Constance felt confusion mingled with rising annoyance. She was botching this. But she didn’t dare lie—not in a small town like this. “I’m here with Mr. Pendergast, the private investigator. He’s looking into the theft of the wine cellar.”
“Ah! That fellow in the red car who got himself arrested yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Good for him. Chief Mourdock is a horse’s ass.” Apparently, Worley felt getting arrested by the police chief was something very much in Pendergast’s favor. “If you could be more specific about what you’re looking for, maybe I could help.”
“I wish I could be more specific. I’m trying to learn the history of the town.”
“It was a shame someone stole Lake’s wine. He’s a nice gent. But I’m not sure the town’s history has anything to do with it.”
“We’re trying to be thorough. One of the things I’m interested in is the history of the town’s African American population.”
“And a very interesting history.”
“Please go on.”
“Down near the old waterfront was what they called Dill Town. It was the black section of town.”
“Why Dill Town?”
“Named after the freed slave who originally settled there. John Dill. Most of the residents were sailors in the early days. That area was actually more prosperous for a time than the white half of town.”
“Why was that?”
“They went out to sea longer, worked on whalers and grain ships. When you’re out to sea, nobody gives a damn about skin color. It’s what you could do. And the crews on those ships were polyglot.”
“But back on land—in Exmouth—was there racial tension?”
“Not at first, when there was plenty of work for everyone. But later on there was—resentment about the prosperity of Dill Town. You see, the Exmouth whites were mostly coastal fishermen. They didn’t go to sea for years at a time a-whaling, like the blacks did. And then, thanks to Krakatoa, things got bad for everyone.”
“Krakatoa?”
“Yes, indeed. Late 1883 it was, the year Krakatoa erupted. There was no summer for Exmouth the following year; folks say there were frosts in every month of 1884. The crops died and the fishing industry failed. By that time the whaling industry was already suffering, and the easy money it once brought in was no more. Things went from bad to worse until there was an incident where a black youth was blamed for raping a white woman. The man was lynched.”
“A lynching? In Massachusetts?”
“Yes, ma’am. They strung him up, threw his body in the bay. In 1902, that was. For the blacks, that was the beginning of the end for Dill Town. It was almost empty by the time the Yankee Clipper blew through in ’38, flattening Oldham.”
“Oldham?”
“A very backward old community that used to exist south of here, on Crow Island. It’s part of that wildlife preserve now, you know.”
“Let’s get back to the lynching. Any idea who was responsible?”
“The usual drunken vigilante types. It’s a matter of shame now, and you won’t get anyone to talk about it.”
“But you’re talking about it.”
“My family’s ‘from away,’ as they say around here. My parents moved here from Duxbury. And I’ve seen more of the world than many of these townsfolk. Don’t forget, I played Macbeth in Boston.”
Constance held out her hand. “I didn’t introduce myself. Constance Greene. Thank you for all the information.”
He shook it. “Nice to meet you, Constance. Ken Worley, at your service.”
“If I have more questions, may I come back?”
“It would be my pleasure. And I hope you and Mr. Pendergast will be able to enjoy our little town while you’re here.” He threw out a hand and ended with a declamation:
This castle hath a pleasant seat; the breeze
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses
Constance knew it was possible the man might be of further use to them. However, her patience was now at an extremity. “Air,” she said.
Worley blinked. “Excuse me?”
“‘Air.’ Not ‘breeze.’ Thank you again for your help, Mr. Worley.” And with the faintest of curtsies she exited the building.
10
Bradley Gavin came out from the back offices, sack lunch in hand. He stopped when he saw a figure lounging in the doorway of the police station’s waiting room. It was that strange private investigator, Pendergast. Gavin was already curious about the man who had managed to get the chief so riled up. Not that it was hard to do—all the chief needed to get worked up was to be given some actual work. For the past two years, Gavin had done virtually all the policing in town…while the chief concerned himself with writing up parking tickets. He had six more months of that, and then Mourdock would retire his lazy ass and Gavin would take over as chief. Or so he hoped; it depended, of course, on the town’s three selectmen. But he’d been a dedicated officer, his family was old Exmouth stock, he was part of the town’s inner circle, and his father had been chief before him, so he felt his chances were good.
Putting his lunch to one side, Gavin glanced back at Pendergast, wondering whether the man wasn’t pushing his luck a little, showing up here so soon after his arrest.
“Can I help you?” he asked politely.
The man in the door unbent himself, took a step forward, and extended his hand. “We haven’t formally met. I’m Pendergast.”
Gavin took it. “I’m Sergeant Gavin.”
Now another figure stepped into the waiting room from outside: it was Pendergast’s secretary, or assistant, or whatever she was, the petite young woman named Constance. She looked at him silently with her strange violet eyes. Her bobbed hair was a deep, rich mahogany and, though the cut of her clothing was severe, it could not entirely conceal the curvaceous form beneath. With some effort, Gavin returned his gaze to Pendergast.
“Am I correct in my understanding that you and the chief are the entirety of the Exmouth constabulary?”
Constabulary. He could see how this guy could get under the chief’s skin. “We’re a small department,” Gavin said.
“I need access to some files for my investigation. Are you the person who can help me?”
“Um, no, that would have to be the chief.”
“Excellent! Could you get him for me?”
Gavin gave the guy a long, steady look. “You really want to go there?”
“Go where? I’m not going anywhere.”
Gavin couldn’t tell if the guy was a wiseass or a dumbass. He turned. “Sally, would you buzz the chief that Mr., ah, Pendergast is here to see him?”
The receptionist looked nervous. “Are you sure—?”
“Yes, please.”
She reluctantly pressed the buzzer and murmured into her headset.
Gavin knew the chief would come out. Locking up Pendergast the day before hadn’t gotten the chip off his shoulder, and he’d been grumbling and bitching about the man and his continued presence in town ever since.
This should prove entertaining.
A moment later, Chief Mourdock appeared out of the back offices. He was moving slowly and with gravitas, spoiling for a fight. He stopped at the entrance to the waiting area, looking from Pendergast to Constance Greene and back again. “What is it?”
“Thank you, Chief, for meeting with me.” Pendergast stepped forward, whisking a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I have here a list of files I need for my investigation into the wine theft. They consist of your reports on home burglaries and home invasions over the past twelve months. Also, I’d like to know whether there are any ex-convicts living in the town. And I would appreciate borrowing Sergeant Gavin here to help me review these files and answer questions as they arise.”
He stopped. There was a long, sizzling silence as Chief Mourdock stared at the man. And then he began to laugh—a loud, mirthless, guttural laugh. “I can’t believe it. You, coming in her
e, making demands of me?”
“I have not completed my investigation.”
“Get out. Now. I don’t want to see your skinny, undertaking ass again until court.”
“Or?”
“Or I’ll cuff you like I did before and you can spend a night here as my special guest.”
“Are you threatening me with another arrest?”
The chief’s face had flushed a dark red and his meaty hands were clenched and flexing. Gavin had never seen the man so angry. Mourdock took a step forward. “Last fucking chance, dickhead.”
Pendergast did not move. “I am merely asking for cooperation in seeing some files. A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”
“That’s it. Gavin, put the steel on him.”
Gavin, alarmed, had not expected to be dragged into this. “Um, what’s the charge, Chief?”
The chief turned on him in a fury. “Don’t you question me! He’s trespassing. Cuff him.”
“Trespassing?” Constance Greene said, her voice low and full of unexpected menace. “In a public place?”
Suddenly, this wasn’t as diverting as Gavin had assumed it would be. He stared at the chief, who glared back at him. Reluctantly, he turned to Pendergast. “Turn around, please.”
As Gavin removed the cuffs from his belt, Constance Greene moved forward.
Quickly, Pendergast made a kind of suppressing gesture to her. Then he put his hands behind his back and turned around. As Gavin was about to put on the cuffs, Pendergast said, “Could you please remove my badge wallet from my back pocket?”
Badge wallet? The man’s tone was suddenly cold, and Gavin felt a prickling premonition that something terrible was about to happen. He removed the leather wallet.
“Transfer it to my jacket pocket, if you will.”
As Gavin fumbled with the wallet, the chief snatched it from him and it fell open, exposing a flash of blue and gold.
There was a moment of silence.
“What the hell’s this?” the chief asked, staring at it as if he’d never seen anything like it before.
Pendergast remained silent.
Mourdock read the writing on the badge. “You’re…an FBI agent?”
“So you are literate, after all,” Constance Greene said.
The chief’s face was suddenly almost as white as Pendergast’s. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“It’s irrelevant. I’m not on duty.”
“But… Jesus Christ! You should have presented your credentials. You just let me assume…”
“Assume what?”
“Assume…that you were just some…” His voice choked up.
“Just some private citizen you could mistreat and bully?” Constance Greene said in her silky, old-fashioned voice. “I warned you of this.”
As Gavin watched, Pendergast advanced on the police chief. “Chief Mourdock, in all my years as a special agent, I have rarely seen an abuse of police power such as I have experienced in your town. Yesterday, over a minor parking infraction, you insulted me in vulgar terms, threatened me with physical violence, and arrested and jailed me without cause. Also, you used a pejorative term highly offensive to the LGBT community.”
“LBG… What?… I did not!”
“And finally, you failed to Mirandize me.”
“Lies. All lies! I did Mirandize you. You can’t prove any of this.”
“Fortunately, the entire interaction was captured on videotape by the security camera of a clothing store directly across the street. I now have a copy of that tape, thanks to Special Agent in Charge Randolph Bulto of the Boston Field Office, who did me the favor of getting the necessary warrant just this morning.”
“I…I…” The chief could barely speak.
Turning to Gavin, Pendergast nodded at the cuffs. “Will you put those things away, please?”
Gavin hastily returned them to his service belt.
“Thank you.” Pendergast took a step back. “Chief Mourdock, in the words of a certain poet, there are two roads we could take right now. Would you like to know what they are?”
“Roads?” The chief was unable to keep up, almost silly with shock.
“Yes, roads. The first road is the more traveled one, the one where I file a complaint against you for abuse of police authority, with the videotape as proof to back up my own lengthy list of charges. This would end your career on the very cusp of retirement, destroy your reputation, endanger your pension, and quite possibly lead to the shame of community service or even a minor jail sentence. And then there is the other road.” He waited, crossing his arms.
“What other road?” the chief finally croaked.
“And you a New Englander… The road less traveled, of course! That is where you throw yourself wholeheartedly into helping me with my investigation. In. Every. Way. On this road, my colleague SAC Bulto misplaces the videotape and we never speak of this matter again. Oh, and of course all charges against me are dropped.” He paused. “Which road shall we take?”
“That road,” the chief said hastily. “I’ll take the, uh, road less traveled.”
“That road shall make all the difference. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Here.” And Pendergast waved his document under the chief’s nose.
Mourdock almost dropped the note in his eagerness to grab it. “I’ll have these files for you by tomorrow morning.”
The FBI agent exchanged a brief glance with his young assistant. She glanced in the direction of the chief, her expression one of disdainful satisfaction, then turned and left the station without another word.
“Much obliged.” Pendergast extended his hand. “I can see that you and I are going to be fast friends.”
As Gavin watched the two exit, he thought: He’s formidable for sure, but that Constance Greene, she’s scary…in a strangely intriguing way.
11
Walt Adderly, proprietor of the Captain Hull Inn, stepped out of his office and into the narrow passageway that led to the Chart Room restaurant. He peered into the dim confines. It was one thirty PM, and while most of the lunchtime diners had left—people ate their meals early in Exmouth—Adderly knew from checking the receipts that they’d had a decent crowd.
His eye stopped when it reached the figure sitting alone at table 8. It was that fellow who was looking into the wine theft for Lake. Percival had told Adderly the man was an FBI agent, which of course Adderly didn’t believe: Lake liked his little jokes. The sculptor had also told him that the man—Pendergast, Adderly recalled from the hotel ledger—was rather eccentric. This, at least, was believable: the guy was dressed in a suit of unrelieved black, like someone in mourning, and even in the dimness of the restaurant his pale face stood out like a harvest moon.
As Adderly watched from the shelter of the passageway, Margie, the senior waitress, bustled up with the man’s order. “Here you go,” she said. “Fried catfish. Enjoy!”
“Indeed,” Adderly heard Pendergast murmur in reply. He eyed the plate for a moment. He picked up a fork, poked here and there at the fish, took a tentative bite. Then he put his fork down again. He glanced around the restaurant—it was now empty except for old Willard Stevens, finishing up his third and last cup of coffee—and motioned the waitress over.
“Yes?” asked Margie as she came back.
“May I inquire as to who prepared this?”
“Who?” Margie blinked at this unexpected question. “Our cook, Reggie.”
“Is he your regular cook?”
“These days, yes.”
“I see.” And with this, the man picked up his plate, stood, and walked past the other tables, around the bar, and through the double doors that led into the kitchen.
This was so unusual that Adderly stood where he was for a moment, perplexed. He’d had people so pleased with their meals that they’d asked the cook to come out and be complimented. He’d also had a few send their meals back for various reasons. But he’d never seen a patron just get up and walk into the kitchen before, carrying his lunch with
him.
It occurred to him that he’d better go see what was up.
He stepped out of the passage into the restaurant proper, then into the kitchen. Usually a bustle of activity, the place was now almost still. The dishwasher, the two waitresses, the line cook, and Reggie all stood in a huddle, watching the man named Pendergast as he wandered around the food preparation area, opening drawers, picking up various utensils and examining them before replacing them. Then he turned his attention to Reggie.
“You are the cook, I presume?” Pendergast asked.
Reggie nodded.
“And what, pray tell, are your qualifications?”
Reggie looked as surprised as the rest. “Four years as a mess specialist in the Navy.”
“Of course. Well, perhaps we are not completely without hope.” Pendergast lifted his lunch plate and handed it to Reggie. “To begin with, one simply cannot get good catfish this far north. And I assume this was frozen to begin with—right?”
Reggie’s expression began growing defensive. “So?”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, man, we’re on the ocean! Surely you have access to fresh fish—lingcod, pollack, flounder, rockfish?”
“There’s the catch Wait hauled in last night,” Reggie said after a long pause.
This was too much. Adderly stepped forward to intervene. He didn’t want to lose his best cook. “Mr. Pendergast,” he said, “is there a problem?”
“I am going to cook myself lunch. Reggie, here, is welcome to act as sous-chef.”
Adderly wondered if this Pendergast was not just eccentric, but perhaps a little crazy. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but we can’t have customers in the kitchen, disturbing the peace—”
“The only peace that has been disturbed is that of my gastrointestinal tract. But if this will reassure you…” And the man reached into the pocket of his suit, pulled out a shield of gold and blue, and showed it to Adderly. It read FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
So Lake hadn’t been kidding, after all. Adderly took a step back and Pendergast continued. “Tell me about this catch of Wait’s?”
Reggie exchanged glances with Adderly. The innkeeper nodded. Just play along, he mouthed. Reggie nodded back, stepped over to the walk-in fridge, opened the door, then stopped abruptly.
Crimson Shore Page 6
