Crimson Shore

“I came to New York on an investigation some years ago. The New York Field Office asked me to stay.”

Trying to get back on safer ground, Lake asked: “Are you married? Any kids?”

Now he could see this was one question too far. The gracious expression on Pendergast’s face vanished and there was a long silence before he said, “No,” in a voice that would freeze water.

Lake covered up his embarrassment with another swig of beer. “Let’s talk about the case, then. I’m curious if you have any theories about whodunit.”

“No theories that rise above the level of rank speculation.” Pendergast glanced around, the blank look fading from his face. “Perhaps it would be more efficacious if you’d tell me about the people in this room.”

Lake was a little taken aback by this request. “You mean, their names?”

“Names, background précis, peculiarities.”

Lake ordered a second beer — this time, a Thunderhead IPA. He had a big appetite and had to eat something soon. He leaned forward. “There’s one thing they can’t screw up in this restaurant: oysters on the half shell.”

At this, Pendergast perked up. “Excellent suggestion. Let us order two dozen.”

Lake waved over the waitress and placed the order. He leaned forward. “Let’s see. The new waitress—”

“We need not discuss the waitress. Next?”

“Hmmm… ” Lake looked around the room. There were only two tables occupied in addition to the bartender and a man at the bar. “The man behind the bar is Joe Dunwoody. The Dunwoodys are an old Exmouth family, go way back to colonial times. His brother Dana is one of the selectmen, and a pretty shrewd lawyer to boot. You don’t cross him.”

“And if you do?”

“You might not get a permit for that garage you want to build. Or the septic inspector might show up and red-tag your system. Petty stuff — but annoying.”

“Next.”

Lake looked around. “See that busty woman in the corner nursing a Seven and Seven? Dolores Claybrook. Town busybody. Horrible woman, the very definition of schadenfreude. Her family was one of the wealthiest in town, made their money in Gloucester — shipbuilding. A branch moved here and got into the codfishing business. They went into a decline along with the cod. She’s the last one left, buried three husbands. If you winked at her and pinched her ass you could really get her talking.”

“Perhaps some other time. Next?”

“That couple at the table near the window — Mark and Sarah Lillie. He runs the local insurance agency, dabbles in small-town investments. They own a financial-planning business on the side. His family goes way back, too — guess almost everyone in Exmouth does. Originally from Oldham.”

“Oldham?”

“Small town that was situated on Crow Island, south of here. It was destroyed in the hurricane of ’38. Most of the residents settled in Dill Town, which had previously been abandoned. The Lillie family has since integrated itself with the blue blood of Exmouth — or what passes for it, anyway.”

Pendergast indicated a tweedy man eating dinner at the bar. “And that rather curious fellow, the one with the leather patches on his jacket?”

“He’s not from around here — obviously. English. He was here a few weeks ago, doing historical research on a maritime mystery rather famous in these parts. Now it seems he’s back, I don’t know why.”

“A maritime mystery?”

“The 1884 disappearance of the SS Pembroke Castle, out of London, bound for Boston. It vanished at night in a nor’easter somewhere along the stretch of coast between Cape Elizabeth and Cape Ann. Not a trace was found, not even a broken spar. You get people coming through from time to time, trying to figure out what happened. It’s like the Flying Dutchman or the Marie Celeste.”

“Curious. And the gentleman’s name?”

“Morris McCool.”

“Have you met him?”

“No. But I must say, there’s something suspicious about him. If he wasn’t from ‘away,’ he’d be my first suspect for the theft of my wine cellar. Morris McCool… there’s a made-up name if ever I heard one.”

“On the contrary, no one would invent a pseudonym like that.”

Lake paused while the waitress brought them a large platter of raw oysters on a bed of crushed ice, with a side of cocktail sauce, grated horseradish, and lemon slices.

“How do you like them?” Lake asked.

“Lemon and no more.”

“There’s my man.” Lake squeezed lemon over the glossy, fat oyster-bodies, watching the edges curl as the acid hit them.

“After you.”

Pendergast picked up one and, with a quick gesture, brought the shell to his lips, soundlessly sucked in the oyster, laid the empty shell down with feline delicacy, and dabbed at his lips.

Lake took another and they fell into silence as they proceeded to suction in one plump oyster after another in rapid succession until the platter was nothing but glistening, empty shells.

Pendergast gave a final dab to his lips, then folded up the napkin and glanced at his watch. “Now I must be on my way. That was most enjoyable — thank you for the suggestion.”