Big Summer(66)

A large, fluffy white dog lay curled on an oval-shaped blue and green rug, eyes closed and pink tongue protruding. The gray-haired woman sat behind a metal desk that was cluttered with papers and folders and a small electrical fan that whirred as it turned. She was dressed in a loose green T-shirt that read PROVINCETOWN YACHT CLUB in black letters, and a pair of faded tan cotton clamdiggers, and orange Crocs on her big feet. The dog cracked an eye open when we entered, determined we did not constitute a threat, and promptly gave a loud sigh and went back to sleep.

“Oh, what a beautiful dog!” I said, hoping to appeal to her, dog-lover to dog-lover. “Who’s this good boy?”

“Lance,” she said, in the same sour, begrudging mutter.

“Hi, Lance!” I said to the dog. He didn’t open his eye again, but his tail thumped twice on the rug, raising dust. “Can I pet him?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said.

Darshi cleared her throat and drew herself up straight.

“Thank you for talking with us,” I began. “I’m Daphne Berg, and this is Darshi Shah. We’re visiting from New York City.”

“Dora Fitzsimmons,” said the woman, confirming that she was the one I’d spoken to earlier. She didn’t offer her hand, but she did nod at the chairs. “Have a seat.” Darshi and I settled ourselves. “You two got a kid?” Her down-east accent was so heavy it sounded like she was asking if Darshi and I had gutted a child. I bit my lip as a nervous giggle escaped.

“What? Oh, no! Just a few questions. I, um, called you earlier this morning…”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned.

“I’m not a reporter! I promise,” I said, holding my hands in the air. “I just met a guy last night, and I need to find him, and he said he’d been a camper here…”

“Sailor,” she interrupted.

“Pardon me?”

“We call the kids sailors. Or skippers, once they’ve passed their test.”

“Oh. Sorry. Sailor. Anyhow, he’s about my age, twenty-five or -six, and he was here about sixteen years ago. His name—at least, the name he gave me—is Nick Andros.”

“Nup.” Dora picked up one of the folders on her desk, dismissing us without having to say we’d been dismissed.

“Can I describe him to you? He had curly brown hair and a scar on his ankle.”

“Nup,” she repeated.

“Did you know Drue Cavanaugh?” Darshi asked.

The woman leaned forward. Her chair creaked. The dog opened one eye again, keeping it trained on me and Darshi as his mistress stared at us.

Swallowing hard, I said, “I was at Drue’s house last night when I met the guy. He mentioned knowing her.”

“The Lathrop house,” the woman corrected. “The Cavanaughs sold their place here. Years ago.”

“Right,” I said. “Although, actually, I think I was at the Weinbergs’ house. That’s who Nick told me it belonged to. Drue’s family had rented it for the weekend. For Drue’s wedding.”

Some expression moved across the woman’s face, too fast for me to read it. Sorrow, I thought, and scorn, too.

“Drue was one of my sailors, ayuh.” I waited for more. More was not forthcoming.

“Was Drue a good sailor?” Darshi asked.

Dora gave a single slow blink. “Good enough.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?”

“I shan’t speak ill of the dead.” After a moment of silence, it was clear that she’d said all she meant to say about Drue.

I looked at Darshi, hoping she’d pick up the interrogation, but she was staring into the dim recesses of the building and appeared to be lost in thought.

I turned back to Dora. “Do you know a fishing boat called the Lady Lu?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I know most of the charters, sure.”

“This guy, Nick, he told me he worked on a boat called the Lady Lu. Do you know anyone connected to the boat? A captain or something?”

“Skipper,” Dora said. I heard, or imagined I could, amusement in her voice. Wonderful, I thought. It was nice that the two landlubbers were providing her with a laugh. “His name’s Dan Brannigan. But if he’s out t’sea, there’s no way to reach him.”

“No radio?” Darshi asked. Her voice was cool. “Aren’t ships required to have radios, so the Coast Guard can reach them?”

“For emergencies, sure.” She gave us a look just short of scornful. “You two don’t look like an emergency.”

“Ms. Fitzsimmons. Drue is dead,” I said. “Which you know already. And the police need to talk to this Nick, or whoever he was. He crashed the party, and he gave me a fake name, and the police are trying to find him.” I swallowed, telling myself to breathe, attempting to calm down. “We’re trying to do him a favor.”

She stared at us, her gaze direct. “Are you, now?”

“I am.” I put my hand against my heart. “I swear.” Another crumb of a memory had just surfaced. “He told me Drue used to lock him in the supply closet. And send him on snipe hunts. And make up marks of sail.”

“Points of sail,” said Dora. She stared at us for what felt like a long time. “Look. I’d help you if I could. But I can’t.”