Authors: John R. Maxim
“Which is near Jake's grave,” his brother reminded
him.
A deep breath. Julie blew it out slowly.
“So what now?” he asked quietly.
“Go have your lunch with Parker. Show him some
money. Take it out of mine if it'll make you feel better.”
“You're damned right it will. But what's the point?”
“Just find out all you can about how this works.”
“Johnny
...
you've blown this. It's gone.”
“We need to know. Trust me.”
Julie shook his head slowly. “Jesus, Johnny.”
“Hey . . .” His brother touched his chest. ”I said trust
me. This isn't all bad.”
“What's good? Tell me one thing good.”
“For openers? The FBI will owe us.”
A pained expression. “You're serious, right?”
“They will. Wait and see.”
“How? We're now FBI approved? We're going to put
that on business cards like the fucking Good Housekeep
ing seal?”
Johnny ignored the sarcasm. ”I have an idea. But I need
to talk to Mike first.”
At this point, Julie didn't even want to hear it. He
peered over the fern toward the table by the fish tank.
Parker wasn't looking. He was busy annoying a flounder. Julie glanced back toward the bar. Jimmy's looking at him
like, “No hard feelings, okay?”
“Does he leave with the Feds now? Or will he at least
finish the weekend?”
“Who? You mean Jimmy?”
“It's a holiday weekend. If they owe us so much, the
least they can do is not leave us short.”
Chapter
37
Michael and
Megan stowed their things on the
ketch, which was tied up at the Edgartown dock. That
done, they made the ten-minute drive to the airport where
they waited for Lena Mayfield's flight.
Megan's ketch had no name on the transom. It had tax and registration stamps and a Coast Guard serial number
but no name. Michael passed the time suggesting a few.
He thought
Wraith
might be good. It had just the right
touch of mystery.
No reaction from Megan. She said, “Here comes her
plane.”
“Okay . . . How about
Sorceress?
Tell me that's not a
perfect name for—”
She asked him if he wanted a Tic-Tac.
“Something more classic, then. How about
Sibyl?
Sib
yls were these women in ancient Rome who—”
”I know what a Sibyl is, Michael.”
“Maybe Sibyls had boats named Megan.”
“Michael . . .”
“Get off it, right?”
“You know how some people have unlisted numbers? I have an unlisted boat.”
Oh, yeah. Too bad.
Sorceress
would be a gas but she's
right. It would be like hanging out a sign. So
Great Lay,
he supposed, was probably out of the question.
She laughed aloud. She gave him an elbow.
“Okay.” He stepped out of range. “Tell me you didn't
hear that. Tell me you can't read minds.”
“You mumbled it.”
“The heck I did.” Did I?
“You mumble all the time, Michael. You talk to your
self all the time. Do you want to hear an imitation of
you?”
He didn't, but she launched into one anyway. First there
was Michael sailing. “U
m
. . . we're pinching . . . fall
off, fall off
...
wind line over there . . . look out, lobster
pot . . . come on, baby, you can go faster . . .” Next,
there was Michael driving out here. “Ah . . . which
way?
...
oh
...
says Airport Road
...
do we need
gas? . . . nuts, I meant to get fresh flowers
.”
.
”I get the picture,” he said. Enough. Before we get
into Michael making love.
“And in bed, you . . .”
He clapped his hands to his ears and screamed. People
looked. Megan reached for him, grinning, and threw her
arms around his neck.
“Here's how you stop mumbling,” she told him. She
kissed him. He kissed her back. They were still in an embrace when Lena Mayfield's plane taxied to a stop.
“Saw you two,” said Lena. She pointed to the sky,
indicating where from. “You sure you want company
just now?”
Megan liked her from the start. And she liked Megan. She didn't seem so sure about Edgartown, though. They
gave her a tour in the Mercedes.
“Pretty,” she said. “No argument there.”
“It's, um, fairly multicultural, I think.”
“That mean you got darkies who ain't maids?”
Megan guffawed from the backseat.
Lena smiled with Megan and punched Michael's arm.
He could only grin. She had told him to call her Lena.
“Hasn't been a Mr. Mayfield since '83. The Lord took
him. Emphysema.”
She waved off their sympathy and reached into the can
vas shopping bag which she'd carried on the plane.
“Happy birthday,” she said to Michael. “Got you some
presents here.”
Megan blinked and leaned forward. “When is your
birthday?” she demanded.
Settles that, thought Fall
o
n. She can't read minds after
all.
“Beg pardon, Michael?” asked Lena.
“U
m
. . . what?”
“You said, ‘Settles that.’ ”
“No, I didn't.”
“You did plain as day. Settles what?”
He glanced at Megan in the mirror. She was looking
out the side window, biting her fist to keep from laughing.
She got a grip, decided to be stern again.
“Michael . . . damn
it...is
today your birthday?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“And you never told me?”
He shrugged. “Loved your presents, though.”
“What presents?”
“Last night and this morning.”
“Maybe I should go for a walk,” said Lena.
“No, no. We're almost there.”
She produced a small package. “This is from Mr.
Doyle. He said give you a kiss with it. Think I'll leave
that chore for Megan.”
“Forget it,” she sulked. “He's been a creep.”
“Megan . . .”
“What did you get?” she asked.
I'm a creep, he thought, but she's peering over the seat like a six-year-old wondering what's in the box. He made
her wait until they were back at the Taylor House.
Doyle had sent him three watches, all Seikos, nice but
not expensive. The card said, ' ‘With care, these might last
you through June.”
Mrs. Mayfield—Lena—had baked him some Toll House
cookies which she said don't eat now because she's going
to fix a special birthday brunch so everyone go wash up
and sit.
Everyone
included Harold and Myra Lovelace,
who had stocked up on what she needed because she'd
called them and said she planned to do some cooking this
weekend. Harold and Myra, made aware of his birthday
by Lena, gave him a Gary Larson birthday card and an
antique brass telescope with tripod that had belonged to
Myra's grandfather.
“Doesn't do much good in a trailer,” she told him.
“Here you got a widow's walk. Meant to set it up there anyhow.”
The Taylor House had never served meals, only conti
nental breakfast and afternoon tea, but it had a well-
equipped kitchen and the captain's original dining room
furniture, which Michael thought was a crime not to use. Maybe next year. Myra, meantime, produced a pitcher of
Bloody Marys and poured them as Lena went to work.
He was not sure what he expected from her, ham and
eggs with grits, maybe, but she was back in half an hour
with a classic New England brunch, some of which she'd
brought with her in her big canvas bag. On a platter in
the shape of a fish, she brought out kippers, smoked finnan haddie in cream, pan-fried potatoes with onions, scrambled
eggs with sun-dried tomatoes and chives, and a basket of
fresh-baked blueberry muffins.
Two other guests, following the smell, looked into the
dining room on their way out the door. Lena snapped her
fingers and pointed to two chairs. “Plenty to go around,”
she said. It was an order. They sat.
Megan's pout did not affect her appetite, she went nuts
over the finnan haddie, but it didn't stop her from mak
ing cracks.