Crimson Shore

5

The Exmouth police station was located in a quaint brick building at the opposite end of town.

“Please take care to park within the lines,” said Constance to the young man she had recruited to drive the car the length of town. He’d been gawking at the car while she stood there, wondering what to do, and she had offered to let him drive it. He had leapt at the chance. Only once he was in the car had she noticed he smelled like fish.

He pulled the car into the space and yanked the parking break.

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe it. What a ride.” He looked at her. “Where’d you get this car?”

“It isn’t mine. Thank you very much for being a gentleman. You may go now.”

He hesitated and she had the sense he was noticing her for the first time, his eyes roving over her figure. He was a brawny, honest yeoman type, with a wedding ring on his left hand. “Say, if you’re free later—”

“I’m not, and neither are you,” she said, plucking the keys from his hand. She exited the car and began walking toward the police station, leaving the man in the parking lot staring after her.

She entered a surprisingly spotless waiting room, presided over by portraits of the governor and the lieutenant governor, with a large gold-fringed American flag in the corner and a wood-paneled wall covered with plaques and commendations. A tiny woman sat behind a desk, answering phones and trying to look busy. Beyond her, through the open door, Constance could hear a television, tuned to a game show of some kind.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“I’m here to — what is the term? — make bail for Mr. Pendergast.”

The lady looked at her curiously. “He’s being processed. Please have a seat. May I have your name?”

“Constance Greene.” She seated herself, smoothing her long dress.

A young policeman emerged from the back rooms, then paused, staring at her. Constance returned the look. Was there something strange about this town, or was it she who was strange? He was dark and Italian-looking, with a brooding expression. He seemed to flush at her stare, turned away, gave the receptionist a piece of paper, spoke to her briefly, then turned back to Constance. “Are you here for Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

A hesitation. “It may be several hours.”

Why on earth hasn’t he pulled rank by now? “I’ll wait.”

He left. She found the lady behind the desk looking at her curiously as well. She seemed eager to talk, and Constance, who normally would have shut her out as one shuts a door, recalled that she was supposed to be investigating, and that this was an opportunity. She gave the lady what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

“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.