“Ponser is good, but he isn’t that good. He didn’t have the greatest training. I’ll let him have a go at it, and if it turns out equivocal, then I’ll call Portland.”
Sally looked up then. “You really think he could have killed himself, James?”
He nodded. He wanted to say more, but he knew he couldn’t, even if the sheriff weren’t here. He had to rein in all the words that wanted to speak themselves to her. It was too much.
“Why would he do that?”
Quinlan shrugged. “Perhaps he had a terminal illness, Sally. Perhaps he was in great pain.”
“Or maybe he knew something and couldn’t stand it. He killed himself to protect someone.”
“Where did that come from, Ms. Brandon?”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. It’s all just hideous. Amabel told me after we found that poor woman that nothing ever happened here, at least nothing more than Doc Spiver’s cat, Forceps, getting stuck in that old elm tree in his back yard. What will happen to the cat?”
“I’ll make sure Forceps has a new home. Hell, I’ll just bet one of my kids will beg me to bring the damned cat home.”
“David,” Quinlan said, “why don’t you just break down and call her Sally?”
“All right, if you don’t mind. Sally.” When she nodded, he was struck again at how familiar she looked to him. But he couldn’t nail it down. More likely, she just looked like someone he’d known years ago, perhaps.
“Maybe James and I should leave so nothing else will happen.”
“Well, actually, ma’am, you can’t leave The Cove. You found the second body. There are so many questions and just not enough answers. Quinlan, why don’t you and I make Sally some tea?”
Sally watched them walk out of the small living room. The Sheriff stopped by one of Amabel’s paintings, this one of oranges rotting in a bowl. Amabel had used globs of paint on those parts of the oranges that were rotting. It was a disturbing painting. She shivered. What did the sheriff want to talk to James about?
David Mountebank watched Quinlan pour water in the old kettle and turn on the heat beneath it. “Who are you?” he asked.
James stilled. Then he took down three cups and saucers from the cabinet. “You like sugar or milk, Sheriff?”
“No.”
“How about brandy? That’s what I’m putting in Sally’s tea.”
“No, thank you. Answer me, Quinlan. There’s no way you’re a PI, no way in hell. You’re too good. You’ve had the best training. You’re experienced. You know how to do things that normal folk just wouldn’t know.”
“Well, shit,” James said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “Special Agent James Quinlan, Sheriff. FBI. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Hot damn,” David said. “You’re here undercover. What the hell is going on?”
10
JAMES POURED A finger of brandy into the cup of tea. He grinned when the sheriff held out his hand. “No, hold on a second. I want to give this to Sally. I want to make sure she’s hanging in there. She’s a civilian. This has been incredibly tough on her. Surely you can understand that.”
“Yes. I’ll wait for you here, Quinlan.”
James returned after just a moment to see the sheriff staring out the kitchen window over the sink, his hands on the counter. He was a tall man, a runner, rangy and lean. He was probably only a few years older than James. He had a quality of utter concentration about him, something that made people want to talk to him. James admired that, but he wasn’t about to talk. He was beginning to like David Mountebank, but he wasn’t about to let that sway him, either.
Quinlan said quietly, not wanting to startle him, “She’s asleep. I covered her with one of Amabel’s afghans. But let’s keep it down, all right, Sheriff?”
He turned slowly and gave Quinlan a glimpse of a smile. “Call me David. What the hell’s going on? Why are you here?”
Quinlan said calmly, “I’m not really here to find out about Marge and Harve Jensen. They’re just my cover. But their disappearance remains a mystery. And it’s not just them. You were right. The former sheriff sent everything off to the FBI, including reports on two more missing persons-a biker and his girlfriend. Other towns up and down the coast have done the same thing. There’s a nice fat file now on folks who have simply disappeared around here. The Jensens were the first, evidently, so I’m just sticking to them. I’ve told everyone I’m a PI because I don’t want to scare these old folks. They’d freak if they knew an FBI agent was in their midst doing God knows what.”