Chapter 3

The next morning felt chilly, although sunlight peeked disarmingly through the blinds. Fargo was a warm, welcome ball in the middle of my back. When he sensed I was awake, he sat up, yawned, stretched and thumped his tail on the bed. Nice thing about dogs, they always awoke in a good humor. If he’d had a problem yesterday, he’d forgotten it; something might go wrong today, but he wasn’t projecting about it. A great way to live. I was envious.

I let him out in the backyard, turned on the coffee, took a fast shower and dressed in my usual uniform of sweatshirt, jeans, crew socks and sneakers. I let the dog in and he addressed himself to the dry food he’d ignored the night before. I addressed myself to a cup of steaming Costa Rican coffee and the first of five cigarettes I allow myself each day. I sometimes exceed that number, but lecture myself sternly whenever I do.

I was halfway through the second cuppa when Fargo began his “To Beach or Not to Beach” soliloquy. He sat looking longingly at his leash as it hung by the back door. He rested his chin on my thigh and rolled his eyes. Finally, he pawed my leg and let out a frustrated yip. Before he could call the SPCA and report my cruelty, I stood up, grabbed my jacket and his leash and we headed for the car and Race Point.

On arriving, I parked and let him out of the car to run and fished my camera out of the compartment in the ever-present hope of a good shot. I never knew what it might be: a surf fisherman reeling in a catch, gulls fighting over a dead clam, a little fiddler crab standing beside his hole, waving his single claw and daring the tide to cover him.

It was a top-ten morning, so fresh and crisp and sweet you couldn’t help thinking of apples. It was windless and the ocean was calm. As I walked down the dune and along the waterline, tiny wavelets whispered that the ocean was still there, however. It might be serene today, but tomorrow it could be raging. It was always well to be reminded of that.

Fargo ran—a satiny, powerful, burnished black bundle of energy. He sported in and out of the chill water, sounding that deep bell from sheer exuberance, biting playfully at the water as it splashed him. The tide had uncovered what looked like part of an old railroad tie, and on its upper end sat a seagull, gazing keenly about for the unwary crab. I angled slowly around him, looking for the best shot, and took one I knew I’d like. I was about to take a second when Fargo could resist no more, and charged him.

The gull flew, complaining loudly, gaining height slowly in the still air, and Fargo jumped hopefully upward. I got a shot of Fargo at the full extension of his leap, straining every muscle, as the gull flapped and struggled for altitude. Fargo missed, but I didn’t. I should have a photo that was a winner! Maybe I’d offer it as one to be used at the bank, give Fargo his place in the history of the town. It seemed like a great idea. It also reminded me that I had work to do, and I turned for the car.

At home I settled dutifully at my desk with the folders of the three finalists for Mr. Ellis’s job as head of his Financial Planning Department. Two women and a man—well, ladies first. We had Nancy Whitfield Baker. Hmmm, I thought, good power-name. It would sound impressive over a phone. Yeah, well, Nancy, what else about you? Brought up in Weston, Mass. An only child, thirty-three years old. BS in business from Boston U. and advanced courses for a Certified Financial Planner at Rolles. Heavy-duty stuff. Mother a housewife but “very active in charitable works.” How nice. Father a VP at Independence Bank in Waltham. Now, that wouldn’t hurt a kid going into finance for a career.

There were no surprises thus far in Nancy’s dossier. She’d worked over a year at Dad’s bank in Waltham, but then probably wanting a wider horizon, or less of Mom and Dad, she went with Fleet Boston Financial, stayed nearly five years and moved to Merrill Lynch. Now, after two years there she had worked her way up and was handling some smaller corporate 401-k-accounts on her own. It all sounded very good. Ambition, ability. Question, Nancy: Why do you want to move to a rather small family bank in a tourist/fishing town?

The next folder belonged to Cynthia Alice Hart, born thirty-one years ago and raised in Oak Hill, Connecticut. Two older brothers... she’d probably learned to defend her rights. She was also probably Daddy’s little girl. Mom and Dad owned a bookstore in Oak Hill, a bedroom town for Hartford. Cynthia took her business degree at UConn and her advanced courses at Brown University in Providence. She, too, had worked in a local bank before returning to Providence to work as an assistant broker for Morgan Stanley. Two years later she went with a small firm named Kudlow Investments (here someone—I assumed Ellis—had penciled in “small old-family firm; excellent reputation”). She’d been with them over four years now and handled most of their IRA and SEI accounts.

Cynthia had noted in her application that it was okay to contact Kudlow as a reference. That was unusual—ordinarily you don’t want your current employer to know you’re shopping around for a new one. That bothered me a little. Had Kudlow suggested she find a new home?

I moved on to George Hampton Mills, a Harvard man, who said he was forty-two. I mentally added five, since he had not mentioned his graduation year. That didn’t bother me—people were afraid to be over forty nowadays, sadly. They all lied. On the surface his career was impressive. He’d been with several prestigious brokerage houses, but his next-to-last job had been with Thalgrun Investors in Norwalk, Connecticut. He lived in Norwalk, and now worked for a firm I didn’t recognize in Darien. He was not a Certified Financial Planner like his two female counterparts, but “felt that his long experience in, and personal studies of the market and its investors, rendered him more than competent in that arena.” Thank you for sharing, George.

George hadn’t put any dates on his recitation of jobs, either. That usually meant you hadn’t stayed long and/or there were some other jobs in between that you weren’t mentioning. Not pertinent in a guy his age. Most people had a skeleton or two.

His wife was a part-time real estate salesperson—just the addition Provincetown needed. We already had about one real estate broker for every three buildings in town, including phone booths. I didn’t need to wonder why he thought of asking for this job; he gave his reasons forthrightly in his application. “My wife and I wish to leave the hurly-burly of the New York City/Fairfield County society and return to a more value-oriented life, where we can appreciate nature and enjoy the company of those for whom we truly care.”

Sounded great, grammatically, if nothing else. Of course, since they had no children, I wondered whom they were bringing along that they truly cared about and whose values concerned them. The family cat? Oh, well.

Adhering to Sonny’s offer, I called Nacho at the police station. I had gone to school with her when she was called Mary Patricia Malley. Even then, she always had a snack in hand: nachos, chips, peanuts, popcorn, cookies. The nickname of Nacho appeared when she joined the police force. By now, most people who ate like Nacho would be a 400-pound toothless wreck. Not her—she still slid easily into a size eight dress and had lovely straight, white teeth. She was, in a word, disgusting.

She was also a computer whiz and a nice person. She agreed readily to “run your critters through and see what floats up. I’ll fax you whatever I get.” I knew if there was anything to float, it would do so for Mary Pat. I just had to give her a little time.

While waiting, I began to draft a rough itinerary. It seemed that the quickest, easiest and probably cheapest way to go would be to take the first flight Monday morning to Boston, rent a car and check out Ms. Baker first, visiting BU and Rolles and Fleet Boston. I wouldn’t phone ahead for appointments. I’d learned that people found it too easy to avoid seeing you, and you ended up getting a minimum of information over the phone, from a file often in the hands of a person who didn’t even know the subject of your investigation. Anyway, I liked to see faces when I asked questions. So even though it sometimes meant waiting awhile, I preferred to arrive unannounced. Those three calls should about finish Monday, and Ms. Baker.

I pulled out a road atlas to plan my remaining trip. It looked as if any way I went would be a great circle route. So I figured I’d visit the University of Connecticut Tuesday morning to check on Ms. Hart. Then I’d go down to Norwalk to see what Mr. Mills’ stint at Thalgrun had to offer. Finally, on Wednesday I could swing back through Providence and polish off Ms. Hart. Unless I got tied up somewhere by something complicated, I might make it home by Wednesday night! Great! Being on the road had long since lost its charm for me, even when someone else was paying.

I saw Fargo trot purposefully across the front yard and looked to see what he was after. He went up to the gate, where the postman gave him his daily biscuit payola and then began to stuff things into my mailbox. I was not at all interested in the bills and junk he was delivering, but his very presence told me that it was lunchtime, and that I had little in the house to eat. It would be impractical, I told myself, to bother shopping today, when I was leaving Monday. And there was nothing I could do for my trip until I heard from Nacho. As I tended to pack while chasing down the runway after my flight, I wouldn’t do that today. So-oo, why not just whip down to the Rat for one of Joe’s delicious pastrami sandwiches? Why not, indeed?

As Fargo and I walked toward the Rat, two men approached us. Fargo moved closer to me and eyed them appraisingly. One man steered the other into the street to give us more than ample right-of-way, and both nodded politely as we passed. Most people didn’t tend to argue with a ninety-pound Labrador, and I always felt safe with Fargo in attendance. He and I did, however, have one little secret we had never shared with a soul.

In moments of great stress or alarm—like the time a duck hunter fired both barrels of his shotgun as we stood nearby, or the time a little cocker spaniel bitch found Fargo’s sniffs a bit too friendly and nipped his ear—in times like that, Fargo tended to leap into my arms for safety. Or at least try. On two occasions I had found myself flat on my back with the dog sprawled across my chest, which had been humiliating for both of us. I had now learned to do a quick sidestep and grab his collar in moments of crisis.

We never discussed this one tiny fault. He was always there. He loved me. He looked impressive. It was enough. And never— never —had he asked me why on earth I was wearing that blouse with that pair of slacks.

Turning down the alley to the Rat, we were confronted by a witch, wearing the traditional black hat and some sort of black cape over what looked to be a nightgown. At first I thought she was wearing a mask, but then realized she really was an old woman. A gray pigtail hung partway down her back. She had large, almost bony-looking ears, and her beaked nose and up-tilted chin almost formed a C clamp across her toothless mouth. Her liver-spotted hands and wattled arms were outraised as she quavered, “Beware! Stay away! Visit not the den of Satan. Of demon rum do not partake. Your world will reel and objects break, and you will rue the day! Stay away! ”

I looked down at Fargo, pressed close against my leg, eyes rolling to show the whites. “Easy, my love.” I chuckled at his strange behavior. “We have just been cursed by a real live witch, that’s all. Tomorrow is Halloween, you know.” I stroked his head and knelt to hug him, as he was truly frightened. After a few comforting murmurs he stopped quivering and I stood up to confront the witch. “Well, you sure impressed my dog.” Where the hell was she? Where could she have got to? She must have gone around me, up the street—funny I hadn’t heard her.

I walked on down the alley, tied Fargo to the anchor and went inside the Rat, half expecting to see the witch at the bar. As I paused to adjust to the dim light, I heard my name called and spotted my friend Cassie, waving me to her table. I walked through the determinedly nautical dé cor of the room. Fishing nets were draped along the walls, sprinkled lavishly with starfish, plus scallop and clam shells. Lobster pots and markers dangled from open rafters, and a couple of kedge anchors lurked in dark corners to bark the shins of the unwary. The engine telegraph from a long-forgotten ferry stood stiffly under the back window, its indicator frozen on “Dead Slow Astern.” Which just about said it all as far as the Rat was concerned.

I sat down and asked, “What’s new? ”

“I ran away from home, ” she answered. “Lainey’s on a cleaning binge.”

“I hear things like that and it makes me glad I’m single, ” I answered.

“There are those times, even with the best, which of course Lainey is.”

Joe appeared to take my order. I looked at Cassie’s platter of stuffed clams, sliced tomatoes and fries and immediately forgot pastrami. “Just ditto Cassie’s order, Joe, only bring me a Bud instead of a Coke.”

Cassie sighed, looking sadly at her glass of soda. “Want a beer? ” Joe asked her.

She shook her head. “Can’t. I’m flying.” He nodded and walked away.

We both knew what she meant. Cassie owned Outer Cape Charter Service, of which she was president, pilot, receptionist and mechanic. Her plane was a lovely little twin-engine Beechcraft which would carry six passengers, seven if she let someone ride in the cockpit with her. She cared for the plane like a mother with a newborn babe, and I would have flown round the world with her in an instant.

“Got a busy weekend? ” I asked.

“Yeah. Halloween’s always a buster. I’m picking up four guys at three o’clock, another four at five o’clock and five gals at seven. Hope I’m not late for that one. Then, I bring over six guys in the morning. And I get to take them all back on Sunday, except for the six guys who’re leaving Monday midmorning.”

Joe set a platter in front of me and I began to eat. His wife, Billie, made great stuffed clams—lots of clam, little stuffing. I was happy for Cassie’s busy weekend. I knew her business, too, would drop off during the winter. “I’m going over to Boston myself Monday morning, ” I said. “I just got the last seat on the Cape Air eight-thirty. I wanted to catch the early bird, but they were sold out.”

“If you’ve got a problem, I’ll run you over early, ” Cassie offered.

I shook my head. I knew she meant it, but all she would charge me would be regular commercial rate, and I sometimes wondered if she charged me full price for that. “It’s not a problem.” I explained my trip and she nodded.

“Okay. But, anytime. You know that. Well”—she wiped her mouth—“into the wild blue yonder. Oh, say, you are coming to our party tomorrow night, aren’t you? ”

“Hell, Cassie, I don’t know. You know, nobody I really want to bring, yet I don’t much want to come alone, either. I’m kind of a drone lately.”

“Oh, come on, you’ll enjoy it. There might even be somebody interesting. And Lainey will be disappointed if you don’t come. Oh, remember, you gotta be in costume! ”

“Well, yeah, I guess.”

As Joe placed Cassie’s check on the table, I asked him, “Say, Joe, who’s the witch spouting curses outside? ”

“I dunno, what’s the punch line? ”

“I’m serious, some old lady was waving her arms around warning about demon rum and things spinning and breaking. I thought maybe you’d hired your mother-in-law to provide a Halloween scare or something.”

“My mother-in-law would make the Marines run for cover, but fortunately she’s parking her broom in Orlando these days. I’ll go see who it is. Maybe scoot her down to Fisherman’s Cove... she’d be right at home.”

As Joe turned to leave I raised a big bite of stuffed clam, covered in sauce, toward my mouth... and dumped it in my lap. Joe gave his familiar sour grin and handed me his bar towel. “Hex working already, I see.”

We all laughed, and he and Cassie walked away, Cassie calling over her shoulder, “Stay away from my airplane, lady, you’re jinxed! ”

I concentrated on lunch and tried to get my good humor back, difficult with a splotch shaped something like Idaho on my pant leg. I heard Fargo give a couple of sharp barks outside. That was extremely unusual here, and I looked up quickly. What I saw sent my good mood receding further into the background.

Ben Fratos walked in with his usual swagger. Ben was my only “competitor” in town. He’d retired from the police force with an injured leg and supplemented his pension by becoming a private investigator. He was almost the perfect caricature of a slimy PI, with sparse oily hair, a beer gut, an abrasive personality and an intense interest in anything scatological. Until a few months ago Ben had made some inroads into cases that might have been mine, simply because he was a man and an ex-cop. That is, until a fairly famous lesbian artist had rented a condo in town—complete with skylight, of course—to do some painting and, rumor had it, recover from a broken romance. One step toward recovery is always a new hairdo, and while at the hairdresser’s she met and became friendly with the town manager’s wife. As time progressed, the manager began to wonder if his wife were not participating too intimately in the artist’s emotional—and possibly sexual—recovery and decided to find out.

Now me, I would have set a lesbian to catch a lesbian, but the town manager picked Fratos. Ben trailed them hither and yon, subtle as an elephant behind a teacart, had they been alert, but apparently he turned up no romantic activity. Then, the wife began visiting the artist’s condo. Aha! The husband was said to be leaning all over Fratos. But poor Ben had a problem: there was no easy way to see into the second-story unit—no nearby buildings with facing windows, no nearby trees with sturdy branches. One evening the women went out to dinner and then to the condo. Ben was desperate.

He climbed the fire escape and onto the roof to peer through the skylight. He saw, doubtless to his disappointment, the wife seated demurely on a straight chair and the artist standing several feet away at her easel, brush in hand. What the two women saw was a skylight falling around them, and a yelling fat man flailing the air and thudding to the floor in front of them. Sensibly, they exited the building at warp speed, screaming bloody murder.

His fall had cost Ben some painful cuts and a nasty back sprain, so he lay there among the shards until several of his ex-comrades rushed in to investigate. The entire situation was ludicrous. The women were simply friends. The wife was having her portrait done as a surprise for her husband’s birthday. The story took about two minutes to go all over town, providing considerable amusement to all who heard it.

Of course, it would have died down shortly, but some wit came up with the cry of, It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Super Ben! The kids in town picked up on it, and the call still follows him from time to time. The ridicule cost him more business than his ineptitude ever had. And most individuals, plus the insurance companies, had decided that my less dramatic approach was preferable to their needs. I, for once in my life, maintained a discreet silence throughout. Somehow, though, Ben got it into his head that I originated the Super Ben sobriquet. I had not, and I deliberately never used it. But to no avail—in his mind I was guilty. I could feel his hateful little porcine eyes follow my progress through the platter of food I was trying to enjoy, and decided to hell with him. He was not going to ruin my day. I was a better investigator than he was, any way you looked at it.

And if I ever decided to leap through a skylight to land at the feet of two beautiful women, I’d try like hell to handle it more like Errol Flynn than Jerry Lewis.