Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(35)

“He’s certainly a manly man, isn’t he?” Mrs. K. offers. God, did she have binoculars trained on him?

“Malone? Sure, I guess so.” I pause in mopping the floor of the tiny kitchen.

“I’ve always liked the manly ones, you know. Mr. Kandinsky wasn’t like that, but he was a dear. He never understood why I just loved Charles Bronson, but I did! I think I’ve seen every Death Wish ever made.”

“Well, we’ll have to rent them, won’t we?” I say, giving her a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.

Upstairs in my neat little apartment, I still have no messages. My mail contains only credit card offers and my phone bill. Nothing from Malone to indicate he’s interested in me.

By five o’clock, I’m climbing the walls. I’ve cleaned, baked, dropped in on Chantal at town hall and gone grocery shopping. I’ve read a little, took Colonel to the beach and then brushed his fur afterward. I decide it’s time for a walk.

Colonel pads after me as we leave the center of our little town. Gideon’s Cove hugs the rocky shore, as the town was founded for shipbuilding purposes. I can see the turret of Christy and Will’s house, the gold-painted cross of St. Mary’s. I head in the opposite direction.

The air is soft and damp, and while it will probably drop into the low forties tonight, it’s still pretty mild. House lights are on, giving a cozy feel to the neighborhood, and I can smell various meals cooking…the Mastersons are having chicken…something garlicky and delicious at the Ferrises’ house…Stokowskis are having cabbage…Colonel licks his chops and lingers at that driveway.

We walk uphill, away from the water. Rolly and his wife are sitting on their porch. “Hello, Christy, dear,” calls out Mrs. Rolly.

“Hello,” I call back. “It’s Maggie, actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course. Christy’s the one with the baby. What was I thinking?”

“That’s okay,” I answer. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Rolly answers. “Enjoy it before the black flies hatch out.”

“You betcha.”

I turn onto Harbor Street, a neighborhood of cottages and bungalows owned mostly by summer people. The street looks down onto the water, and I can see the boats bobbing there on the tide, the white of the hulls almost glowing in the deepening dusk.

Feeling like Harriet the Spy (a book I must have read ten times as a kid), I slip into the yard of one such cottage. I know the owners, the Carrolls, since they’re summertime regulars at the diner, and I know they live in Boston. Their house is dark, the curtains drawn. I follow the little walk that goes along the side of the house to the backyard. Shielded by dusk and their row of hedges, I peek at the property that backs up to the Carrolls’. If the listing in the phone book is correct, Malone lives here.

It’s an ordinary little yard with an oak tree that’s just beginning to bud out. There’s a small back entryway with a couple of garbage cans lined up neatly against the outside wall. A light shines in a window. Suddenly, the door opens, and Malone appears with a bag of trash. He takes the top off the garbage can and drops the bag in, replaces the lid and then goes back into the house. It takes about three seconds.

Though it’s dusk now, I feel a rush of guilt and embarrassment. Imagine if he caught me, lurking in his neighbors’ yard, stalking him…it’s so high school. Still, I wait a few minutes, hoping to see him again, in the window, maybe, or back out with his recycling. Nothing. No one. A crow caws in a tree. The wind blows, and I shiver. Colonel grows bored and flops down under a tree.

“Okay, I’m coming,” I tell him. One last peek. Nothing. I turn around to leave.

A man is standing an inch from my face. I scream and leap back, my hands fluttering around like a pair of frightened birds. “Jesus, Malone! You scared me! God, I didn’t even hear you! Sneaking up on a person like that. Jeez.” I press my hand against my heart, which is thundering like a racehorse on speed. Malone looks at me, and the deepening creases of his face may indicate amusement. Or irritation. Hard to tell. “You are one quiet guy, Malone.”

“Wanna come in?” he asks, a trace of humor in his gruff voice.

“Um…” Now that I no longer fear for my life, it occurs to me that I’ve been busted. “Right. Well. I was, you know, walking. Going for a walk. With Colonel here. And, um, well…here we are. Spying on you.”

“Try knocking next time,” he says, heading into his yard. After a pause, I follow.

He holds the door open for me, reaching down to pat Colonel’s head. My dog apparently has a good vibe, because he walks in without pause and begins sniffing. I come in a bit less bravely, and Malone closes the door behind me. I am trapped in his lair.

We’re in a small kitchen with a little counter along one side. The floor is green linoleum, the counter green Formica, the worst of the 1970s. I try to see everything without being obvious, but I miss the boat, ignoring Malone’s outstretched hand for a second or two too long. I look at it. Does he want to shake hands? Take me somewhere?

“Your coat?” he says. It takes me a minute to decipher his rumble as human words.

“Right! Here. Thank you. That’s great. Okay.”

His eyebrows rise slightly, but he says nothing, just hangs my coat on a hook near the door and takes off his own.