Mark Mills - Amagansett

‘What…stuff?’ she said with that look of hers.

Okay, so she’d smelled a rat, but she hadn’t shut him out.

‘You said at the time, you and your husband—I’m going off the files here—you said then that you had no idea what Lizzie was doing out at that time of night.’

He watched her reaction closely. It revealed nothing.

‘That’s right.’

‘You weren’t aware of it happening before, her going out like that?’

‘She was a poor sleeper, even as a wee one. Nothing to be done about it.’

He noted that she hadn’t answered the question.

‘So it’s quite possible it wasn’t the first time.’

‘I suppose.’

He took a sip from the glass. ‘And your son—Adam, right?—did he share a room with Lizzie?’

She stiffened slightly. ‘Not by then.’

‘So I guess he didn’t know either, about her wanderings?’

‘Isn’t that in those files of yours?’ she said tersely.

‘As it happens, Adam wasn’t asked to give a statement at the time.’

It had been one of Milligan’s many oversights.

‘Then I guess he had nothing to add.’

Hollis took another sip from the glass. ‘Can I speak to him anyway? Like I say, you never know.’

This time she shifted uncomfortably.

‘He’s not here.’

‘I can come back later.’

‘Won’t do much good,’ she said. ‘He’s in Carolina. Least he was, last we heard…working the croaker boats.’

He didn’t know what a croaker was, but he got the general impression.

‘How long’s he been gone?’

‘Put it this way, the croaker’s a winter fish down them parts.’

There was much more he wanted to ask, like why had Adam gone south so soon after his sister’s death? And why hadn’t he been in touch? There seemed to be bad feeling between son and parents, bad enough to silence Sarah Jencks and set her kneading her dough again for want of anything better to do with her hands.

He decided to back off, see if she followed.

‘That was great,’ he said, placing the glass on the table. ‘And thanks for your time.’

Her eyes came up suddenly, as if she were about to say something. Maybe she wanted to, but she didn’t, not until she’d seen him outside into the sunlight.

‘You’ll not catch the one who done it.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘I’m not. I want to believe you will.’

‘There’s a good chance, Mrs Jencks.’

He tried to reach out to her with his eyes, to let her know he knew she was holding back, that she could trust him.

‘If I think of anything,’ she said, ‘I’ll be sure to give Chief Milligan a call.’

It was a moment before he realized he’d been had. She’d seen him tense up.

‘Or maybe I won’t bother the Chief,’ she added, holding him in her dark eyes.

‘He’s got a lot going on right now,’ said Hollis, nodding.

Thirty-One

Passing through East Hampton, Conrad stopped briefly to withdraw some money from the bank. For a moment he thought he had spotted the tail, but the man in question climbed into a car and drove west on Main Street.

It wasn’t until he was a couple of miles north of town that he picked up the black sedan in the rear-view mirror, hanging well back. He didn’t slow or accelerate in order to confirm his suspicions. To have done so would have meant jeopardizing everything.

He entered the outskirts of Sag Harbor, turning into Union Street. He noted that the Whaler’s Church was still in need of a coat of paint. As long as he’d known it, there had always been a pleasing air of shabbiness about Sag Harbor. Unable to sustain the glories of its whaling heyday, the town wore its past proudly, though a little uneasily. The streets were peppered with grand residences built in any number of styles—Federalist, Georgian, Italianate and Greek Revival. Some verged on the ostentatious, and most had fallen into a state of disrepair. Their sills were rotting, their roofs patched, their paintwork flaking, their gardens neglected.

The merchants, whaling captains and shipbuilders who had first thrown up these temples to their own prosperity were long gone, their families forced to sell to the manufacturers who had washed in on the back of the tide before it finally turned for good. The factories, foundries and potteries had closed, and Sag Harbor had slipped into gracious decline.

Like some dowager princess fallen on hard times, the evening gown may have been a little frayed around the edges, but the jewels were real. No other South Fork town could boast a Main Street to match, with its imposing brick edifices, its mansions, and its stores with their generous plate-glass windows.

It was here, on Main Street, that Conrad parked the car, just up from the Municipal Building. A group of young men was gathered on the sidewalk, loafing—a favorite Sag Harbor pastime, and one which lent the town its unique whiff of torpor.

The black sedan had not followed Conrad into Union Street, but it now appeared at the foot of Main Street, down near the waterfront, where the masts of the ships had once bristled.

It turned, crawling slowly towards him.

Conrad crossed the street in front of it, fighting not to turn and stare.

There was no need.

He caught the profile of the driver reflected in the window of the haberdasher’s beside the narrow office building he was heading for.

Under usual circumstances it took Walter J. Scarlett exactly six and a half minutes to walk from his office to his house, a little less the other way, what with the gradient. Today, he made the journey in well under six minutes; but then he had known it was going to be an unusual day from the moment he first showed up for work.

His secretary of a year’s standing, Elsie, was sitting at her desk devoid of lipstick for the first time ever. He hadn’t commented on this detail at the time, fearing that he might be flattering himself. By noon, it was clear that he wasn’t. He was too much of a gentleman to make the first move, but not so much of one that he hadn’t reciprocated when her lips, untainted by any incriminating color, had sought out his while he was helping her with some filing.

By two o’clock he had squeezed both her breasts, though not at the same time, and attempted to slide his hand up her skirt.

A run of afternoon appointments put paid to any more shenanigans, and as Elsie prepared to leave for the day he feared she was already suffering from terminal regret.

She hadn’t been. And now he was running ten minutes late, or a little under, he noted, as he pushed open the front door of his house.

They were seated at the table, waiting patiently, a supper of cold cuts spread out before them.

‘Daddy, you’re sweating,’ piped up his son.

‘I didn’t want to be late.’

‘But you are late,’ said his wife.

‘I meant any later, ’ he replied sweetly, pecking her on the cheek, ruffling the children’s hair, then taking his place at the head of the table.

He had barely finished saying Grace when there was a knock at the door. His wife went to answer it. From where he was seated he had no view of the entrance hall, but he could hear the exchange with the gentleman.

‘Is Mr Scarlett in?’

‘What’s it regarding?’

‘It’s a private matter.’

‘We’re having supper, I’m afraid—’

That was as far as she got. He heard a scuffle, a little yelp, and then the man appeared in the dining room, steering Walter’s wife by the elbow. Walter pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

‘Sit the hell down,’ snapped the man. ‘You too,’ he added, forcing Walter’s wife towards her chair.

‘Who do you think you are, barging in here?’ said Walter, reaching for the phone on the sideboard.