They didn’t count the change from their hundreddollar bills. They signed the AmEx receipt without looking at it. And if Bertrand Archer’s farm stand was the most expensive around, well, that must be because it was the best.
And so that was the kind of farming Will’s father did—he had enough greenhouses to stock the stand with heirloom varieties, and he grew enough corn to pile on a table near the road. He hired a good-looking local girl to make sweet-potato fries in the late afternoons, so that the smell would waft over customers, hungry from a day at the beach, who had stopped to buy that night’s vegetables. He kept ducks and two picturesque black sheep beside the stand, and sold little bags of grain so that children could feed them while their parents shopped. Bertrand grew all of the flowers close to the road, so that people could see the dahlias and sunflowers in their regal glory. He had Humberto and Alma do the picking early in the morning, and then disappear before eight, when the customers started arriving. And he worked the cash register himself, or else had Will or his mom do it. He told jokes and schmoozed, and let everyone know that he was the owner and that this was a family business. He pointed out the scones that his wife had baked, the flowers that he himself had arranged (really, just criticized Alma for not arranging properly). He gave the city folks enough local color so that they felt good about rubbing elbows with the “real” locals—the farmers who had worked this soil for generations. The salt of the earth.
But it was mostly just smoke and mirrors. Will’s father was a businessman, not a farmer.
There was nothing wrong with it, Bertrand Archer said. He was just playing a part, like a magician. People came for the show. They wanted to believe. You didn’t actually have to learn real magic; you just had to give them what they wanted. So he kept the farming picturesque, and left the dirty work to the suckers.
When Will’s father was young, Walfang hadn’t been the crazy tourist scene it was today, where a bungalow five blocks from the beach could rent for $10,000 a week. Gretchen’s family was technically “summer people,” too, since they lived in New York City most of the year. But her grandfather had bought the house in 1944, and Gretchen’s dad had grown up spending summers hunting for crabs with Will’s dad. So the Ellis family acted like, and were treated more or less like, honorary Walfangers. It always made Will crack up to see his farmer father hanging out with tattooed, ragged-looking Johnny Ellis. Then again, that must be what people think when they see boring me with Gretchen.
The beach was lined with workers when Will pulled up to the boardwalk. He parked his bike and trotted down the stairs to the sand. It was crusty and partially dry in the sun, but—judging by how easy it was to walk on—Will guessed it was wet below the surface. A tall figure was photographing a pile of debris stacked near the overturned lifeguard chair.
“Angus,” Will called to his friend. “You call this helping?”
“Will!” Angus held up his hand for a high five and drew Will in for a dude hug. “I’m just getting some photos for the paper. They probably won’t use any of them, but whatever. Interning at the Gazette, man. It’s a glamour job. Pachow, pachow—make love to the camera.” He pretended to take a sexy picture of a washed-up boot. “Shit, can you believe this mess?”
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Will admitted.
Angus’s wide smile darkened. “Tree branches ain’t all they found, bro.”
A sudden wave of nausea hit Will. “What?”
Angus’s voice dropped. “Man, they found a body. As in a dead body.”
“A girl?” Will’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“No, man, a guy. He was all torn up, like he’d been caught in a propeller or something. He was shredded, dude.” Angus grimaced. “Like he’d been eaten alive.”
“Who was it?”
“No clue—and here’s the kicker. So I’m, like, all foaming at the mouth to write the story, right? Like, ‘Mysterious Death in Walfang!’ Byline: Angus McFarlan! But my editor is like, ‘No, no. We don’t know what killed the guy. It’ll freak out the tourists. We’ll just keep it on the DL, put it in the police blotter but keep a lid on it.’ ”
“Does your editor really talk like he’s starring in a CW show?”
“Only in translation.” Angus grinned.
“So you’re not reporting it at all?”
“Just in the obits, man. If we find out who the guy was.” Angus looked out over the vast expanse of ocean. The water was surprisingly calm, as if sheepish about the destruction it had caused the night before.
“So—what happened?” Will asked. “I mean, what do you think? Shark?”
Angus shook his head. “Nah. I don’t know. The body was shredded, man. If it was a shark, I think we would’ve found less of him, if you know what I mean.”
“Crazy.”
“And speaking of crazy—did you hear about Kirk Worstler?”
“I saw him downtown earlier.” Will skipped the part about how Kirk had stared so hard he’d practically bored a hole in Gretchen’s skull. “Why—what’s up?”
“He went nuts yesterday and ran up to the fire station and set off the town alarms.” Angus opened his eyes comically wide. “The firemen freaked—the whole town freaked. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear it.”
“God. What happened to that kid?”
“All those Worstlers are nuts, man,” Angus said.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” Everyone on the island knew it—the Worstlers were crazy. It was the boys, always the boys. Kirk’s grandfather Adelai had been a healer of sorts, and his father, Ishmael, was said to speak in tongues. Ishmael’s brother had been lost at sea—the story was that he had jumped overboard. And Kirk’s father had drunk himself to death. He’d been gone five years, and most said good riddance. He’d been a mean drunk, and he hadn’t been kind to Kirk’s mother or his sister.
For a long time Kirk had seemed like a normal kid. He’d been sensitive, sure, and artistic. But over the years something had shifted in him. What had for years been curiosity and keen intelligence turned to anxious watchfulness. He spent hours alone, walking the beaches, not playing, like other children, but watching. For a while, after his father’s death, he seemed to get better. He seemed like a normal, sad child. But then, after Danny Sawdee’s party last year, he changed again. Some people said that he’d taken acid, some said mushrooms. There were even a few who said that Kirk hadn’t taken anything at all—he’d had a religious experience, a vision, an awakening. All anyone knew for sure was that Kirk had taken a dare to climb to the top of the abandoned lighthouse at the tip of the island, and after he came down, he was different, and he was never the same again.
There were a couple of freshmen who thought that Kirk had seen an angel. One even said that she’d heard him singing one night. It was the most beautiful song, like it had been sent from heaven. She said that she didn’t understand the words, but they sounded foreign.
But most people just thought he was a crazed druggie.
“I heard his sister’s been trying to get him into rehab, but his mom says they can’t pay for it.”
“How do you find out all this crap?”
“Family connections. Besides, I’m a born reporter, man!” Angus laughed. “I live for this shit. And speaking of—” He stooped to capture a photo of a crab scuttling over a pile of seaweed-covered junk. One claw was waving a scrap of paper like an overeager newsboy. “Hey, when’s your friend getting back?”
“Gretchen? She’s back.”
“Really?” Angus grinned. “Well, okay then.” He turned back to his pile of wood and seaweed.
Will felt like he should say something more. Something like, Why are you asking? But he didn’t want to seem like he cared. Because he didn’t, of course. Gretchen knew a lot of people on the island—she came here every year. He knew that she and Angus were friendly. But he didn’t know what to think of Angus’s grin. He wasn’t sure his friend had a shot with Gretchen. He wasn’t really her type. Whatever that was.
Honestly, Gretchen dated a lot. She’d had a pretty serious boyfriend last year—Jason something. He was a real summer person type—drove a white Lexus, had the million-dollar smile. Will had only met him a couple of times and privately thought he was a grade-A jerk. Sometimes he thought Gretchen thought so, too. But he was smart and rich, and Gretchen liked going to expensive restaurants and getting surprise presents, so Jason worked for her, Will guessed.
Will looked down the beach. People were dotted here and there, collecting garbage and placing it in large contractor bags. The detritus was disappearing at a rapid pace. Will expected that it would be in its usual pristine state by Friday, when the first migrants from New York made their way east on the Jitney.
Will caught sight of a long-haired girl at the end of the beach. She was bent over a large piece of driftwood. Black hair spilled over her shoulders, and reflexively Will grabbed Angus’s arm. “Dude—who’s that?”
“What? Who?” His eyes focused on the heavyset bald guy with the clipboard and tight button-down short-sleeved sport shirt. “Franklin Overmeyer? He’s with the mayor’s office.”
“No.” Will’s heart was racing. “That girl with the long hair.”
“Kate Sands?”
At that moment the girl turned slightly, and Will got a proper view of her face. She had brown eyes, not green, and her face was round and freckled. It wasn’t the girl from yesterday. It was a girl from his Spanish class. “Oh—I … I thought she was someone else.”
“Dude, are you diggin’ on Kate? Because she’s a Gazette intern, too. I could put in a word—”
“No, seriously. I thought she was someone else.”
Angus waggled his eyebrows, and Will sighed. “Hey, look, I’ve got to head, okay? I’ll see you?”
Now I’m seeing things, Will thought as he walked away. Ghosts of the girl from hurricanes past. He felt as if the beach were littered with them.
Chapter Four
From the Walfang Gazette
Police Blotter: Drowning Death of New
York City Man Ruled a Suicide
Fifty-six-year-old Terrance “Terry” Milton died on Wednesday as a result of an apparent suicide. He maintained a summer house close to where his body was found Thursday morning. Neighbors state that Mr. Milton had been depressed since the death of his mother last year.…
“Will! You’re just in time!” his father said as Will came down the stairs. “Come try some of this wine. This is Mr. Jameson—he has a vineyard on the North Fork. We’re thinking of selling some at the stand.”
Will’s mother sat silently on the couch, sipping from a glass of pale amber liquid.
“Don’t you need a liquor license for that?” Will asked as he shook his head at the wine. “No thanks.”
“You probably wouldn’t need a license to take orders,” Mr. Jameson said. He was handsome in an aging-daytime-TV-star kind of way: tall, gray hair slicked back, tanned skin, brilliant smile. “We’re still working everything out, but it looks like we can offer same-day delivery.”
“People are going to go nuts for this sauvignon blanc,” Will’s dad said. “Are you sure you don’t want some, Will?”
“It’s really delicious,” his mother said quietly.
“I’m about to hop on the bike,” Will told them.
“One sip?” Mr. Jameson laughed.
Will just smiled a tight smile. The truth was, he hated wine. Beer, too. But he didn’t want to explain that to Mr. Former Soap Opera Star.
“My teetotaler son.” Will’s dad rolled his eyes. “Where are you headed?”
“Just into town.”
“You remember you’re working a shift later?” Mrs. Archer asked.
“How could I forget?”
Mr. Archer waved his hand at his son and said, “Go on, get out of here! Have fun!” He gave a false, hearty laugh that made Will want to be sick. Will waved and headed for the motorcycle. He yanked on his helmet and kicked the bike to life. It started with a roar, and Will revved it a couple of times before pulling out of the driveway.
He tore up the road, breathing easier with every inch of space between himself and his father. Will resented the elaborate act Mr. Archer put on for others. He didn’t understand it. And it made him furious that the act seemed to take up all of his father’s energy. He barely spoke to Will when they were alone.
Will parked the bike and stored his helmet, then made his way over to the storefront. He stared at the sign on the door for a long moment, tracing the ornate gold letters with his eyes: Worthington’s Fine Antiques. Will ran his thumb beneath the wide canvas strap slung across his chest, hitching his messenger bag higher onto his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of his face in the glass door. Beneath his tan, his complexion seemed dull and gray. His night had been filled with dreams. He’d been surfing with Tim, laughing and tumbling in the waves. It wasn’t until he woke up that the dream seemed nightmarish. Tim was dead, and somewhere perhaps a green-eyed girl was, too.
Finally Will touched the brass handle and pushed his way in.
The proprietor, an older gentleman, was arranging something in a glass display case as Will stepped into the cool, dim store. The man popped his head over the edge of the counter. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, then disappeared again into his antiques-lined gopher hole.
Will took the opportunity to look around the store. To his left was a large desk. It was ornately carved with the heads of lions and other exotic animals. The feet were bird claws clutching round balls. The desk was enormous, and was designed so that people could sit at either side. Fascinated, Will inspected it from all angles.
“It’s a nineteenth-century partners desk,” the man explained, coming up behind Will. “They could face each other and argue over budget items, presumably.”
“There’s no price on it,” Will pointed out.
“This item sells for forty thousand dollars,” the man said.
Will laughed. “Well, I guess it’s good I already have a desk.”
The owner smiled, which made his prim appearance seem more approachable. Now he was just a lanky man with tiny round bifocals and khaki pants, rather than the proprietor of the kind of store that sold desks that cost more than Will’s father’s car. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Well …” Will dug in his bag and pulled out something wrapped in a brown paper bag. The man peered closely as Will gently removed the flute and held it out for inspection. “Do you know anything about this? There’s one like it in your window.” Will gestured over his shoulder.
The man scurried behind the counter and yanked on a pair of white cotton gloves. Then he reached for the flute and handled it very carefully. “This instrument is quite an antique.”
“How old?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to have it authenticated, of course, but it could be as much as five hundred years old. Are you looking to sell it?”
“No.” The mere question made Will’s palms itch. He wanted that flute back, but didn’t want to snatch it from the man’s hands. “I just—I just want to know more about it.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you much. The one in the window is extremely rare. In fact, I’m just waiting for some authentication documents so that it can be shipped to its new home in a museum in Nice, France.” He took the flute to the counter and set it down gently. Then he came up with a cloth sack. The man gingerly dropped the flute into the sack, then rolled it back up. He handed it to Will. “Something this precious should be protected,” the man said.
“Thanks.” Will tucked the flute back into his bag, feeling embarrassed about the crumpled paper bag. “Can you at least tell me where you got the other one?”
“Interestingly, that was also from a young person. She works right next door.” The man scribbled something onto the back of a business card. ASIA MARIN, read the all-capital scrawl.
“She works at Bella’s?” Will asked, surprised at this piece of luck. “That’s great—I’m heade
d there, anyway.”
“The hand of fate,” the man intoned. Will nodded, amused at how quickly the gentleman’s primness had returned. “Maybe so.”
Will settled into a two-person booth and set his gray messenger bag gently on the table. It was late morning, and the early lunch crowd was starting to trickle in. Gretchen had told Will that she’d been stuck with mostly lunch shifts, but he wasn’t sure she was working today. He surveyed the long space. Men in farmer caps, huddled in their booths, were bent close over fish and chips. Two fat women laughed over a shared banana split. Everywhere, people were talking and eating. Just like normal life, Will thought.
Will pulled the flute from his bag, then carefully stripped it of its wrappings. He supposed he should be wearing gloves like the man in the antiques store, but he’d already held the flute a hundred times, so he couldn’t see what difference it would make now. The wood was light in his hand, like the bone of a bird.
It had been Tim’s flute. Not that Tim played the flute. As far as Will knew, his brother had played only the guitar. Nevertheless, this was Tim’s flute. At least, Will thought of it that way.
Weeks after his family installed a headstone over an empty box, Angus’s uncle had called Will down to the station. He said he had something for him. When Will arrived, Police Chief Barry McFarlan had pulled a plastic evidence bag from his desk drawer. He explained that the officer called to the scene of Tim’s death had found the flute on the boat, wedged into the rigging. It didn’t seem to have any bearing on the case, so they could let it go. “I know Tim was really into music. It must have been his,” Barry said, and asked Will if he wanted it, “as a memento.”
A memento, Will had thought. A memento of my brother’s death. As if he didn’t have enough of those. Still, he’d taken the flute. Then he’d slipped it into his bottom drawer—the one he never opened—and forgotten about it until a couple of days ago. He knew it was crazy to think that the flute had anything to do with his brother. Still, it was connected simply by proximity. And when Will had spotted its twin, or at least its cousin, in the store window, he’d decided to find out something about it.
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