Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“A credible effort,” said Pendergast. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you’re about to conduct a chemistry experiment,” said Lake as Pendergast carefully arranged everything.

“There is in fact some chemistry involved,” Pendergast said, placing a sugar cube in the spoon, balancing it over the absinthe glass, and carefully dribbling the water over it.

Lake watched the green liquid turn cloudy. The scent of anise drifted across the small table and he shuddered.

“There are certain oil-based herbal extracts in absinthe that dissolve in alcohol but have poor solubility with water,” Pendergast explained. “They come out of solution when you add the water, creating the opalescence, or louche .”

“I’d try it if I didn’t hate licorice. Isn’t wormwood supposed to cause brain damage?”

“The act of living causes brain damage.”

Lake laughed and raised his glass. “In that case: to Exmouth and the mystery of the walled-up skeleton.”

They clinked glasses. Pendergast sipped from his and set it down. “I’ve noticed a somewhat cavalier attitude in you,” he said.

“How so?”

“You’ve just lost a very valuable wine collection. Usually, burglaries leave people feeling unsettled, violated. Yet you appear to be in good spirits.”

“And with you on the case, why not?” Lake sipped his beer. “I take life pretty easily, I guess. I learned to do that, growing up.”

“And where did you grow up?”

“Outpost, Minnesota. Quite a name, isn’t it? Just twenty miles south of International Falls. Population, one hundred and twenty. The winters were right out of Kafka. To cope, you either drank, went crazy, or learned to take life as it comes.” Lake chuckled. “Most of us chose the last option.” He took another sip of beer. “Had a quarry just outside of town. That’s how I got into working with stone. Plenty of time on my hands between November and April.”

“And then?”

“Well, there I was — a Midwestern farm boy, gone to New York to make it in the art world. It was in the early ’80s and my work somehow struck a chord. What’s old is new again, that was the idea. What a crazy place. As I became more successful, it went to my head — the money, the fame, the parties, the whole god-awful, pretentious, downtown-art-gallery world.” He shook his head. “Like everyone else, I got into cocaine. I finally woke up. I realized if I didn’t do something, get out of that environment, I’d lose my muse entirely.”

“How did you pick this place?”

“I’d met this great gal, and she was as sick of New York as I was. She’d spent summers in Newburyport as a child. We bought the lighthouse, restored it, and the rest is history. We had a good run, Elise and me. God, I loved her. Miss her every day.”

“How did she die?”

Lake was a bit startled by the directness of the question and the use of the word die , when everyone else employed such euphemisms as “passed.” “Pancreatic cancer. She was diagnosed, and three months later she was gone.”

“You never get bored here?”

“If you’re serious about being an artist, you need to work in a quiet place. You’ve got to retreat from the world, away from the bullshit, the curators, the critics, the trends. And on a practical level, I also needed space. I do big pieces. And I mentioned the wonderful source of pink granite just up the coast. I can go to the quarry and pick out my stone, and they custom-cut it and deliver. Luscious stuff.”

“I’m somewhat familiar with your work,” said Pendergast. “You’re not afraid to avoid the trendy or the ephemeral. And you have an excellent feeling for the stone.”

Lake found himself blushing. He sensed this man rarely, if ever, gave out praise.

“And your new friend, Ms. Hinterwasser? How did you meet her?”

This was becoming a little too direct. “After Elise died, I took a cruise. I met her there. She’d recently divorced.”

“She decided to move in with you?”

“I invited her. I don’t like being alone. And celibacy does not suit me — not at all.”

“Does she share your enthusiasm for wine?”

“She’s more a daiquiri and margarita drinker.”

“We all have our flaws,” said Pendergast. “And the town itself? How would you characterize it?”

“Quiet. Nobody here cares much that I’m a relatively famous sculptor. I can go about my business without being bothered.”

“But...?”

“But... I suppose all small towns have a dark side. The affairs and feuds, the crooked real estate deals, the incompetent selectmen — you know, New England’s version of town fathers — and of course, a chief of police who spends most of his time ticketing out-of-state cars to collect money for his salary.”

“You’ve told me some of the chief’s history already.”

“The rumor was he got into trouble down in Boston. It wasn’t enough to get him fired, just queered his career prospects. Bit of a yahoo, obviously, although he’s acquired a veneer of polish over the years.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“They say he put too much muscle on a suspect, coerced or threatened him into confessing to something he didn’t do. The guy was later exonerated by DNA and had to be released, won a big lawsuit against the city.”

“And his deputy?”

“Gavin?” Lake paused. “He’s a good fellow. Quiet. Native of Exmouth. His father used to be chief of police. College educated — U Mass Boston, I believe. Did well enough, majored in Criminal Justice. Everybody expected him to go on to great things. Instead, he came back to work on the same force his father had led — much to the town’s delight, I might add. Naturally, he has his eye on Mourdock’s job.” He paused. “Ready for a bite?”

Another glance at the chalkboard. “May I ask if there is a better restaurant in town?”

Lake laughed. “You’re sitting in numero uno. They just can’t get past the mind-set of New England pub fare: broiled scrod, burgers, fried clams. But there’s a new guy in the kitchen, they say he’s retired Navy. Maybe he’s going to improve things.”

“We shall see.”

Lake looked at him. “I’m sort of curious about you, Mr. Pendergast. I’ve been trying to place your accent. I know it’s from the South, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

“It’s a New Orleans accent found in the French Quarter.”

“I see. And what brought you to New York? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Lake could see, from the expression on the man’s face, that he did mind.

“I came to New York on an investigation some years ago. The New York Field Office asked me to stay.”

Trying to get back on safer ground, Lake asked: “Are you married? Any kids?”

Now he could see this was one question too far. The gracious expression on Pendergast’s face vanished and there was a long silence before he said, “No,” in a voice that would freeze water.

Lake covered up his embarrassment with another swig of beer. “Let’s talk about the case, then. I’m curious if you have any theories about whodunit.”

“No theories that rise above the level of rank speculation.” Pendergast glanced around, the blank look fading from his face. “Perhaps it would be more efficacious if you’d tell me about the people in this room.”

Lake was a little taken aback by this request. “You mean, their names?”

“Names, background précis, peculiarities.”

Lake ordered a second beer — this time, a Thunderhead IPA. He had a big appetite and had to eat something soon. He leaned forward. “There’s one thing they can’t screw up in this restaurant: oysters on the half shell.”

At this, Pendergast perked up. “Excellent suggestion. Let us order two dozen.”