Knockdown: A Home Repair Is Homicide Mystery (4 page)

“I suppose.” Had she
really
thought he seemed familiar? “And the email …”

“You don’t know it’s from him,” Ellie replied. “It could be some joke thing from one of Sam’s friends, for instance.”

True; home from college for the summer, Sam commandeered all electronic gadgets on sight, and her laptop was no exception.

“And if he
was
going to do something bad, why warn me about it, right?” she asked slowly, trying to convince herself.

“Right,” agreed Ellie, decisively. “So come on, let’s check out the Fourth of July preparations.”

Her own daughter, little Lee, was at a children’s party with her cousins. So Ellie was at liberty for a few hours.

“We’ll get ice-cream cones,” she added persuasively.

“Well …” She could take another whack at the porch later. And what harm could some guy on a bike do her, anyway?

“All right, let’s go then,” Jake gave in, throwing a sweater over her shoulders as they went out into the bright day.

But even as she turned her face gratefully to the sunshine and smelled the sweet, salt-tinctured fragrance of a Maine island in summer, one phrase kept repeating in her head over and over:

Beware the Fourth
.

AT AGE TWENTY-THREE, STEVEN GARNER WAS ON THE FIRST
serious mission of his life, and so far it was going pretty well.

He’d set out on the bike just to get a look at her house, for instance, but instead he’d gotten to confront her, too. He’d already set up other
things meant to unnerve her, which should be delivered soon if they hadn’t already been.

Later, he meant to provoke all her fears, drive her right up to and over the edge of terror. But scaring her face-to-face, in advance of the main event, was a bonus.

He smiled, still not quite believing that he was actually in Eastport, where he’d fantasized being—where he’d imagined
acting
on his plans, finally—for so long.

But now here he was. Ahead, Passamaquoddy Bay spread blue and calm, puffy white clouds and seagulls floating above it like features in a child’s watercolor. He braked the bike to a halt.

To his left, the old red-brick public library was having a sale on its lawn, used books and strawberry shortcakes. Across the street, a pub had set up a barbecue grill on its deck.

People in shorts and T-shirts wandered around munching hot dogs from the pub. Some got beers from the keg; others headed to the library for dessert, and a book to read while they ate it.

Steven considered what to do next. The street was blocked off by sawhorses and tape with the words
Do Not Cross
on it. But the tape was to prohibit cars, not people, so he edged his bike past the barriers and continued toward the harbor. Might as well get the local geography straight in his head.

The guidebook he’d studied on the bus ride that had brought him here said Eastport was on Moose Island, a chunk of granite two miles wide and seven long. Now he walked the bike along the town’s single downtown street, facing the bay and appropriately enough called Water Street.

Opposite the harbor, two- and three-story brick or wood frame buildings housed shops on their first floor, apartments—mostly unoccupied, he decided, from their bare windows—on their second and third. The shops offered hardware, pizza, T-shirts, and local art. There was a tattoo shop and an attorney’s office. Beyond that, a florist displayed red, white, and blue chrysanthemums.

No McDonald’s or Pizza Hut, though. Steven wondered how he would find anything to eat in this town. He was not going to put any strange burgers or sausages in his mouth, that was for sure.

He paused outside a secondhand shop to get his bearings. The street was full of booths selling trinkets and more strange foods—fried dough and smoked salmon, cups of fruit ice and big paper cones brim-full of onion rings.

Across from a huge statue of a fisherman, a wide wooden pier stuck out into the bay. Beside it hulked a pair of tugboats, one red and the other blue. On the pier’s other side, a schooner floated; near it, a scrawled sign advertised whale-watching and sunset cruises.

Yeah
, he thought skeptically, imagining the boat’s bowsprit sticking straight up for an instant before the whole craft sank. The very idea of getting on a strange boat with strange people—

But never mind, he concluded. They’d probably think what he was up to was pretty strange, too, if they knew.

Displayed behind the glass of the store window, cups and saucers in the Golden Wheat pattern reminded him of his mother. So did a tin percolator, a china planter shaped like a panther, and a fake fur coat. Behind them in the shop, a lady in a turquoise velour pantsuit sat at a card table.

At the sight of her, a sharp pang of homesickness struck him and he turned away, moving on to a craft store whose offerings he found even more upsetting: crocheted pot holders and macramé plant hangers, paint-by-number landscapes and stitchery portraits.

All were things that might have been his mother’s, that she might have displayed back when she was alive. Which now she wasn’t; many items just like these were in her house right this minute, waiting to be thrown away.

But they might wait forever, because there was no one else to do it, and he wasn’t going to. Now that she was gone and he was out from under her thumb, he had better things to accomplish.

Better, and more important … The thought summoned up all the
preparations he’d made and the items he’d brought with him, sharp ones and shiny ones … Oh, the things he would do. And soon; the Fourth of July was nearly here.

But for now, his first impulse had been correct. He would learn the territory, the hiding places and points of usefulness; while looking so much like the other tourists, he was as good as invisible.

Wandering on past the big granite post office building, he came to the Quonset hut from which he’d rented the bike. Here he paid to keep it for a few days more, then continued out the wide concrete breakwater.

On it stood a wooden hut called Rosie’s, with people lined up in front. It was a hot dog stand, and despite his earlier resolve, the aromas enticed him mightily.

But he resisted, because as his mother always said, you never knew what people might have done with restaurant food before you got it. That was why it was best to eat at home, where you were sure your meal was clean; next best was a fast-food place where you could see into the kitchen.

Failing that, you could go to a grocery store and buy things in factory-sealed packages. Not the stuff that got wrapped in the delicatessen, gooey egg sandwiches or rolls full of mystery meat, but brand names that were machine-sealed were okay. So his mother had said on the few occasions when he couldn’t be home for the good, nourishing meals she put on the table for him.

Nutrition, in fact, had been a significant problem since she had died. She’d known how to make the things he liked: meat loaf, mashed potatoes with butter, and vegetables—green beans or peas.

Always canned vegetables, because processing destroyed the germs and other contaminants. And they at least were easy to get. But here in Eastport, he had nowhere to cook even the few meals he had learned to prepare.

He’d bought packaged food, but even that was all stashed at the place where he was staying. And he didn’t want to go near it again until later this evening, when it was dark.

Somebody might see him. And that could jeopardize his plan. Which mustn’t be allowed; since his mother died, he’d thought of little else but getting vengeance for his father.

His father’s death. His father’s murder. And now …

He stood on the breakwater, holding the bike up, staring at the waves. His stomach growled but he ignored it, because—

 … now it was time.

I
N EASTPORT, THE FOURTH OF JULY WAS LIKE CHRISTMAS
, New Year’s, and everyone’s birthday all rolled into one. And this year it came on a Sunday, so the celebration would last all weekend.

“Yikes,” said Ellie as firecrackers popped nearby.

“No kidding,” said Jake as they headed down Key Street past the old Shead mansion, once a grand, prosperous dwelling but now sadly dilapidated.

There were several dozen more old houses just like the Shead mansion in Eastport, once a family’s home but now too expensive to
maintain and heat. So they stood temptingly empty.… But one old money pit to take care of was plenty, Jake thought as she hurried on.

At the foot of the hill, burnt gunpowder floated on the air, and bagpipes played “Amazing Grace” somewhere.

“Look, there he is,” said Jake, spotting the bike guy past the costume contest now happening straight ahead.

Local ladies in ball gowns rubbed elbows with ones in cavewomen outfits. Men in pirate garb, Tarzan outfits, moose suits, and superhero costumes guffawed at another fellow dressed as a pear.

“Where?” asked Ellie, squinting into the crowd.

Pointing, Jake eyed her unpleasant visitor again. He was half a block ahead of them, pushing the bike.

“I thought you were going to forget about him,” said Ellie.

“I would have,” Jake lied, “but he’s right in front of me.”

They lingered by the hardware store to let him get farther along. But that put them across from a booth selling fruit-syrup-doused slush cones in colors suggesting exotic poisons.

No one was dropping dead, though, so Jake decided to get one. “I just wish I knew if I
should
forget him,” she told Ellie as the boy in the booth shot crimson liquid onto her treat.

“Or tell Bob Arnold about him,” she added, wishing the words in her head
(bewarebeware)
would stop clattering like the rattle of a snare drum.

Or a snake. Across the street at the end of the fish pier stood Eastport police chief Bob Arnold himself, pink and plump and arrayed in full cop regalia: uniform, duty belt, and weapon, plus nightstick, radio, handcuffs, and black leather boots.

Ellie shook her head. “Come on, Jake, what are you going to tell him? That there’s a stranger in town?” She waved at the mobbed street. “There’s hundreds of strangers in town. Thousands, even.”

“I guess,” said Jake. By now the guy had blended into the crowd, past the audience of proud parents gathered near the fish pier’s parking lot for the children’s talent show.

A boom box blared the opening notes of Herb Alpert’s “Taste of Honey” while a tutu’d four-year-old stepped uncertainly onto the makeshift stage, twirling a baton.

Was
he down there somewhere? Jake wondered distractedly.

Maybe he’d doubled back. Maybe he was
behind
her. Nervously she glanced over her shoulder, then up and down the street again.

No one; she let out her breath. And Ellie was right: she was being silly. She turned back just as the child tossed the baton up hard, spun around, and caught it behind her back.

A tiny miracle; even she looked completely astonished.
And that
, Jake thought, obscurely comforted,
is what the Fourth of July is all about in Eastport, Maine
.

Kids ran by with cans of Silly String. The stuff made a mess but was never prohibited; the drunks would be out tonight, too, as rowdy as ever. But both were also part of the holiday. Bob Arnold always said that if nobody drowned, crashed a car, or got shot, it was a successful Fourth.

And somehow, no one ever did. “Fireworks tomorrow night,” said Jake, feeling herself relax.

Ellie smiled. “And grilled fish tonight, if they catch any.”

Another holiday tradition. Ellie’s husband, George Valentine, was fishing with Wade and Sam, for brook trout.

“Oh, they’ll catch some. They always do. And we’ll cook them like always.”

“Like always,” Ellie echoed. Tossing their spent cones in a nearby trash can, they wandered on. Nearby, more firecrackers exploded; this time it was Jake who jumped a foot at the sounds, so like gunshots, but her alarm didn’t last.

After all, she was here in Eastport, and in Eastport on the Fourth of July, nothing bad could happen.

Or so it seemed.

AS IT TURNED OUT, HE DIDN’T HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL DARK TO
get into the abandoned house he’d chosen to squat in. Instead, at about
two in the afternoon a parade of monsters—dragons, giant squid, the abominable snowman—galloped past the old dwelling.

It was a children’s parade, he realized. Banging drums, tooting horns, and howling the sounds they imagined were made by real monsters, the kids drew a crowd in their wake; soon the area around Steven’s hideout was deserted.

He eased the bike into the unkempt yard. He’d taken a lot of time when he’d arrived in town the day before, picking a place. It had to be empty, of course, with a door he could use without being observed. The yard had to be screened by trees, bushes, or a fence, and a high vantage point for a lookout was desirable.

He hid the bike among overgrown bushes, then stepped through a rotted archway that in the old days had held up lattice. With a last fast glance around, he hustled up the back steps onto an old wooden porch. From here, he could see what had been the garden, full of overgrown lilacs. At the yard’s center, the old peonies’ shaggy heads were the same pink as his mother’s housecoat.