Crimson Shore

A young policeman emerged from the back rooms, then paused, staring at her. Constance returned the look. Was there something strange about this town, or was it she who was strange? He was dark and Italian-looking, with a brooding expression. He seemed to flush at her stare, turned away, gave the receptionist a piece of paper, spoke to her briefly, then turned back to Constance. “Are you here for Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

A hesitation. “It may be several hours.”

Why on earth hasn’t he pulled rank by now? “I’ll wait.”

He left. She found the lady behind the desk looking at her curiously as well. She seemed eager to talk, and Constance, who normally would have shut her out as one shuts a door, recalled that she was supposed to be investigating, and that this was an opportunity. She gave the lady what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Where are you from?” the woman asked.

“New York.”

“I didn’t know there were Amish in New York.”

Constance stared at her. “We’re not Amish.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I just assumed, with the man in the black suit, and you with that dress… ” Her voice trailed off. “I hope I didn’t offend.”

“Not in the least.” Constance looked at the woman more closely. She was about fifty. The avid look on her face spoke of dull routine and a thirst for gossip. Here was someone who would know everything going on in the town. “We’re just old-fashioned,” she said, with another forced smile.

“Are you here on vacation?”

“No. We’ve investigating the burglary of Percival Lake’s wine cellar.”

A silence. “The man in the black suit is a private investigator?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m his assistant.”

The woman became nervous. “Well, well,” she said, cracking some papers on the desk and shuffling them about, suddenly busy.

Perhaps she should not have been so quick to disclose their purpose in town. She would try a new tack. “How long have you worked here?” Constance asked.

“Twenty-six years.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a nice town. Friendly.”

“Do you have much crime here?”

“Oh, no. Hardly any. The last murder we had here was in 1978.”

“Other crimes?”

“The usual. Mostly kids. Vandalism, shoplifting, underage drinking — that’s about it.”

“So this is unusual? Arresting someone for loitering and disturbing the peace?”

A nervous hand adjusted her hairdo. “I can’t say. Excuse me, I have work to take care of.” She went back to her paperwork.

Constance felt chagrined. How on earth did Pendergast do it? She would have to pay more attention to his methods.

* * *

It was late afternoon when the young policeman came back out and gave some papers to the lady behind the desk.

“Miss Greene?” the lady asked.

She rose.

“Bail has been set. Five hundred dollars.”

As Constance wrote out the check, the woman explained the terms and slid the paperwork toward her. She signed it.

“It won’t be too much longer,” the woman promised.

And it wasn’t: five minutes later, Pendergast appeared in the doorway in surprisingly good spirits. The bag with the Hawaiian shirts had vanished.

“Excellent, most excellent,” he said. “Let us go.”

Constance said nothing as they walked to the car.

“How did you get the car here?” Pendergast asked, seeing it at the curb.

She explained.

Pendergast frowned. “I would have you keep in mind that there are dangerous characters buried in this little town.”

“Trust me, he wasn’t one of them.”

As they got into the car, Constance felt her irritation rising. He held his hand out for the keys, but she made no move to give them to him.

“Aloysius.”

“Yes?”

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You deliberately provoked the chief and got yourself arrested. Several hours ago. And I assume you didn’t tell him you’re an FBI agent.”

“No.”

“How, exactly, is this supposed to help our investigation?”

Pendergast laid a hand on her shoulder. “I want to commend you for your restraint with the chief, by the way. He is a most unpleasant man. Now to answer your question: this will directly help our investigation.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“I would not. All shall become clear, I promise you.”

“Your inscrutability is going to drive me mad.”

“Patience! Now, shall we return to the Inn? I have an engagement with Percival Lake. Would you care to join us for some dinner, perhaps? You must be famished.”

“I’ll have dinner in my room, thank you.”

“Very well. Let us hope it proves less disappointing than this morning’s breakfast.”