“My God,” I said. “I think this person was wearing dive boots or something with a moccasin shape like dive boots.
Look.”
I pointed out the pattern to Lucy and Marino. They had gotten down next to me, footprints obliquely illuminated by my flashlight.
“No arch,” Lucy noted. “They sure look like dive boots or aqua shoes to me. Now that’s bizarre.”
I got up and stared out over the wall at dark, heaving water. It seemed inconceivable that someone could have come up from the sea.
“Can you get photos of these?” I asked Marino.
“Sure. But I got nothing to make casts.”
Then we returned to the house. He gathered the wood and carried it into the living room while Lucy and I returned our attention to dinner, which I was no longer certain I could eat because I was so tense. I poured another glass of wine and tried to dismiss the prowler as a coincidence, a harmless peregrination on the part of someone who enjoyed the snow or perhaps diving at night.
But I knew better, and kept my gun nearby and frequently glanced out the window. My spirit was heavy as I slid the lasagne into the oven. I found the Parmesan reggiano in the refrigerator and began grating it, then I arranged figs and melon on plates, adding plenty of prosciutto for Marino’s share. Lucy made salad, and for a while we worked in silence.
When she finally spoke, she was not happy. “You’ve really gotten into something, Aunt Kay. Why does this always happen to you?”
“Let’s not allow our imaginations to run wild,” I said.
“You’re out here alone in the middle of nowhere with no burglar alarm and locks as flimsy as flip-top aluminum cans-”
“Have you chilled the champagne yet?” I interrupted.
“It will be midnight soon. The lasagne will only take about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, unless Dr. Mant’s oven works like everything else does around here. Then it could take until this time next year. I’ve never understood why people cook lasagne for hours. And then they wonder why everything is leathery.”
Lucy was staring at me, resting a paring knife on a side of the salad bowl. She had cut enough celery and carrots for a marching band.
“One day I will really make lasagne coi carciofi for you.
It has artichokes, only you use bechamel sauce instead of marinara-”
“Aunt Kay,” she impatiently cut me off. “I hate it when you do this. And I’m not going to let you do this. I don’t you give a shit about lasagne right now. What matters is that this morning you got a weird phone call. Then there was a bizarre death and people treated you suspiciously at the scene. Now tonight you had a prowler who might have been in a damn wet suit.”
“It’s not likely the person will be back. Whoever it was.
Not unless he wants to take on the three of us.”
“Aunt Kay, you can’t stay here,” she said.
“I have to cover Dr. Mant’s district, and I can’t do that from Richmond,” I told her as I again looked out the window over the sink. “Where’s Marino? Is he still out taking pictures?”
“He came in a while ago.” Her frustration was as palpable as a storm about to start.
I walked into the living room and found him asleep on the couch, the fire blazing. My eyes wandered to the window where Lucy had looked out, and I went to it. Beyond cold glass the snowy yard glowed faintly like a pale moon, and was pockmarked by elliptical shadows left by our feet.
The brick wall was dark, and I could not see beyond it, where coarse sand tumbled into the sea.
“Lucy’s right,” Marino’s sleepy voice said to my back.
I turned around. “I thought you were down for the count.”
“I hear and see everything, even when I’m down for the count,” he said. I could not help but smile.
“Get the hell out of here. That’s my vote.” He worked his way up to a sitting position. “No way I’d stay in this crate out in the middle of nowhere. Something happens, ain’t no one going to hear you scream.” His eyes fixed on me. “By the time anyone finds you, you’ll be freeze-dried.