”

“Indeed.”

“I guess you had your reasons.”

“Naturally.”

The young waitress returned with their drinks, setting everything in front of Pendergast: glass; spoon — not slotted; a dish of sugar cubes; a small glass pitcher of water; and the absinthe in a tall glass. “I hope this is okay,” she said.