“Right. And everyone’s a waterfront sort. No lawyers or bankers, at least by the look of them.”
“I’d say you’re right. Wide age spread, too. I’d guess from about sixteen—too young to be legally drinking and probably should be in school—up to the old guy in the corner. Maybe in his eighties?”
“Today schools may have closed early. But the afternoon I was here some high school kids came in, too.”
Will frowned. “Not a good sign. Even if kids aren’t ordering alcoholic drinks, towns usually frown on them hanging out in dives like this. Most proprietors throw them out. They don’t want to get in trouble with the parents or police. We had a place like this near the school where I taught in Buffalo. Ended up being closed down.”
“Because?” said Maggie, taking another bite of her oysters.
“The kids weren’t there to buy the beer and pizza. Or even just the pizza. The owner had another business going on the side.”
“The kids were buying drugs with their pizza.”
“Bingo.”
Maggie looked around. “What do you think about that possibility here?”
Will looked at her. “I have no idea. But if that’s even a small possibility you don’t talk about it here. You finish your oysters and fries, you smile, you leave a nice tip, and you get out.”
“You are such a smart man, Will Brewer,” said Maggie. “These are really good oysters, by the way. Nice and fresh. Want a bite?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 34
Trouble Somewhere.James Montgomery Flagg (1877-1960) illustration, 1900. Woman sitting alone and aloof in expensive car of the period, as man in fur coat stands, defeated, head down, by the side of the road. The hood of the car is raised, exposing the engine, and Cupid is standing on the car’s wheel, looking into the motor and holding a wrench. James Montgomery Flagg sold his first illustration when he was twelve. By the time he was fifteen he was on the staff of the original Life Magazine, published from 1889-1936 until it was purchased by Henry Luce. Other illustrators saw their jobs as stepping stones to fine art. Flagg wanted to illustrate, and did so all of his life. He’s best remembered for the World War I poster he did of Uncle Sam pointing at the viewer, saying, “I Want YOU for the U.S. Army.” 12 x 17 inches. Price: $60.
“The burger and beer were fine in that place,” said Will, as they drove out of the Lazy Lobster’s parking lot. “But your oysters were definitely the best choice. I also could have done without everyone’s staring at us and wondering why we were there. Especially since I wasn’t sure myself. Now, where to? And what’s all this sudden interest in drugs?”
“Last spring, a boy here, the teenaged son of the owner of the hardware store where we bought the plywood yesterday, died of an overdose. The town pretty much freaked out. Everyone blamed everyone else.”
“Did they find the dealer?”
“No. But the boy’s father blamed Diana’s father. His rationale was that Dan was new in town and he helped out with one of the kids’ baseball teams. It got to the point that there was a fight—in the Lazy Lobster. The police broke it up, and after that Dan Jeffrey didn’t work at the Lobster, or at any of his other local jobs.”
“Pretty hard for the guy if he lost his jobs, especially if he wasn’t to blame for the drugs.”
“Right. And no one was ever arrested, so I’m assuming there wasn’t proof to charge him. Or anyone else.”
“Are the drugs still around?”
“Not so much. Or they’ve learned to keep it quieter. But drugs never go away, do they?”
Will grimaced. “They go underground.”
“Exactly.”
“What does all this have to do with Diana and Cordelia?”
“That’s what I want to know.” Maggie hesitated. “But I’ve run out of places to look. I can’t exactly go up to someone and ask if they’re dealing in drugs.”
“Good. Glad you see it that way.” Will reached over and patted her knee.
“It would have to be someone who could be with the kids and not arouse any suspicion, right?”
“Right. But I thought you were concerned about Diana, and about the deaths of her father and her cousin. The boy at the high school who died last spring doesn’t have anything to do with them.”
“I’m not sure, Will. I have a feeling that somehow all three deaths are connected. I just don’t know how.”
“Maggie, be realistic. It’s about,” Will glanced at his watch, “one in the afternoon. What time do those parties start tonight?”
“Seven.”
“So at seven tonight you and I will be heading out, in the middle of a hurricane, let’s not forget, to attend separate parties. Which I certainly hope don’t run late, because I’m considerably over the age of eighteen and I don’t get a real thrill out of being out in a storm with a bunch of drunk guys I don’t know. Or of thinking of you out somewhere else with some crazy cousin of Gussie’s who thinks she’s a witch. Tomorrow morning there’ll be wedding preparations, and early tomorrow afternoon your best friend in all the world—which is how you usually refer to Gussie—is marrying someone who’s a pretty nice guy. Plus, Maggie, and I do not say this lightly, the man you love, who you are rarely even in the same state with, is here. Now. With you. A situation which will exist for only another, say, forty hours.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?” Maggie asked, trying to look innocent.
“Lady, sometimes you have your priorities really messed up.”
“Stop at the hardware store again. Please. I’ll be really fast. I promise.”
Will sighed. “Let me guess. You want to get some candles in case the electricity goes out tonight.”
“I was thinking of flashlights. But candles might have to do if they’re sold out of flashlights,” she said as he pulled in. She leaned over and kissed him lightly before opening the car door.
Winslow Hardware looked as though the storm had already hit. Most of the supplies she’d seen there earlier were gone. Few customers were in the aisles. She suspected everyone was hunkering down at home before the storm. Any supplies they didn’t have now they’d do without.
Bob Silva was behind the counter. “Maggie, we’re getting to be old friends. What have you forgotten? I’m afraid we’re out of most hurricane supplies.”
“Flashlights?”
“The large ones are gone. I still have a few small ones, over there.” He pointed at a display of camping gear.
Maggie selected a light so small the entire case fit in the palm of her hand. “Are these any good? I mean, will they light a path in the dark?”
“They’re not exactly torches,” said Silva, “and I wouldn’t try to read with one, but they’ll be better than nothing. People put those in glove compartments or pockets so they can see a map or find a keyhole.”
“I’ll take two,” she said, reaching for her wallet. “And I’ve been thinking about what you said about your son’s death. Would you mind if I talked to a couple of the other boys on his baseball team?”
Silva stopped making change. “I don’t think it’ll do any good, Maggie. Either those boys don’t know anything, or they won’t talk. Ike Irons tried several times last spring. And you’re not from here. Why would they trust you?”
Maggie shrugged. “They might not. But maybe they’d talk to me because I’m not from here. And the situation has changed since last spring. If Dan Jeffrey was involved, they might say something now that he’s dead. I’d like to try to talk with them. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll give you stubbornness, Maggie Summer. I hope this Hurricane Tasha isn’t as persistent as you are. I hear it’s made a mess of the Connecticut shoreline. Here.” Silva reached for a pad and scribbled down two names. “These are the names of two of my boy’s best friends. If any of the kids on the team talk, they would. When do you think you might try to see them?”
“Will they be at home this afternoon?”