The Mermaid Collector (7 page)

“Call me!” Julie shouted after Tess as she moved to the door, tugged it open, and rushed back out into the afternoon.

THE BANNER WAS CROOKED
.

Edith Hawthorne had been vexed with the inarguable knowledge since that afternoon, when she’d driven her Buick into town, headed for the historical society’s meeting, and nearly steered right off the road as she’d squinted up at the swath of powder blue vinyl that stretched from one side of Wharf Street to the other. Just to be certain, she’d driven around a second time, and sure enough, it was as crooked as Ida Purcell’s bottom teeth.

It was no surprise to her. This was what came with laziness. Edith could remember the early days of the festival when a man would never dream of setting foot on the green in anything less than a collared shirt and shoes with socks. Women wore slacks or skirts, and if you so much as dropped a straw on the grass, someone would be on your heels to snatch it up.

Not anymore.

Nowadays you didn’t dare look too long into the crowd for fear you might see some vulgar show of skin or read something crass on the back of a T-shirt. Now the green grew littered and trampled after just a few hours. By the time the festival was over on Sunday afternoon, the town would look like a bug-splattered windshield in need of a bottle of Windex.

“Okay, maybe it’s a
little
off center,” Vera Blake
consented wearily, tired of standing in front of the museum’s picture window and taking her seat around the oak conference table instead.

“A little?” Edith looked back at the historical society’s secretary as if she’d suggested the Tower of Pisa’s lean was barely noticeable. “It’s atrocious. It’s like an airplane in a nosedive.”

Mary Sturgis left her post too and took her seat. “I told Bill that Harold wasn’t up to it this year, but you know Bill.”

“Awful,” said Edith. “I’ve got a good mind to get Denny to bring our ladder and fix it myself.”

“There’s still no word from Tom Grace,” Mary said. “I checked the voice mail
and
the e-mail this morning. Nothing.”

“He obviously means to shut us out,” Edith said. “It’s all well and good not to return phone calls a thousand miles away. I’d like to see him ignore our request when we’re standing two feet in front of him.”

“Did you look into the back taxes?” asked Vera. “You said you were going to the town office to check.”

“I did,” Edith said. “They’re all paid up.”

Mary frowned, stymied. “What about an inspection? Do we know it’s livable in the condition it’s in? We could always force him out that way.”

“There’s a brother too, remember,” Vera added. “Don or Dan—”

“Dean,” corrected Mary.

“I don’t care what that will said; Frank would never have wanted this,” declared Edith, folding her arms decidedly. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“We should leave word at the house,” said Mary. “Drive down there this instant and leave a note on the door, so the minute that rude man arrives, he knows we don’t plan to leave him be until he agrees with our terms. Don’t let him get too comfortable.”

Vera rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

Edith nodded, lifting a finger the color of uncooked shrimp. “We’ll take my car.”

TOM GRACE WAS STANDING IN THE BATHTUB,
trying to understand why not a drop of water would come out of the showerhead, when he heard the rumble of tires. He came downstairs and walked out to the porch just in time to see three women climb out of a wood-paneled Buick and make their way across the lawn. The one in front with the tidy knot of white hair and green rubber boots fancied herself the leader, Tom could tell, but as was clear by the close proximity of the others to her heels, her authority was by no means unanimous.

He guessed at once who they were.

He would be civil, he assured himself as he approached them—civil but firm.

“Mr. Grace?” The woman in front stopped, and the others fanned around her like nervous chorus girls. “What
a nice surprise. We thought you weren’t due in for another day. I’m Edith Hawthorne, president of the Cradle Harbor Historical Society. We spoke on the phone.” Edith extended her arms to make her introductions. “This is Mary Sturgis, our treasurer, and Vera Blake, our secretary.”

“Welcome,” said Mary. “I hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

“Well, actually, you have,” Tom answered. “I was just in the middle of a plumbing repair and I—”

“Repair?” Edith leaned forward, latching onto the word. “Is there something wrong with the house?”

Tom looked between the women, reading their eager expressions.

Mary clasped her hands together. “We’d just like a few minutes of your time.”

“I thought I made my position clear on the phone,” Tom said.

“You did, indeed,” said Edith, “but now that you’re here, we thought you might see
our
position in a different light. Now you can understand why people would want to see where Linus and Lydia Harris lived, where the tragedy first took shape.”

“Frank
did
explain the historical significance of this property, didn’t he?” Vera asked.

“Oh, I do admire you, Tom.” Mary glanced wistfully up at the house. “Most people wouldn’t last a night in there. So bleak and drafty. And rumors of ghosts.”

“That was why they had to decommission the tower, you know,” said Vera. “The keepers kept abandoning their posts, saying they could hear Lydia’s footsteps on the stairs. It just got to be too much.”

“Fortunately I don’t believe in ghosts,” Tom said evenly.

“All the same,” said Edith, “it must need a daunting amount of work. I assume Frank had it inspected for you? That wouldn’t be much of a gift to leave you a house that wasn’t up to code. The state’s housing inspectors can be quite ruthless in their standards, you know.”

“Now, Tom,” said Mary, “if you aren’t prepared to assume the responsibilities of this historic site, we can certainly make arrangements to relieve you of this burden.”

“No one will be
relieving
me of this property,” Tom said firmly.

“Then you won’t mind if we recommend an inspection from the State Historic Preservation Office as soon as possible,” said Edith. “This house is of great historical significance to this town, and we simply can’t allow it to continue to fall into disrepair.”

“It’s not in disrepair.”

“You just said there was a problem with the plumbing,” Mary reminded him.

Tom frowned, feeling bamboozled. “I didn’t say
problem
.”

“No, you used the word
repair
,” clarified Vera.

“What we’re trying to say,” continued Edith, “is that unless you intend to make the necessary corrections, we
will have no choice but to alert the state to the conditions Frank left you and your brother to contend with.”

Mary folded her hands over her purse. “The safety of our residents is our primary concern. You do understand?”

“I understand you’re threatening me with eviction if I don’t let you bring strangers through my house,” said Tom.

Only Vera’s face revealed a hint of remorse. Edith and Mary stood firm, not denying his accusation. The air between them fell silent but for the clanging of the loose garage door in the distance. After a long moment, Edith pointed to the car and said, “Come, ladies. Let’s leave Mr. Grace to his repairs.”

Tom watched them march across the grass and climb back into their car, watched the Buick catch the soft shoulder on its way out, fishtailing briefly, then righting itself to rumble out of view behind the pines.

TESS STOOD IN HER UNDERWEAR
at the foot of her bed, considering her options.

She’d wear the violet top. She looked good in the violet. She
felt
good in the violet—sexy. It wasn’t tight, and it didn’t make anything look lumpy or strained. She knew Pete liked red, but her mother always said red was a fickle color—it was fine to wear in the daylight, when all it could attract were bees and butterflies, but after sunset, red was just asking for trouble. It was why she never drank red wine or ate red meat past six, and for the longest time, neither did Tess.

But then Ruby had all sorts of theories when it came to colors.

“What about green?” Tess had asked once when they’d been living in California. “Is green okay?”

She and Ruby had been sharing a corned beef sandwich on the roof of their apartment building, miles from the water but pretending they were on the deck of the
QE II
, their legs stretched out and growing pink, their toes, painted just that morning, already chipped. “Green is fine,” her mother had answered, “so long as it isn’t too yellow. Something closer to blue is really best.”

Tess had frowned at that. “What’s the matter with yellow?”

“Nothing. On its own, it’s transporting. But you have to be careful when you blend colors. You really do.”

“You mean when you’re painting?”

“I mean all the time.” Ruby had reached out then and wiped a streak of dressing off Tess’s cheek.

“I like peach,” Tess had announced, tearing into a package of broken saltines they’d taken from the salad bar, spraying crumbs into the air. “And I like olive green and copper and watermelon too.”

“You can like any color you want,” her mother had declared, wiping her hands on the towel they were sitting on.

Tess picked out the largest pieces. “Except white.”

“Except white,” her mother had concurred.

Dressed now, Tess moved to the kitchen, hearing the
chime of the oven done preheating. There wasn’t much left to do, she decided, giving the room a look. She’d set the table hours ago, put out candles, turned on the stereo. She’d made the lasagna; now all that was left was to bake it. She pulled the pan out of the fridge, hearing a knock as she opened the oven door. She knew it was too early to be Pete when she called out, “Come in!”

Buzz stepped inside, holding a box of lightbulbs in one hand. “I noticed the shed’s outside light wasn’t lit. I brought you a new bulb, just in case you’d run out.”

“Thanks.” Tess watched him set the box down on the table, knowing he hadn’t come by for a burned-out lightbulb.

Buzz stuffed his hands into his pockets and rolled back on his heels as he surveyed the interior, taking note of the table. “Expecting company, huh?”

She gave him a disapproving look as she bumped the oven door closed with her hip. “You know I am.”

“Must be nice.”

Tess reached into the fridge for the bottle of white she’d been chilling and set it down on the counter, refusing to take the bait, knowing that wouldn’t stop him. Sure enough, he pressed on. “I mean, the guy sneaks out of here before dawn and then gets to sneak back after dark to a five-star meal. Hell of a deal if you ask me.”

“I
didn’t
ask you,” Tess said, yanking the cork out of the bottle hard enough to cause a loud pop. “And he doesn’t
sneak
. You make him sound like a criminal.”

“Well, if the shoe fits…”

Tess rolled her eyes, refusing to let him squash her delight tonight. It was the same every time Pete came back into her life; she’d face the court of Buzz and plead her case, always to the same verdict, no matter the evidence.

“Just seems fast to me, that’s all,” he said. “Three days ago, he’s living with her. Today, he’s all done and making house with you.”

“You moved me and Mom here in less time than that,” Tess pointed out.

“Yeah, well.” Buzz frowned, thwarted. “That was different,” he said.

“How?”

“I wasn’t a creep.”

Tess turned back to the wine and waved at him over her shoulder, seeing there’d be no reasoning with him. “Good night, Buzz. Love you. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Buzz sighed and wandered back to the door. Reaching for the knob, he stopped and turned back. “He seems nice, doesn’t he?”

“Who?”

“Tom Grace.”

Tess drew down a wineglass from the cabinet. “Don’t even,” she warned.

“What?” Buzz shrugged innocently. “I just said he was nice; I’m not trying to play matchmaker.”

Tess gave him a dubious look.

“I’m only saying he’s new in town and maybe you
could, I don’t know,” Buzz stammered, “bring him a damn pie. Something neighborly.”

“I don’t have time to bake, Buzz.”

The sweet and damning smell of pumpkin cheesecake was fragrant in the air, not to mention the cheesecake itself that sat prominently, cooling, in the center of the table. Buzz cocked his head toward it as he opened the door. “Yeah,” he said on his way out, “I can see you don’t.”

NIGHT FELL
, creeping into the keeper’s house like an indigo fog. Swollen banks of blue-gray clouds rolled across the sky, parting briefly to send flashes of sun through the milky windows, casting shadows up the yellowed walls, turning them butterscotch, then gold, shivering shafts of silver that rode the cupped seams of the floorboards.

Tom closed the bathroom door and sighed. He was done. Whatever term they used in boxing when a fighter wished to surrender to his opponent, Tom was calling it. No matter
what he did, no matter what he twisted or flipped or tugged, he couldn’t draw a single drop of water out of that tub. And worst of all, he was ten times sweatier and fouler than he had been when he’d started. He’d never wanted anything in his whole life as badly as he wanted a shower. It wasn’t just the sweat; it was the tension. His whole body ached with it. He felt as if he’d been in a perpetual state of clenched muscles since he’d arrived, and being in this dark, empty house wasn’t helping. He worried about Dean getting there; he worried more about him
not
getting there. What if Buzz Patterson had been right? What if Tom had made a terrible mistake bringing his brother here? What if Dean found out that Tom had taken charity from the man who’d stolen Dean’s dream and lied about it for almost seventeen years?