Pendergast merely smiled. “Let us go shopping.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Constance, one of the first things you must learn when on a case with me is not to question every little thing. Now…I see some lovely Hawaiian shirts in that shop window—and they’re even on sale!”
She followed him into the shop and pretended to look through a rack of tennis whites while Pendergast went through the Hawaiian shirts, selecting several of them, apparently at random. She heard him chatting up the clerk, asking her if they ever had problems with shoplifting and whether the security camera clearly visible in the front window was really necessary. She frowned as she heard the clerk ringing up his purchases. She assumed he was taking the measure of the town, but it seemed so random, so unfocused, given the fact there were many other pressing matters to investigate. For example, the list of lighthouse keepers, awaiting her in the Historical Society’s archives—and the carbon 14 dating of the finger bone.
Soon they were back out on the street, Pendergast holding a shopping bag. He loitered in the doorway of the shop, checking his watch.
“How many yards of execrable taste, exactly, did you buy?” Constance asked, eyeing the bag.
“I didn’t notice. Let us linger here for a moment.”
Constance peered at him. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to have a look of anticipation on his face.
And then she saw, rolling down Main Street, the two-toned police car.
Pendergast checked his watch again. “New Englanders are so wonderfully punctual.”
The car slowed and pulled to the curb. A policeman got out; the chief they had seen the day before. Constance was not a great judge of twentieth-century masculinity, but this fellow looked like a 1950s college football star gone to seed: crew cut, thick neck, and square jaw, perched atop an enormous, lumpy frame. Hiking up his jangling belt, the man pulled out a thick ticket book and began writing a ticket for the roadster.
Pendergast approached. “May I inquire as to the problem?”
The policeman turned to him, rubbery lips distending into a smile. “Slow learner?”
“What do you mean?”
“Straddling the spaces again. I guess one citation wasn’t enough.”
Pendergast pulled out the previous ticket. “You mean this?”
“That’s right.”
Pendergast neatly tore it in half and tucked the pieces back into his pocket.
The chief frowned. “Cute.”
Constance winced at the man’s heavy South Boston accent. Was there an accent in English more grating? Pendergast was being his provocative self, and she began to understand his look of anticipation. This might prove enjoyable. At the right moment, he would pull his FBI shield and put this verminous cop in his place.
The man finished writing the ticket, slid it up under the windshield wipers. “There you go.” He grinned. “Another one for you to tear up.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Pendergast plucked it out, tore it in half, and pushed the pieces into his pocket, giving it a little pat with his hand.
“You can tear them up all day, but that won’t make them go away.” The chief leaned forward. “Let me give you a little free advice. We don’t appreciate some wannabe private dick coming into our town and interfering with our investigation. So watch your step.”
“I am acting as a private investigator, yes,” Pendergast said. “I do, however, take exception to the use of the term ‘dick.’”
“My sincere apologies for using the term ‘dick.’”
“Several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of wine were stolen,” Pendergast said, his voice taking on a pompous tone. “This is grand larceny at the highest level. Since the police seem unable, or unwilling, to make any progress on solving this case, I have been called in.”
The chief frowned. Despite the autumnal warmth, beads of sweat began to appear on his greasy brow. “All right. You know what? I’m going to be watching everything you do. One step, one toe, over the line and I’ll run you out of this town so fast your head will spin. Is that clear?”
“Certainly. And while I investigate grand larceny, you may continue to protect the town from the scourge of straddled parking.”
“You’re quite the comedian.”
“That was an observation, not a pleasantry.”
“Well, observe this: next time you straddle a parking space, I’ll tow your vehicle.” He ran a pair of thick fingers along the side of the car. “Now, please move it into a legal parking place.”
“You mean, right now?”
The cop’s breath was coming harder. “Right now,” he said.
Pendergast got in, started the car, and moved it back, but he stopped prematurely, leaving the rear bumper just on the line.
He got out. “There.”
The cop stared at him. “You’re still over the line.”
Pendergast looked at the Porsche in an exaggerated fashion, scrutinizing the bumper and the painted line and frowning. “It’s on the line—not over. Besides, look at all the parking spaces on the street. Who’s going to care?”
The cop’s breathing had become a wheeze. “You little prick, you think you’re funny?”
“First you called me a ‘dick.’ Now you’ve called me a ‘prick.’ I commend you on your poesy. But you seem to forget that a lady is present. Perhaps your mother should have employed the soap treatment more frequently to your rather orotund mouth.”
Constance had seen Pendergast deliberately provoke people before, but not quite so belligerently. She wondered why the first thing he’d done in this investigation was to go out of his way to make an enemy of the chief of police.
The chief took a step closer. “Okay. I’m done. I want you out of this town. Now. Get back in your faggoty little vehicle and you and your girlfriend get your asses out.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll take you in for loitering and disturbing the peace.”
Most uncharacteristically, Pendergast laughed aloud. “No, thank you. I’m going to stay as long as I please. In fact, I’m looking forward to watching the baseball game at the Inn tonight—during which, no doubt, the New York Yankees will firmly insert the Red Sox back into the cesspit they’ve been trying to crawl out of during the American League championship.”
A long, steaming silence. Then the cop, calmly and with deliberation, reached down to his belt and unhooked a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back, sir, and turn around.”
Pendergast instantly complied. The chief slapped on the cuffs.
“Right this way, sir.” He gave Pendergast a gentle nudge toward the patrol car. Constance waited for Pendergast to say something, pull his shield. But he did nothing.
“Just a minute,” she said to the cop’s retreating back, her voice low.
He stopped and turned.
Constance looked into the man’s face. “You do this, and you’ll be the sorriest man in the state of Massachusetts.”
The chief’s eyes widened in mock fear. “Are you threatening me?”
“Constance?” Pendergast asked, his voice managing to be pleasant while at the same time full of warning.
Constance kept her attention on the chief. “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I’m merely predicting a sad and humiliating future for you.”
“And who’s going to do this, exactly—you?”
“Constance?” Pendergast said, a little louder.
She made a great effort to stifle her reply, to stem the furious flow of blood that suddenly thrummed in her ears.
“Bitch.” The cop turned and continued to ease Pendergast toward the squad car, the FBI agent going willingly. The chief opened the back door and put his hand on Pendergast’s head to push him into the seat.
“Bring the checkbook to the station,” Pendergast told Constance, reaching into his pocket with some difficulty and tossing her the car keys, “so you can make bail.”
Constance stared as the sq
uad car pulled away from the curb and went speeding down Main Street with a screech of rubber, slowing her breathing, waiting for the red mist to recede from her vision. It wasn’t until the car was out of sight that she remembered there was no one to drive their roadster.
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.
6
Percival Lake paused in the doorway of the Chart Room restaurant, spotting Pendergast immediately among the knots of diners. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, all black and white among this crowd of New England folk in madras and seersucker. In Lake’s experience, even eccentric and unconventional people carefully curated their persona. Very few truly didn’t give a goddamn what others thought. Pendergast was one.
Lake rather liked that.
Pendergast was gazing at the chalkboard—the Chart Room of the Captain Hull Inn had no printed menus—with a frown. As Lake threaded his way through the tables, Pendergast glanced up, then rose. They shook hands.
“I love this room,” said Lake as they sat down. “The old sawn pine planks on the floor, the nautical instruments, the stone fireplace. It’s very cozy, especially now, in the fall. When it gets chillier they’ll light the fire.”
“I find it rather like a coffin,” said Pendergast.
Lake laughed and glanced at the chalkboard. “The wine in here is rotgut, but the Inn has a nice selection of craft beers. There’s a local one I highly recommend—”
“I am not a drinker of beer.”
The waitress—a young woman with close-cropped hair almost as blond as Pendergast’s—came over to take their orders. “What can I get you gentlemen?” she asked perkily.
A silence as Pendergast glanced over the bottles arrayed behind the bar. Then his pale eyebrows shot up. “I see you have absinthe.”
“I think it’s sort of an experiment.”
“I’ll have that, if you please. Make sure the water you bring with it is fresh springwater, not tap, and absolutely ice cold but without ice, along with a few sugar cubes. If you could manage a slotted spoon and a reservoir glass, that would be most appreciated.”
“A reservoir glass.” The waitress scribbled everything down. “I’ll do my best.”
“Shall we order dinner?” Lake asked. “The fried clams are a specialty.”
Crimson Shore Page 3
