“I’m Sherry Vorhees. My husband’s the local preacher, Reverend Harold Vorhees. I have a four-hour shift here most days.”
“A pleasure, ma’am. Can I treat you to an ice cream?” “Oh, no, I have my iced tea,” she said and sipped out of a large plastic tumbler. It was very pale iced tea. “You know, I’d like some iced tea, if you don’t mind,” Quinlan said.
Sherry Vorhees winked at him. “Sorry, sir, but you don’t want my kind of iced tea, and we don’t have any of the other kind.”
“Just ice cream, then. You’ve never heard of this Marge and Harve? You don’t remember them coming through here some three years ago? In a Winnebago?”
Sherry thought he was handsome, just like that Englishman who’d played in two James Bond films, but this man was American and he was bigger, a lot taller. She really liked that dimple in his chin. She’d always wondered how men shaved in those tiny little holes. And now this lovely man wanted to know about these two old folk. He was standing right in front of her licking his peach ice cream cone.
“A lot of folk come to The Cove for the World’s Greatest Ice Cream,” she said, still smiling at him. “Too many to remember individuals. And three years ago… why, at my age I can barely remember what I cooked Hal for dinner last Tuesday.”
“Well, you think about it, please, Mrs. Vorhees. I’m staying at Thelma’s Bed and Breakfast.” He turned as the front doorbell jingled. A middle-aged woman came in. Unlike Martha, this one was dressed like a gypsy, a red scarf tied around her head, thick wool socks and Birken-stocks on her feet. She was wearing a long skirt that looked organic and a dark-red wool jacket. Her eyes were dark and very beautiful. She had to be the youngest citizen in the town.
“Hello, Sherry,” she said. “I’ll relieve you now.”
“Thanks, Amabel. Oh, this is James Quinlan. Mr. Quinlan, this is Amabel Perdy. He’s a real private detective from Los Angeles, Amabel. He’s here to try to find out what happened to an old couple who might have come through The Cove to buy ice cream. What was their name? Oh, yes, Harve and Marge.”
Amabel raised her dark gypsy eyebrows at him. She was very still, didn’t say anything, just looked at him, completely at ease.
So this was the aunt. How fortunate that she was here and not at home, where he hoped to find Sally Brainerd. Amabel Perdy, an artist, an old hippie, a former school-teacher. He knew she was a widow, had been married to another artist she’d met in Soho many decades ago. His art had never amounted to much. He’d died some seventeen years ago. James also knew now that she’d turned down Purn Davies. He noted she didn’t look anything like her niece.
“I don’t remember any old folk named Harve and Marge,” Amabel said. “I’m going in the back to change now, Sherry. Ring out, okay?”
She was the best liar yet. He tamped down his dratted curiosity. It didn’t matter. Sally Brainerd was the only thing that mattered.
“How’s your little niece doing, Amabel?”
Amabel wished Sherry wouldn’t drink so much iced tea. It made her run off at the mouth. But she said pleasantly, “She’s doing better. She was just so exhausted from her trip.”
“Yes, of course.” Sherry Vorhees continued to sip out of that big plastic tumbler and smile at James. That English actor’s name was Timothy Dalton. Beautiful man. She liked James Quinlan even better. “There’s not much to do here in The Cove. I don’t know if you’ll last out the week.”
“Who knows?” James said, tossed his napkin into the white trash bin, and left the ice cream shop.
His next stop was Amabel Perdy’s house, the small white one on the corner of Main Street and Conroy Street. Time to get it done.
When he knocked on the trim white door, he heard a crash from inside. It sounded as though a piece of furniture had been knocked down. He knocked louder. He heard a woman’s cry of terror.