First Light

by Philip R. Craig

  “Only a sister, and she lives north of Santa Fe.”

  “Rats. The man supply gets thinner around here after Labor Day.” She rubbed her shoulders as though she was cold.

  “Do you know the names of any of the men she dated?”

  “I think they were mostly summer guys. I haven’t seen the same bunch around this year. Except for Shrink Williams, of course. You know Shrink?”

  I nodded. Cotton Williams, known as Shrink, and I had met a couple of times. He was a psychiatrist who’d come to the island and set up a practice following his own divorce. He had stayed single but was well known for his active social life. Shrink liked women, and they apparently liked him, although Zee had noted more than once that none of his relationships lasted very long. She gave the women credit for this, since she didn’t think Shrink had much to offer in terms of long-range relationships.

  “Shrink met Kathy when I took her to the Connection,” said Myrtle. “He can be charming, and he’s a good dancer, so they hit it off. A couple of weeks later it was all over, though.”

  “Sounds like a typical Shrink relationship.”

  “You know about Shrink and his ladies, eh?”

  “Mostly via the grapevine.” I changed gears. “Did Kathy strike you as somebody who could take care of herself?”

  Myrtle cocked her head to one side. “I never thought about it. Women can be strong and smart and naive at the same time. Kathy was like that, I think.” She paused. “Maybe I am, too.”

  “Maybe we all are.”

  From behind her came a sudden yelp. As she turned, I looked over her shoulder and saw a pot disintegrating from the center of a wheel, sending wet clay flying.

  “Help!” cried the potter, trying to hold the remaining clay together.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but I guess our conversation’s over,” said Myrtle. She smiled and walked away toward her mud-covered student.

  I went home.

  After Zee left for the hospital, the children and I worked some more on the tree house. During their nap time, I was aware of something niggling at the back of my mind. It had to do with my conversation with Myrtle Eldridge, but when I tried to see it clearly, a picture of a clay-spattered woman kept getting in the way.

  Irksome.

  I reread Thornberry’s report. His people had checked all of the possible paper trails and talked to most of the people who had known Kathy, including Pete Blankenship, the guy who’d bought her car, and Kathy’s landlady. She had let them look at her room, where they’d found nothing of help. As far as I could tell, Thornberry had done good work. But no investigation is ever perfect, so tomorrow I’d try talking to some people they hadn’t mentioned.

  When Zee came home, I had her martini waiting for her.

  “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”

  “Is your temptress coming?”

  “Six-thirty is her ETA, but she’s not a temptress. She’s just a very nice woman who could stand meeting a very nice man. Speaking of which, you’d better go pick up Brady.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  As I pulled out of our long, sandy driveway I remembered what had been bothering me: Myrtle had said she and Kathy had met at the Post Office.

  Aha, as the detectives say.

  Chapter Six

  Brady

  J.W. picked me up around six o’clock, and when we pulled into his driveway, there was a little red Honda Civic parked behind Zee’s Jeep. “Looks like you got company,” I said.

  He grinned and said nothing.

  I followed J.W. onto the screened porch. Zee was sitting there on the sofa. Beside her was a blonde woman, who looked at me, blinked a couple of times, then rolled her eyes and laughed.

  I smiled back at her. “Hi, again,” I said.

  It was Molly Wood, Sarah Fairchild’s visiting nurse.

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions,” I said to Molly, “but I’ve got the feeling that somebody’s been playing matchmaker.”

  “So you’re the mysterious Boston lawyer,” she said.

  I turned to Zee. “Did you call me mysterious?”

  “Handsome,” said Zee. “That, I think, was the word I used.” She frowned at me, then at Molly, then at me again. “Am I missing something here? Do you two know each other?”

  “We were high school sweethearts,” said Molly.

  “Really?”

  “No,” I said. “But we have met. Molly is Sarah Fairchild’s visiting nurse. We bumped into each other in the living room this afternoon.”

  “Oh, jeez,” said Zee. “This is embarrassing.”

  “Not for me it’s not,” I said. I held out my hand to Molly. “It’s nice to see you.”

  She took my hand in hers and smiled at me. “Likewise, for sure.”

  “Well,” said J.W., “drinks, then.” He disappeared into the house.

  Zee leaped up. “I’ll help,” she said, and followed him inside.

  I sat beside Molly. “Sorry about this,” I said. “Zee mentioned something about a friend of hers, but I didn’t expect it to be you, or here, or tonight. She didn’t tell you my name, huh?”

  “Nope. But you know what?”

  I shrugged. “What?”

  “If she had,” she said, “I still would’ve come.”

  “Aw, shucks,” I said.

  “What about you?”

  “I would’ve come, too,” I said.

  Molly was wearing sandals and white slacks and a flowered silk blouse. She’d left a couple of buttons undone at her throat, and a thin gold chain glittered there against her honey-colored skin. She had pretty blue eyes with little crinkles in the corners. I hadn’t noticed how pretty her eyes were the first time I’d seen her.

  She managed to get me talking about my two boys—now young men—and my divorce, and how I managed living alone, and she said that she, too, was living alone, and hadn’t been doing it for very long, and the fact that she didn’t have kids made living alone feel terribly lonely, and I was about to ask her if she’d been recently divorced when J.W. and Zee came back out onto the porch bearing drinks and a platter of crackers and bluefish pâté.

  Diana and Joshua were right behind them. “We made bread,” said Diana. “It’s gonna be delish.”

  “We picked beans, too,” added Joshua. “We cut them up ourselves and didn’t cut our fingers off.”

  “Good thing,” I said. “I like steamed beans better than steamed fingers.”

  Both kids giggled.

  “Balcony time,” announced J.W. “You guys set the table.”

  So we four grown-ups trooped up onto the balcony, while Diana and Joshua headed back toward the kitchen.

  We sipped our drinks, gazed off toward the ocean, watched the evening birds dart around Zee’s feeders, and talked about fishing. Actually, Zee and I did most of the talking, trying to include Molly, who apparently didn’t fish, in our conversation. Although Zee was a bit embarrassed that she’d arranged a blind date for two people who’d already met each other and could’ve made a date on their own if they’d wanted to, the fact was that Molly Wood was pretty and funny and smart, and I, for one, was glad Zee had done it. I probably wouldn’t have tried to befriend Sarah Fairchild’s nurse on my own initiative.

  J.W. sat there sipping his vodka martini and saying very little. He had a bemused little smile playing over his face, and every once in a while Zee would glance at him and frown.

  When he finished his drink, J.W. stood up and announced that he was going down to be sure the kids hadn’t destroyed supper.

  A few minutes later Zee said she’d better go down and help.

  After she left, Molly said, “They’re leaving us alone again.”

  “Yes,” I said. “So that we can get to know each other better.”

  “She’s cute, isn’t she?”

  “Zee?” I said. “I think she’s feeling rather awkward about this. Knowing J.W., he didn’t approve of her matchmaking. Wouldn’t it be terrible if you and I
didn’t like each other?”

  “Zee would be devastated.”

  “J.W. would never let her forget it,” I said. “It could destroy their marriage.”

  “And leave those two innocent little children victims of a broken home,” she added.

  “So I think we have an obligation to like each other,” I said. “Out of consideration for Zee.”

  “Well,” said Molly, “I’ll give it my best shot. Out of consideration for Zee, and her marriage, and the future happiness of her children.”

  Molly had a great, earthy laugh, and both of us were laughing when Zee and J.W. called us down for dinner.

  Afterward, Zee and J.W. refused to allow Molly or me to help clean up, leaving us alone on the screened porch where we’d eaten.

  “They’re doing this on purpose,” said Molly. “Leaving us by ourselves again so we can get to know each other some more.”

  “In my experience,” I said, “it takes a long time for two grown-ups to get to know each other.”

  “Longer than just one dinner party with another couple.”

  I nodded. “Two people can’t be expected to figure out if they like each other on the basis of a single, um, whatchamacallit …”

  “Date?” she said.

  “I guess that’s the word for it,” I said. “It seems like a funny word for two divorced adults to use, that’s all.”

  Molly looked away. “I’m not divorced,” she said softly. “I’m widowed.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You mentioned your husband, and I thought …”

  She turned to me and put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. Really it is. I just think it’s very different from being divorced.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A year ago last June,” she said. “He had an aneurysm. It exploded in his head while he was sleeping. He was forty-one years old. I woke up in the morning, and he …”

  I saw tears glisten in her eyes, and since I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say, I had the good sense not to say anything.

  After a minute she smiled. “I’m sorry, Brady. I’m okay with it now. It’s just, sometimes I remember those first few months after it happened, and it all comes rushing back.” She shook her head. “I tried to keep working. I was a surgical nurse. But I realized I had to find something less … familiar. So I came down here for a while. I’ve been renting a room in Edgartown and temping with the Visiting Nurses for the summer. I’ll be going back to America in a few weeks. They’re holding my job for me. I think I’ll be okay with it.”

  “Where in America?”

  “Scituate. On the South Shore.”

  “I know Scituate,” I said. “It’s less than an hour from Lewis Wharf on the Boston Harbor, except during rush hour.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  I nodded. “I’ve got a view of the Harbor Islands in one direction and Logan Airport in another, and the seagulls perch on the railing of my balcony. I like to grill hamburgers and steaks out there and listen to the bell buoy and watch the fog roll in.”

  Molly smiled at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded almost like an invitation.”

  “Maybe it was,” I said. “But right now, I’ve got a better idea. How about letting somebody else grill something for us tomorrow evening?”

  “Why, sir,” she said, batting her eyes, “are you asking me for a date?”

  “Date,” I said. “That word again. But what the hell. Sure. It doesn’t preclude grilling on my balcony sometime. But how about a date? You and me. Tomorrow. The restaurant of your choice. Say six-thirty?”

  “The Navigator Room is nice,” she said. “We can get a table by the window up on the second floor, watch the boats come into the harbor. I’ll make the reservations and meet you there. How’s that?”

  “That’s excellent,” I said. “Zee will be pleased.”

  “How about you?”

  “I am pleased, too,” I said.

  A minute or two later, J.W. cleared his throat by way of warning us that he was coming, then appeared in the doorway. He sauntered over to the screen door, stood there staring out at the gathering dusk, and without turning around, he said, “I’m going fishing.”

  Molly grinned at me, then stood up. “That sounds like my cue.”

  She went into the house to say good-bye to Zee and the kids, and was back a minute later. She tiptoed up to kiss J.W.’s cheek, thanked him, and wished him good fishing. Then she turned to me.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I said.

  “Chivalry,” she said, “is not dead.”

  About halfway up the driveway to her car, Molly touched my arm and let her hand slide down to mine. It felt soft and electric, and I held on tight. The walk to her car was altogether too short.

  She turned to me and smiled. “I almost turned Zee down,” she said softly. “Blind dates at my age.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  She reached up, touched my cheek, and sighed. “Well, J.W. is getting impatient.” Then she tilted her face, leaned against me, and kissed my jaw. I put my hand lightly on the back of her neck and pulled my head back to look at her. Her eyes were smiling into mine. I arched my eyebrows—may I kiss you?—and she nodded.

  It was a tentative kiss, no more than a light brushing of lips, and it lasted only an instant before she laughed softly, gave me a quick hug, and pulled away.

  She climbed into her little red Honda. I closed the door for her. She started the engine, then rolled down the window and looked out at me with her eyebrows arched.

  I bent to the window, and she reached out with her hand, steered my face to hers, and kissed me hard on the mouth.

  I hadn’t been kissed like that in a while, and as I stood there in J.W.’s driveway watching Molly Wood’s red taillights jouncing away into the gathering dusk, I rubbed my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a deep breath.

  By the time J.W. and I parked his truck on the roadside by Squibnocket, it was dark. The clouds obscured whatever moon might’ve been up there, so we made our way down a long beach and over some dunes by flashlight. The water gathered the night light well enough for me to see that there was a long curving beach and a rocky point off to our right. The tide was coming in, and gentle breakers were rolling rhythmically against the sand.

  Squibnocket Point is on the southwestern tip of the Vineyard, as far from Cape Pogue, which is on the northeastern tip, as you can get. J.W. had heard rumors that while Zee and I had failed to catch a Derby qualifier at Cape Pogue the previous night, other contestants had taken several at Squibnocket.

  It was worth a try.

  I could hear muffled voices on the beach around us and surmised that there were some other fishermen there, though they sounded distant and I couldn’t see them. We seemed to have plenty of space to cast right there on the beach. J.W. stood on the wet sand in his bare feet with his pants rolled up to his knees and heaved his heavy lure way the hell out there. I, with my little fly rod and in my neoprene waders, sloshed out past the breakers, stood thigh-deep in the water, and began flailing away.

  I had mixed feelings about the fact that there were no other fishermen crowding around us. On the one hand, I liked having some space to share only with my partner. On the other hand, I’m always convinced that other fishermen know what they’re doing better than I know what I’m doing, so if I find a place where no one is fishing, I tend to assume that’s because the fishing’s no good there.

  And when I cast in such a place for half an hour without a strike, I become convinced that it’s barren.

  J.W. seemed content to wait for the fish to come his way. But I got itchy and decided to go try and find some. I began to fish my way along the beach to the right, where the surf was beating against a jumble of rocks. On the incoming tide, I figured the fish might work their way into those rocks, where they could ambush some hapless baitfish.

  There was no one fishing the rocks, either. I’d never fished Squibnocket b
efore, so for all I knew, this was a lousy spot. But for lack of anything more promising, I decided to work it over.

  I had to wade up to my hips to get my fly out among the rocks. The currents were surging and swirling around them, and I imagined the baitfish and crabs and eels and squid being tossed around, easy pickin’s for big, predatory striped bass.

  I’d made a dozen or so casts when my fly stopped. I pulled straight back on my line, felt the hook bite. “Fish on!” I shouted to J.W. as I raised my rod. The fish bulled its way toward the rocks. If he got there, he’d wrap me or fray my leader, and either way I’d lose him, so I dropped my rod to horizontal and tried to turn his head. I had no idea how big he was. Not tiny, I knew that. I’d caught plenty of small stripers, and I knew what they felt like.

  The fly held and the leader didn’t break. I backed up toward the beach as I fought the fish, and a few minutes later it was sloshing around in the shallow water in front of me.

  “Keeper?” It was J.W., who’d materialized beside me.

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” I said. “Shine your light out there.”

  A moment later, J.W.’s light snapped on. The fish had lost its will and was holding quietly in front of me with its head just out of water against the bend of my rod.

  “Might be a keeper,” I said.

  “Nope,” he said. “Nice one. Thirty inches, I bet. But it’s gotta be thirty-two. Steer him over here.”

  I did, and J.W. measured the fish against some markings on his rod. “Twenty-nine inches,” he said. “In the old days, he’d make a good dinner for four.”

  “These days, aside from the fact that he’s not legal, he’s too precious to kill,” I said. I steered the fish to my side, tucked my rod under my arm, knelt in the shallow water, grabbed the fish’s bottom lip between my thumb and forefinger, and used my other hand to back the hook out of its mouth. Then I waded out to my knees, held the fish with one hand gripping its tail and the other under its belly, and moved it slowly back and forth to force water through its gills until I felt its strength return. When I let go, it gave a powerful thrust of its big tail and disappeared into the dark water.