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.”
“It’s a good cover, since it’s real. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s really going on?”
“I can’t, at least not right now. Can you be satisfied with that?”
“I guess I’ll just have to be. You discover anything yet about the Jensens?”
“Yeah-all these respectable old folk are lying to me. Can you beat that? Your parents or grandparents lying through their teeth over something as innocuous as a pair of old people in a Winnebago probably coming into town just to buy the World’s Greatest Ice Cream?”
“Okay, then. They do remember Harve and Marge, but they’re afraid to talk, afraid to get involved. Why didn’t you come talk to me right away? Tell me who you were and that you were undercover?”
“I wanted to keep things under wraps for as long as possible. It makes it easier.” Quinlan shrugged. “Hey, then if I didn’t find anything, well, no harm done and who knows? I just might discover something about all these old folks who have disappeared.”
“You would have succeeded in keeping your cover from me if two people weren’t dead. You’re just too good, too well trained.” David Mountebank sighed, took a deep drink of the brandied tea James handed him, shuddered a bit, then grinned as he patted his belly. “That’ll put optimism back in your pecker.”