“And you said Eric’s, of course.”
I nodded. My mouth was too full of chocolate bliss to answer.
“Thank you for sharing,” I said when we’d finished the pudding cake and our coffee refills.
“You’re welcome.” Marcus leaned one arm on the back of his chair. “Are you ready to walk up and take a look at the tents?”
I pushed back from the table. “Yes. I could use some exercise.”
He got to his feet. “I have this,” he said.
I opened my mouth to argue that I could pay for my dinner, but he was already halfway to the counter.
The sun was just going down and the sky over the river was streaked with red and gold when we stepped outside. I stopped on the sidewalk for a moment to take in the view.
“‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning,’” Marcus said softly behind me.
I turned to look at him.
“My father used to say that,” he said with a shrug. “Then he’d go into this long explanation about the light from the setting sun, dust particles and high-pressure systems.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” I said as we started walking.
“Yeah, I know. But when you’re ten and your friends are standing there, that kind of thing is embarrassing.”
I waved my hand dismissively at him. “No, no, no, no. Embarrassing is your father doing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet on the fire escape. In tights. In January. Embarrassing is all your friends dressing up as tap-dancing raisins for Halloween because your father played one in a cereal commercial and became some kind of cultural icon slash cult hero.”
“You’re joking,” Marcus said.
I sighed and shook my head. “No, sadly, I’m not.”
“A tap-dancing raisin?” He still looked a little disbelieving.
“A shriveled, tap-dancing raisin that had no rhythm.”
He nodded slowly. “You win. That definitely is more embarrassing.”
I bumped his arm with my shoulder. “Someday I’ll tell you about the time my mother picked me up at school after rehearsal for Gypsy.”
“I look forward to it,” he said, smiling down at me.
The street curved, following the shoreline, and ahead I could see that one of the tents was about three-quarters assembled. We crossed at the corner, and as we got closer to the boardwalk, I caught sight of Burtis Chapman and Mike Glazer.
Burtis was built like an offensive lineman, with wide shoulders and huge, muscled arms. His skin was weathered from working outdoors and his hair was snow-white in a Marine Corps brush cut. He was extremely well-read, I knew, but was happy to play the uneducated hick if it suited him.
Mike was about the same height, only leaner, with sandy blond hair cropped close and a couple days’ stubble. In his black wool commando sweater and gray trousers, he looked like a city boy.
“I just think we’d be better served with something from this century,” he was saying, pointing at the tent. He didn’t look happy. “And a lighter fabric—a polyester or nylon.”
I remembered Maggie rolling her eyes in exasperation as she’d described Mike as a festering boil on the backside of life. It was about as close to swearing as Mags got.
For all that Mike seemed to be arrogant and condescending, I knew he could be kind of personable as well. He’d spent some time in the library the previous morning, walking around looking at the large collage panels that told the history of the building.
“Could I help you?” I’d asked, walking over to the magazine section, where he’d stood.
He’d smiled and shaken his head. “Thanks, no. I was just taking a trip down memory lane. These photos are incredible.”
“Take your time,” I’d said. “There are more panels hanging in the computer room.”
He’d checked his watch and frowned. “I wish I could, but I have to get going.” He shrugged and looked around. He seemed a little sad. “Maybe Thomas Wolfe was right; you can’t go home again.”
“I prefer The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” I’d said.
Mike had frowned, not getting the reference.
“There’s no place like home.”
He’d nodded his head with just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Burtis was standing silently, holding a sledgehammer in both of his large hands. His expression was unreadable, until I got close enough to see his eyes. There was a hint of menace in them. If the rumors I’d heard about Burtis were even partly true, I knew he wasn’t a man to get on the bad side of.
“Well?” Mike said impatiently.
“My turn to talk now, is it?” Burtis said, looking at the younger man as though he were something Burtis had just scraped off his shoe. “First of all, boy, both these tents here are just a couple of years old. That canvas is water-repellent, mildew-resistant and flame-retardant. My tents don’t sag when they’re wet and they don’t blow over. When my boys put a tent up, it stays up.” There was a challenge in his body language and his tone.
Mike Glazer shook his head and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Forget it. I’ll talk to Liam.”
He walked away, heading for a group of people standing over by the retaining wall between the river and the boardwalk. Burtis caught sight of us. He nodded to Marcus and smiled at me. Whatever anger had been there just the moment before was gone.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “When are you comin’ to have breakfast with me again? I don’t have to wait for you to fall over another body, do I?”
We’d had a lot of rain early in the spring, and all that water had caused an embankment to let go out at Wisteria Hill while I was standing on top of it. The collapse had uncovered remains that had turned out to be those of Roma’s long-lost father. Burtis had known the man. They’d both worked for Idris Blackthorne, who had been the town bootlegger back in the day. I’d had breakfast with Burtis early one morning, looking for any kind of information that would answer the questions Roma had about what had happened to her father.
“No, you don’t,” I said. I could feel Marcus’s eyes watching me. “But does it have to be at six o’clock in the morning?”
“Now, don’t be telling me you need your beauty sleep.” Burtis grinned. “Because nobody’s gonna believe that.” He turned and, with one hand, swung the heavy sledgehammer up into the back of the one-ton truck parked at the curb. Then he looked at me again. “C’mon over to Fern’s some morning. I’ll tell you all about the good old days. Peggy makes some damn fine blueberry pancakes.” His eyes darted over to Marcus for a moment. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I got work to do.” He headed for the half-finished tent.
For a moment neither Marcus nor I said anything. Then he cleared his throat. “You’ll notice I’m not asking you why you were having breakfast with Burtis Chapman,” he said.
“I appreciate that,” I said. Before I could say anything else, Mary Lowe came around the side of the half-finished tent. Mary worked at the library when she wasn’t baking the best apple pie I’d ever tasted or practicing her kickboxing. She was state champion in her age and weight class.