“The coroner’s office ID’d the remains as those of one John C. ‘Jack’ Brunson,” Johnny Coleman told Tagliabue. The detective was speaking formally because he hoped this find would tie up the loose ends of his investigation, so he was experimenting with the verbiage of his final report. He wanted to be shut of it; he hoped to get back to work on cases that didn’t involve interference by a secretive federal agency that seemed to have more juice even than the sheriff. Coleman had come to like, and admire, Big Anthony Tagliabue, but he wanted nothing else to do with the man’s complicated assignments. The demise of Jack Brunson would also free Agnes Ann Tagliabue of the fear of retribution by her ex-husband that had darkened the last winter months on Westfarrow Island.
Anthony Tagliabue felt the relief also. He wanted only to work Seaside Stables and accompany his wife as she raced her fast filly and watched her son grow into manhood. The lurking danger Brunson represented had kept him alert, unable to completely relax. Their guard dog seemed to relish the prospect of a constant job, but neither of her owners had enjoyed what should have been a time to rest and recharge as nature did when the land froze over.
Agnes Ann was continually grateful during those past fretful months for Anthony’s training and experience in the world of violence. His proficiency in war and crime fighting was a comfort to her. Tagliabue referred to his government work in the past tense whenever she mentioned it. He told her, and himself, that he was done with Giselle and her Clemson Project. She smiled and patted his cheek when he made that impossible promise to her.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Dear Readers:
I was assisted in the creation of this book by the contextual editing of Judith Shepard, co-publisher of The Permanent Press, and by the deep line editing of Barbara Anderson, who ended up knowing my manuscript better than I did. I also thank the famed crime writer Chris Knopf for the benefit of his wisdom and experience in the craft of writing and my critique partner, Tim Bryant, author of the hilarious Blue Rubber Pool, for his sage advice about life and weaponry.
If you notice any literary or factual blunders as you read this book, you can assume they occurred because I did not always follow the advice offered to me by these generous folks. Sometimes a fella just has to stumble along on his own path. It helps that I always have the shoulder of my wife, Joan Lee, to fling my arm around when I have trouble navigating that path.
There is no Westfarrow Island off the coast of Maine, but there could be. There is no Clemson Project, but there could be. All the characters in the book are likewise fictitious. The Russian ship Leonov is real, but she never had a radioman defect out at sea—as far as I know. The town of Bath is real also, a jewel of coastal Maine, but my place settings there are but loosely connected to the actual features of the town and her riverine environs.
Thank you for taking the time to read this book.
Peace and good to you.
Paul A. Barra
Westfarrow Island Page 25