The mother gasped and stared. "You can't act like that toward our son, why he's-"
The older woman smiled back, straightened her lacy white cap, and said, "He's what, ma'am?"
"He's a brat," the husband said. He turned to his son. "What do you want, Mickey? You see the six flavors. Pick one now or don't have any."
"I want French Vanilla," the girl said. "He can have worms."
"Now, Julie," the mother said, then licked the ice cream cone the woman handed her. "Oh, goodness, it's wonderful. Fresh peaches, Rick. Fresh peaches. It's great."
The woman behind the counter just smiled. The boy took a chocolate triple-dip cone. James watched the family finally leave. "Yes, can I help you?" "I'd like a peach cone, please, ma'am." "You're new to town,"
she said as she pulled the scoop through the big tub of ice cream. "You just traveling through?"
"No," James said, taking the cone. "I'll be here for a while. I'm trying to find Marge and Harve Jensen."
"Never heard of them."
James took a lick. He felt as though sweet peaches were sliding down his throat. The woman was a good liar. "The lady was right. This is delicious." "Thank you. This Marge and Harve-" James repeated the story he'd told to Thelma and Martha and the old men. When he finished, he stuck out his hand and said,
"My name is James Quinlan. I'm a private investigator from Los Angeles."
"I'm Sherry Vorhees. My husband's the local preacher, Reverend Harold Vorhees. I have a four-hour shift here most days."
"A pleasure, ma'am. Can I treat you to an ice cream?" "Oh, no, I have my iced tea," she said and sipped out of a large plastic tumbler. It was very pale iced tea. "You know, I'd like some iced tea, if you don't mind," Quinlan said.
Sherry Vorhees winked at him. "Sorry, sir, but you don't want my kind of iced tea, and we don't have any of the other kind."
"Just ice cream, then. You've never heard of this Marge and Harve? You don't remember them coming through here some three years ago? In a Winnebago?"
Sherry thought he was handsome, just like that Englishman who'd played in two James Bond films, but this man was American and he was bigger, a lot taller. She really liked that dimple in his chin. She'd always wondered how men shaved in those tiny little holes. And now this lovely man wanted to know about these two old folk. He was standing right in front of her licking his peach ice cream cone.
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"A lot of folk come to The Cove for the World's Greatest Ice Cream," she said, still smiling at him. "Too many to remember individuals. And three years ago... why, at my age I can barely remember what I cooked Hal for dinner last Tuesday."
"Well, you think about it, please, Mrs. Vorhees. I'm staying at Thelma's Bed and Breakfast." He turned as the front doorbell jingled. A middle-aged woman came in. Unlike Martha, this one was dressed like a gypsy, a red scarf tied around her head, thick wool socks and Birken-stocks on her feet. She was wearing a long skirt that looked organic and a dark-red wool jacket. Her eyes were dark and very beautiful. She had to be the youngest citizen in the town.
"Hello, Sherry," she said. "I'll relieve you now."
"Thanks, Amabel. Oh, this is James Quinlan. Mr. Quinlan, this is Amabel Perdy. He's a real private detective from Los Angeles, Amabel. He's here to try to find out what happened to an old couple who might have come through The Cove to buy ice cream. What was their name? Oh, yes, Harve and Marge."
Amabel raised her dark gypsy eyebrows at him. She was very still, didn't say anything, just looked at him, completely at ease.
So this was the aunt. How fortunate that she was here and not at home, where he hoped to find Sally Brainerd. Amabel Perdy, an artist, an old hippie, a former school-teacher. He knew she was a widow, had been married to another artist she'd met in Soho many decades ago. His art had never amounted to much. He'd died some seventeen years ago. James also knew now that she'd turned down Purn Davies.
He noted she didn't look anything like her niece.
"I don't remember any old folk named Harve and Marge," Amabel said. "I'm going in the back to change now, Sherry. Ring out, okay?"
She was the best liar yet. He tamped down his dratted curiosity. It didn't matter. Sally Brainerd was the only thing that mattered.
"How's your little niece doing, Amabel?"
Amabel wished Sherry wouldn't drink so much iced tea. It made her run off at the mouth. But she said pleasantly, "She's doing better. She was just so exhausted from her trip."
"Yes, of course." Sherry Vorhees continued to sip out of that big plastic tumbler and smile at James. That English actor's name was Timothy Dalton. Beautiful man. She liked James Quinlan even better. "There's not much to do here in The Cove. I don't know if you'll last out the week."
"Who knows?" James said, tossed his napkin into the white trash bin, and left the ice cream shop.
His next stop was Amabel Perdy's house, the small white one on the corner of Main Street and Conroy Street. Time to get it done.
When he knocked on the trim white door, he heard a crash from inside. It sounded as though a piece of furniture had been knocked down. He knocked louder. He heard a woman's cry of terror.
He turned the knob, found the door was locked. Well, shit. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed really hard. The door burst inward.
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He saw Susan St. John Brainerd on her knees on the floor, the telephone lying beside her. He could hear the buzz of the dial tone. Her fist was stuffed in her mouth. She'd probably terrified herself when she screamed-that or she was afraid someone would hear her. Well, he had, and here he was.
She stared at him as he flew into Amabel's small living room, huddled herself against the wall like he was going to shoot her, jerked her fist out of her mouth, and screamed again.
Really loud.
4
"STOP SCREAMING," HE yelled at her. "What the hell's the matter? What happened?"
Sally knew this was it. She'd never seen him before. He wasn't old like everyone else in this town. He didn't belong here. He'd tracked her here. He was here to drag her back to Washington or force her to go back to that horrible place. Yes, he could work for Beadermeyer, he probably did. She couldn't go back there. She stared at the big man who was now standing over her, looking at her strangely, as if he was really concerned, but she knew he wasn't, he couldn't be, it was just a ruse. He was here to hurt her.
"The phone," she said, because she was going to die and it didn't matter what she said. "It was someone who called and he scared me."
As she spoke, she slowly rose and began backing away from him.
He wondered if she had a gun. He wondered if she'd turn and run to get that gun. He didn't want this to turn nasty. He lunged for her, grabbed her left arm as she cried out, twisted about, and tried to jerk away from him.
"I'm not going to hurt you, dammit."
"Go away! I won't go with you, I won't. Go away."
She was sobbing and panting, fighting him hard now, and he was impressed with the way she jabbed him with her knuckles just below his ribs where it hurt really good, then raised her leg to knee him.
He jerked her back against him, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her until she quieted. She had no leverage now, no chance to hurt him. She was a lightweight, but the place where she'd gotten him below his ribs really hurt.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again, his voice calm and low. He was one of the best interviewers in the FBI because he could modulate his voice just right, make it gentle and soothing, mean and vicious, whatever was necessary to get what he needed.
He said now, in his easy and soft tone, "I heard you cry out and thought someone was in here with you, attacking you. I was just trying to be a hero."
She stilled, just stood there, her back pressed against his chest. The only sound breaking the silence was the dial tone from the telephone.