The World's Finest Mystery Part 8

During the next half-hour they unloaded the Jeep, and one of the first things Roy took out was Nicky's computer, which she set up on a table in the porch. There was no phone in the cottage, but there was a phone line that Nicky used so she could have Internet access, and that was that. There was no television and only a small radio that picked up the local stations. She sat down at the computer and sighed. "Work. Wish I didn't have to do this when I'm up here."

"It'll be fine," Roy said. "Just as long as you leave enough time for other things. Like canoeing."

She raised an eyebrow as she smiled. "And maybe checking how squeaky our bed is, if you're lucky."

He laughed and felt warm and cuddly towards his woman, despite her work, and resumed unpacking. One of the last things Roy took out were two black zippered duffel bags, which had been placed behind the spare tire. He knew that another reason his back ached was the content of the two bags, which he now placed behind a sliding piece of paneling in the bedroom's closet. If a state trooper or local cop had pulled him over this day and had discovered the content of the two bags, well, Roy wouldn't have had to worry about coming back to this summer place next year, or the next decade, for that matter.

Back out in the porch, he kissed his wife's neck. "Feel like dinner?"

"Only if you cook it."

"Deal," he said, and he went outside, where he got the grill going. Like every summer before, the Pelletiers had filled up the gas tank. It was nice to be back, back among people who liked having them around.

Later that night they were cuddled up in the porch on a couch, a light blanket over the two of them, the lights off, listening to the cries of the loons out on the lake. Roy felt all the worries and stresses of driving up here melt away, like snow from a late March storm. Nicky had first brought him up here a couple of years back, and he was amazed at how much he looked forward each summer to returning to the lake. They had lived for a while in California and in Was.h.i.+ngton, but there had never been a place in those two states that gave him such a sense of contentment, of belonging.

Nicky was in Roy's arms and sighed as another call came from a loon. She said, "Tell me again why we can't stay up here longer."

"First, we can't afford it," he said. "Second, the place belongs to the Pelletiers, and they've got other renters lined up for the summer. We can't hog the place for the whole summer, as much as we'd like to."

She s.h.i.+fted in Roy's arms, rubbed her nose against his. "Can't you figure something out?"

"I'll try."

She smiled and let her hands wander over him. "Goodie, little boy. Then come to bed and I'll reward you."

Nicky made breakfast the next morning- simple stuff, scrambled eggs and toast- and she said, "All right if I get an hour or so online?"

"Sure, go right ahead," Roy said. "It'll give me a chance to pay Henry and to see what's new on the lake."

He went outside, blinked from the bright sky. There were just a few clouds off to the south; the small peaks made their green, jagged marks against the light blue sky. The water was fairly still, with only a couple of powerboats out in the distance, so far out that he couldn't even hear them.

Henry Pelletier was at work in his yard, dressed in green chino work pants and s.h.i.+rt, and Roy went over to see him. The old man was sawing off chunks of white birch log- each piece about eighteen inches long- using a handsaw.

Roy said, "A chainsaw would go faster."

"Unh-hunh," Henry said, moving a length of tree in the saw stand. "It surely would. But it would make a heck of a racket and would smell up the yard, and during the year I'd have to oil the d.a.m.n thing, sharpen the chain, and then winterize it when I hang it up in the cellar when the snows come. Or I can use this little handsaw my daddy gave me years ago, get a little exercise, and still get the job done."

Roy smiled and pa.s.sed over the check for the rent. Henry stuck it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket without even looking at it, and Roy was suddenly filled with affection for the old man. Anyplace else Roy had been, this kind of transaction would have required two forms of identification, a credit check, and a signed contract. But not here. Here, a man trusted his neighbor, trusted him to do the right thing. It was a way of life Roy thought had gone forever, and it warmed him to see it still alive.

He said, "Give you a hand, Henry?"

"Sure," he said. "See that twine over there? Bundle these logs up, three at a crack. Make a handle from the twine, too. Thing is, I sell 'em at Corder's Farmstand down the road. Five dollars a bundle. d.a.m.n flatland tourists buy 'em and put 'em in their fireplace. Usually they don't even burn 'em. Look awfully pretty, don't they?"

He started separating out the logs, enjoying the feel of the rough bark against his hands. "They sure do, Henry."

Henry laughed. "Funny thing is, they do look pretty, but they don't burn worth s.h.i.+t. Good dried oak or maple would burn ten times better, but they don't look as nice in a fireplace in a half-million-dollar home. So who am I to educate those touristy folks?"

Roy laughed with Henry, pleased that the old man talked as if Roy himself was not a flatlander, was part of the lake, even though he and his wife were just renters, known as summer people. It was good to work with his hands, and when he had started the fourth bundle, a loud-pitched whining noise cut through the stillness of the morning, causing Henry to stop sawing and say, "Jesus suffering Christ, look at that, will you."

He stood up and looked to where Henry was pointing. Three jet skis were out on the lake, setting up plumes of spray as their operators whooped and hollered, swaying and setting up waves from their wake. A canoe almost tipped over from the moving water, but if the jet skiers noticed, they didn't let on. Henry muttered something else and then looked up at the house. "I suppose that's going to wake Muriel from her morning nap."

"How's she doing?"

Henry shrugged. "Oh, better and better, but she still tires easily. She really needs the peace and quiet but those young bucks-" he pointed out to the jet skiers "-aren't helping matters at all."

"I thought jet skis were banned on this lake," Roy said, watching the jet skiers now move in a circle, as if they were trying to create a giant whirlpool.

"They sure are," Henry said, putting his saw back in place. "But they're smart fellows, they are. They're renting a place over on Marie's Cove for a month, and they know by the time anybody calls the Marine Patrol, they can be back there and moored up, not moving a bit. You see, Marine Patrol has to cover the entire county, and it can take a half-day or longer for someone to come by. So they have their fun and laugh at all of us while swamping canoeists, running down loons or drowning their nests, and making my Muriel lose her naptime during the day."

"Somebody should do something about it," Roy said, watching the jet skis leap up and down in the water, the high-pitched whinning seeming to throb against his head.

"Yes," Henry said, "somebody should."

After dinner that night, Nicky was stretched out on the porch couch, her long legs propped up on a spare chair. Her laptop was balanced on her lap and she worked into the night while he sat across from her in an old easy chair held together by duct tape and old st.i.tches. The chair looked like h.e.l.l but was more comfortable than anything he and Nicky had back at their Boston condo. As Nicky worked, Roy read through a few days' worth of the Morrill Sun, a free daily newspaper that ran some fun stories, including tales of lost cats, record-size fish caught, and a retiree with too much time on his hands who thought overhead aircraft were spraying the air with experimental chemicals. A much more fun newspaper than either the Boston Globe or the Boston Herald.

Nicky looked up and said, "Well, hon, something's pulled through. A business appointment, tomorrow night."

"Where?" he said, putting the newspaper down for a moment.

"In Maine, about an hour away."

He frowned and said, "You know I don't like it when you bring work along on our vacation."

"I know, babe, honest I do," she said. "But the money's good and it won't take long."

He sighed, listening to the faint thumping noises as moths and other flying bugs battered themselves to death against the screen windows of the porch. Nicky was right; she was always right when it came to her work, and she knew that without his support, the whole thing wouldn't work. Still, it was vacation...

He had a thought. "All right. But tonight, I need to do something on my own."

"Oh?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Going to rendezvous with some lake honey that you keep up here?"

He smiled at her. G.o.d, how he loved this woman. "No, nothing like that. But it's a favor for Henry."

"Really? Do you need any help?"

"Nope, but you know what? Maybe tomorrow you could take Muriel for a ride into town. A couple of her sisters are getting together for lunch. Henry mentioned something earlier about how she wants to get out of the house, but Henry doesn't trust his truck to take her into town and back. Says there's not enough room and the ride'd be too b.u.mpy."

"Oh, I'd love to help Muriel out," she said, hands still on the laptop's keyboard. "But what about tonight? What are you doing for Henry?"

He opened up the newspaper. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

She put a whining tone in her voice. "But I want to know now..."

Roy grinned at her, turned the page. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

She smirked back at him, returned to her laptop. "Promises, promises."

It was now three A.M. and Roy was in the canoe that came with the cottage, paddling as silently as he could through Marie's Cove. It was a still night and, luckily, there was no moon. The stars were as bright overhead as he could ever remember them, and the lights around the lake were so few that he could easily make out the misty veil of the Milky Way stretching overhead.

The cottages along the sh.o.r.eline were quiet, with just a few lights showing. The water was still and silent, and he enjoyed the feel of the paddle slicing through the water. At his feet were a sealed water bag and a black inflatable life vest. Now that he'd been out on the water for a while, his night vision was good, and it only took a few minutes to spot the dock where the three jet skis were moored. The cottage at the other end of the dock was quiet, save for a single porch light.

He paddled some more into the cove, until he came to a small point of land where an evergreen was growing out over the water. In another minute he had tied off the canoe, and then took off his T-s.h.i.+rt and put on the life vest, which he quickly inflated with a few puffs of air into the tube valve. Then, waterbag in his hand, he quickly slid into the lake.

The water surprised him. He was expecting it to be teeth-chatteringly cold, but instead, it felt warm. He smiled in the darkness. This could be fun. He paddled slowly, the water bag floating in front of him, listening to the patient sound of the frogs. When he was near the first jet ski, there came a mournful wail from the south end of the lake, a noise that made the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kle. A loon, calling out to its mate somewhere in the darkness of the lake waters.

He got to work on the jet skis, and when he was done he froze, holding onto a dock piling. A male voice was above him, saying, "What the h.e.l.l?"

Roy hugged himself against the rough wood, waiting. Another voice joined the first, a female: "What's wrong?"

"This friggin' beer," he said. "It's empty."

"Shhh, come on back in, I'll get you another."

Some low murmurs and giggles, and then Roy swam back out on the lake. Halfway to the canoe he took a few minutes for fun and just rolled on his back, looking up at the night sky. In the s.p.a.ce of just a few minutes, he saw two shooting stars and three satellites pa.s.s overhead. It felt good to be alive.

The next day Roy was helping Henry rake out pine needles, pine cones, and other sludge that had washed up on the tiny sandy beach. The water was fairly shallow on this part of the lake, and Henry liked to keep the bottom clean, especially for his visiting grandnieces and nephews.

It was good, solid work, pulling a garden rake across the lake bottom, and then walking over to the sh.o.r.e to drop off the debris. Henry would later rake it into a big pile to be burned in the fall. They both wore knee-high boots, but while Roy had on just a bathing suit, Henry had on his summer work uniform of green chino pants and s.h.i.+rt. Nicky had gone out as well, taking Muriel to town, and Roy had promised a little story about what he had done the previous night when they both had the time.

He and Henry didn't talk much during the work, which was fine, so Roy was surprised when Henry paused, leaning against his rake, and said, "Can you spare me a couple of minutes, Roy?"

"Sure," he said. "What's up?"

Henry wrapped both gnarled hands around the worn wood handle of the rake. "Oh, something, that's for sure. You know about my two boys, don't you? Alex and Andrew."

"Sure. Andrew's out in Detroit, working for Ford. And Alex is at the papermill in Berlin."

Henry nodded, looking pleased, as if Roy had just pa.s.sed an oral exam. He said, "Both are good boys, but... well, Muriel and me, we wonder sometimes about what's inside of 'em."

"How's that?"

Henry took a hand off the rake and motioned up to the house. "When they was younger, they loved this place, they really did. They'd come in after Memorial Day and spend the whole summer here, and then they'd cry after Labor Day, wis.h.i.+ng they didn't have to leave."

Roy rubbed at his chin. "Let me guess. They got older, things changed."

"Yap," and in that one syllable, Roy sensed years of disappointment. "I can't remember the last time Andrew's been here, and Alex, well, to get him and his family here for a weekend takes weeks of planning. All those soccer games, baseball practice, and everything they have to work around. And last year, at Thanksgiving, I mentioned something about leaving this place to the both of 'em after Muriel and I pa.s.sed on. And you know what I found out?"

Roy had an excellent idea of what he had found out, but wanted to hear it from Henry directly. "No, I don't."

Henry leaned into the rake again. "The boys were talking in the kitchen afterwards, like they was twelve or thirteen again. They thought I had been sleeping on the couch, after all that turkey, and they were so excited about this place. But they weren't excited about keeping it, nossir. They were trying to figure out how much money they could make selling it, and how much they would split between the two of them. This house here, which I helped build with my father and his father. Sold, just for money."

Henry turned away and Roy was sure that the man's eyes were tearing up, so he gave him a few seconds as he raked the sand in the water a few times. Henry spoke up again, his voice softer. "So Muriel and I were thinking. We plan to go to town this week, change our will. We want to leave this place to someone who'll appreciate it, someone who loves it as much as we do. Roy, me and the missus want to leave this place to you and Nicky when we pa.s.s on."

Roy almost dropped the rake. "Henry, please, you can't-"

The old man turned, his face a frown. "By G.o.d, Roy, I've been an adult for most of this century, so don't you tell me what I can or can't do. You and your wife, you're not gettin' this place this summer, or even the summer after that. But you will get it, because we want you to have it. We know you'll love it as much as we do. You are both good people, real good people. And that's final. You start raising a fuss, then maybe my two boys, they'll think that Muriel and I have lost our minds, and they'll start fighting the will right now. But that won't be right. So you just stay quiet there and say yes, and we'll get back to raking this place. All right?"

He couldn't help himself, he just started smiling. "d.a.m.n it, Henry, yes. That's our answer. And don't be offended, but I hope it's many summers before we end up owning this place."

"Nope," Henry said, "I won't be insulted."

Then the noise started again, that grating, whining noise that set his teeth on edge. Roy looked up and the three jet skis were heading out to the lake, the young men whooping it up as they dodged among each other, racing over each other's wakes. Henry murmured something and Roy just watched, seeing the brightly colored watercraft bounce up and down. The noise seemed to be getting louder and louder.

Even though he was expecting it, Roy flinched when the explosions ripped out, one after another, bam! bam! bam! Henry swore, and they looked on as three plumes of smoke rose up and then quickly dissipated in the lake breeze. All three jet skis had turned turtle, oily wisps of smoke rising up, and Roy noted three life-jackets in the lake, arms waving, some shouts. It looked like all three young men had survived. Oh well.

"Well," Henry said, looking intently at Roy, "ain't that something?"

"Sure is," Roy said.

Henry slogged toward the sh.o.r.e, rake in his hands. "Guess I should do the neighborly thing, call the Marine Patrol. Funny thing is, this'll probably be the first time those boys will be happy to see them. What do you think?"

Roy sighed with contentment at the scene. "I think you're right, Henry."

Lunch was chicken and goat-cheese sandwiches, and Nicky looked over and said, "Hon, you're the best. Honest to G.o.d, you are."

"What do you mean?" he asked, pouring her a Sam Adams beer.

"What you did for Henry, that's what," she said.

He shrugged. "I just did the right thing, helping him rake out the sh.o.r.eline like that."

She reached over the table and kissed him. "I wasn't talking about the raking, you silly man. I was talking about the jet skis."

Roy tried not to smile and failed. "I have no idea what you mean."

She kissed him again. "You do many things well, but lying to me isn't one of them."

Later that night, after an hour of driving, he and his wife were near the Maine town of Lovell. Nicky had on a pair of black spandex pants, black high-heeled shoes, a white top that exposed her bare midriff, and a short black jacket that seemed to emphasize her chest. He pulled up at the end of the long driveway, noting the large house up on the hill. Lights were on in the farmer's porch, and on little driveway lamps leading all the way up to the entrance. "You're sure this is the place?" he asked.

"Yep," she said, voice cheery. "The directions were perfect."

"I guess they were," he said. Roy had on a dirty pair of jeans, worn through at the knees, a Harley-Davidson T-s.h.i.+rt, and a black leather vest. He had slicked back his hair and looked over at his wife, loving her deeply yet hating the fact that she was working on their vacation. It was as if she sensed what was going through his mind and she leaned over and kissed him.

"It'll be fine, dearest, honest," she said. "I won't be long, and we sure can use the money."