Amagansett

Thirty-Eight

Hollis arrived at Mary’s house to find that she was running a little late. She called to him from upstairs saying she’d be down in a minute. A few seconds later, Edward appeared at the top of the stairs. He slid down the banisters and landed beside Hollis.

‘Where’s your gun?’

‘My gun?’

‘Mom says you’re a cop.’

‘That’s right, but I don’t always carry my gun. I’m Tom, by the way.’

‘I’ve got a catapult.’

‘That’s great…Edward, right?’

‘My dad made it for me.’

The emphasis on the word ‘dad’ was clearly intentional.

Their relationship deteriorated rapidly from there. Hollis proved to be an embarrassingly bad shot with a catapult, a source of considerable amusement to Edward, whom he then made the mistake of calling ‘Eddy’. To cap it all, Hollis had to admit he’d never killed anyone, although he was beginning to believe he might have it in him.

He was rescued by Mary, beautiful and fragrant and carrying Edward’s overnight bag and a stuffed bear. ‘Hey, cute teddy,’ said Hollis, eliciting a satisfying scowl from Edward.

Abel and Lucy were waiting for them on the front porch. Lucy was beaming. Even from a distance, Hollis could see why.

‘Lou’s got some news,’ said Abel.

‘We’ve got some news,’ said Lucy, shooting him a look then holding up her hand.

It was an emerald, fringed with diamonds.

‘Oh, Lucy…’ said Hollis, taking her in his arms.

‘Congratulations,’ said Mary.

The women drew each other close, the men shook hands before abandoning the formality for a hug.

‘Well done,’ said Hollis to Abel.

‘It’s all your fault.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

Abel took the bag off him and peered inside. ‘Champagne?’

‘Call it a hunch.’

Hollis made a point of not drinking too much over dinner. They sat at the table out back and fought their way through the feast Abel had prepared for them. Lucy told the story of how a friend of hers had spotted Abel in Southampton earlier in the week. Puzzled by this, Lucy had casually asked Abel about his movements that day. When he failed to mention the trip to Southampton, she immediately assumed he was having an affair, and said as much to him. Abel had let her stew in her suspicions, only to propose to her that very afternoon, presenting her with a ring—the one he’d been picking up from the jeweler in Southampton earlier in the week.

They all cleared the table, and Hollis found himself alone with Abel in the kitchen, making coffee.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re finally going to take her up the aisle.’

‘What we get up to in the privacy of our bedroom is none of your damn business,’ retorted Abel.

They were still laughing when the phone rang.

‘I guess the word’s out,’ said Abel, heading for the hallway. He returned a few moments later.

‘Tom, it’s for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Conrad Labarde.’

Abel was at his shoulder when he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,’ said the Basque.

‘How the hell did you know I was here?’

‘I followed you. Do you have a pen?’

‘No,’ said Hollis, laying the indignation on thick.

‘Then listen carefully.’

He listened. At a certain point he interrupted the Basque. ‘Let me go get a pen,’ he said.

Abel provided the pen and the paper, and Hollis scribbled furiously for more than a minute. Only when he hung up did he realize Lucy and Mary had joined them in the hallway.

‘What is it, Tom?’ asked Lucy.

‘I have to go.’

‘Why? What’s up?’ asked Abel.

Hollis looked at Mary helplessly. ‘I have to.’

‘Go,’ she said. ‘Really. Go.’

‘I need a flashlight.’

‘I’ve got one in the car,’ said Abel.

Nearing the car, Abel said, ‘I lied.’ He opened the door and took his camera from the back seat. ‘I don’t have a flashlight, but I am coming with you.’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Hey, 1943—where was my ass while yours was polishing a chair?’

It was Bob Hartwell’s weekend off. What if he was away? It wasn’t a risk Hollis could afford to take. He might need assistance.

‘You drive,’ said Hollis.

‘Where to?’

‘My place. I need my gun.’

Hollis spelled it out for Abel as best he could in the few minutes it took them to get to his house: Lizzie Jencks, Lillian Wallace, the Basque, the lack of hard evidence, and the meeting set to take place in just over an hour’s time.

‘Jesus, Tom, no wonder you’ve been acting so weird.’

‘Have I?’

The gun was in the bedroom. He checked the chamber, shoved a fistful of shells into his hip pocket, then he phoned Bob Hartwell.

‘Thank God,’ he said when Hartwell picked up.

Hollis told him to change into something dark and to have his gun and a flashlight ready; he’d pick him up in five minutes. He didn’t tell him why, and Hartwell didn’t ask.

‘Sure thing,’ he said in that low, impassive voice of his.