Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(45)

“What?”

Pendergast removed the Tupperware container from the bag, opened it, and displayed the object in its nest of Bubble Wrap.

Gavin stared, his face going white. “What the f*ck?”

“What the f*ck indeed,” came the laconic reply.





25



Constance had the hired car stop in Exmouth’s main street, well short of the Inn, to consider her options. It had been her intention to sit at the bar, as Pendergast had requested, and listen for useful gossip. She had not been in the mood to do so the night before. But now, she felt rather drained from her trip to Salem. Perhaps an interval in the Chart Room would prove less vexatious.

There was a rap on her window. Constance lowered it to see Carole Hinterwasser.

“Constance!” the woman said. “I thought that was you. My shop’s just there. Would you care to come in for a late-afternoon tea?”

Constance hesitated. “I had rather planned on returning to the Inn.”

“Just a quick cup. Come on, it would be nice to chat. I’ll have the Inn send their car for you.”

“Very well.”

Paying off the driver, she stepped out of the car and into the teeth of the wind that whipped down the Exmouth main street, carrying with it the smell of salt air and seaweed. A few scraps of newspaper whirled along with it, while a pair of screeching seagulls wheeled about overhead. She followed the woman into her shop, wondering what it was Hinterwasser wanted to talk to her about—as that was clearly her intention.

“Sit down, please.” The shop, A Taste of Exmouth, sold mostly tourist bric-a-brac: local crafts, postcards, maps and charts, T-shirts, candles, shells, and potpourri, with tea and coffee served at three tiny tables in the back of the premises. Constance took a seat while Hinterwasser asked her shop assistant—a bright-eyed young woman with close-cropped blond hair—to make them a pot of tea. A few minutes later, the assistant brought over the tea on an antique silver tea set, with china cups, bread, butter, and marmalade. She set it down on a stand next to their table, laid out their cups and silverware.

“You’re the one helping that FBI agent with the wine theft, right?” she asked with ill-concealed curiosity.

Constance nodded, a little surprised at the forward nature of the question. “I am.”

“Thank you, Flavia,” Carole said in polite dismissal.

The woman smiled at them both in turn, then moved away.

Constance said, “She’s also a waitress at the Inn.”

“Flavia Strayhorn,” Hinterwasser said. “New in town. Native New Englander, but she spent the last few months hiking around northeast Asia. She’s earning money for graduate school. And she seems to be picking up our small-town avidity for gossip.” She laughed.

“People appear to be so curious about us.”

“Well, apart from your companion being an FBI agent, your old-fashioned way of dressing has been noticed. Is there any particular reason for it?”

“No, no, it’s just what I’ve always worn.” Constance realized that—at least for the purpose of excursions such as this—she should make an effort to update her wardrobe.

“Well, your bag is new, anyway,” Carole said, nodding at the saltwater crocodile bag that hung from Constance’s chair. “A Hermès Birkin, isn’t it?”

Constance nodded.

“Beautiful. It’s probably worth more than this entire building.”

Constance said nothing. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to bring the bag—a present from Pendergast on her last birthday. Really, when it came to interacting with outsiders in this modern world, she could not seem to get anything right.

“The tea’s almost ready.” Carole pointed to the steeping pot. “It’s my special blend—Exmouth Chai. Help yourself to bread and jam.”

“Thank you, this is most kind.”

“Not at all—it’s nice to have a chance to chat.”

Constance took a slice of bread—it was fresh and homemade—then spread on some butter and marmalade. She’d had nothing to eat all day.

Hinterwasser poured out their tea, with a generous addition of milk and sugar. “I’m glad I ran into you. Did you hear about the, ah, difficult words between Mr. Pendergast and Perce yesterday?”

She took a sip. “I did.”

“I want you to know how badly Perce feels about it. It’s true that he’s been having problems selling his work lately—you know how tastes change—and he’s a little sensitive about it. He didn’t mean to fly off the handle. He realizes in retrospect that an investigator has to ask questions, examine every angle, look into everyone’s background. Even my past—which isn’t squeaky clean, unfortunately, with a dreadful stain on my record. Imagine—shoplifting.” She gave a laugh.

Constance had the impression the woman was hoping to be asked about that theft. She let the moment pass.

“If I was Agent Pendergast, I’d look at all the angles, too. The point is, Perce is a proud man. That’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to ask you whether you might tell Agent Pendergast how embarrassed Perce feels about the whole thing. He would like to encourage Agent Pendergast to continue looking into the wine theft and hopefully not allow these murders, as horrible as they are, to deflect him completely from his original intention.”