Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(12)

“She decided to move in with you?”

“I invited her. I don’t like being alone. And celibacy does not suit me—not at all.”

“Does she share your enthusiasm for wine?”

“She’s more a daiquiri and margarita drinker.”

“We all have our flaws,” said Pendergast. “And the town itself? How would you characterize it?”

“Quiet. Nobody here cares much that I’m a relatively famous sculptor. I can go about my business without being bothered.”

“But…?”

“But…I suppose all small towns have a dark side. The affairs and feuds, the crooked real estate deals, the incompetent selectmen—you know, New England’s version of town fathers—and of course, a chief of police who spends most of his time ticketing out-of-state cars to collect money for his salary.”

“You’ve told me some of the chief’s history already.”

“The rumor was he got into trouble down in Boston. It wasn’t enough to get him fired, just queered his career prospects. Bit of a yahoo, obviously, although he’s acquired a veneer of polish over the years.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“They say he put too much muscle on a suspect, coerced or threatened him into confessing to something he didn’t do. The guy was later exonerated by DNA and had to be released, won a big lawsuit against the city.”

“And his deputy?”

“Gavin?” Lake paused. “He’s a good fellow. Quiet. Native of Exmouth. His father used to be chief of police. College educated—U Mass Boston, I believe. Did well enough, majored in Criminal Justice. Everybody expected him to go on to great things. Instead, he came back to work on the same force his father had led—much to the town’s delight, I might add. Naturally, he has his eye on Mourdock’s job.” He paused. “Ready for a bite?”

Another glance at the chalkboard. “May I ask if there is a better restaurant in town?”

Lake laughed. “You’re sitting in numero uno. They just can’t get past the mind-set of New England pub fare: broiled scrod, burgers, fried clams. But there’s a new guy in the kitchen, they say he’s retired Navy. Maybe he’s going to improve things.”

“We shall see.”

Lake looked at him. “I’m sort of curious about you, Mr. Pendergast. I’ve been trying to place your accent. I know it’s from the South, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

“It’s a New Orleans accent found in the French Quarter.”

“I see. And what brought you to New York? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Lake could see, from the expression on the man’s face, that he did mind.

“I came to New York on an investigation some years ago. The New York Field Office asked me to stay.”

Trying to get back on safer ground, Lake asked: “Are you married? Any kids?”

Now he could see this was one question too far. The gracious expression on Pendergast’s face vanished and there was a long silence before he said, “No,” in a voice that would freeze water.

Lake covered up his embarrassment with another swig of beer. “Let’s talk about the case, then. I’m curious if you have any theories about whodunit.”

“No theories that rise above the level of rank speculation.” Pendergast glanced around, the blank look fading from his face. “Perhaps it would be more efficacious if you’d tell me about the people in this room.”

Lake was a little taken aback by this request. “You mean, their names?”

“Names, background précis, peculiarities.”

Lake ordered a second beer—this time, a Thunderhead IPA. He had a big appetite and had to eat something soon. He leaned forward. “There’s one thing they can’t screw up in this restaurant: oysters on the half shell.”

At this, Pendergast perked up. “Excellent suggestion. Let us order two dozen.”

Lake waved over the waitress and placed the order. He leaned forward. “Let’s see. The new waitress—”

“We need not discuss the waitress. Next?”

“Hmmm…” Lake looked around the room. There were only two tables occupied in addition to the bartender and a man at the bar. “The man behind the bar is Joe Dunwoody. The Dunwoodys are an old Exmouth family, go way back to colonial times. His brother Dana is one of the selectmen, and a pretty shrewd lawyer to boot. You don’t cross him.”

“And if you do?”

“You might not get a permit for that garage you want to build. Or the septic inspector might show up and red-tag your system. Petty stuff—but annoying.”

“Next.”

Lake looked around. “See that busty woman in the corner nursing a Seven and Seven? Dolores Claybrook. Town busybody. Horrible woman, the very definition of schadenfreude. Her family was one of the wealthiest in town, made their money in Gloucester—shipbuilding. A branch moved here and got into the codfishing business. They went into a decline along with the cod. She’s the last one left, buried three husbands. If you winked at her and pinched her ass you could really get her talking.”

“Perhaps some other time. Next?”

“That couple at the table near the window—Mark and Sarah Lillie. He runs the local insurance agency, dabbles in small-town investments. They own a financial-planning business on the side. His family goes way back, too—guess almost everyone in Exmouth does. Originally from Oldham.”