“Yes, he did.”
“Living in a small town has its good points, but sometimes the isolation isn’t a positive.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You any closer to finding out who killed Jenny?”
“Just really starting. Interviewing people, taking statements, going over the crime scene, checking the forensics. Not very exciting but all very necessary.”
Says the fake investigator from Homeland Security.
“I also met with Alex Silkwell. You mentioned before that no one really knows her?”
Palmer dabbed at a spot on the counter with her cleaning rag. “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have said that. What business is it of mine? So what’d she have to say?”
“Nothing too remarkable. I went inside her studio. She’s quite an artist.”
“She should be. My grandmother mentored her.”
“Bertie taught Alex?”
“Yes. When Alex was in high school. You wouldn’t know that, of course. Bertie was incredibly talented. She could have really been something if she had pursued it. When she was young she was even offered a spot at an art school in Paris.”
“Damn. So what happened?”
Palmer shrugged. “She loved Gramps. They were high school sweethearts. They decided to stay here and raise a family. But she continued with her artwork. And taught folks like Alex.”
“The building behind the house? Was that her art studio?”
“Yes.”
“Alex seems to have followed her example of staying put. She had offers, too.”
“Yeah, I know,” Palmer said absently, with a frown. “If I had been Alex, I would’ve been gone in two seconds flat.”
“Not into small towns?”
“I could always come back to visit.” She looked around the café. “And this may come as a shock, but serving food and coffee in the town where I was born and grew up was not a significant element of my youthful dreams. In fact, it had no place whatsoever,” she added with a sad smile. “I went away to college and didn’t think I’d be coming back. But here I am.”
“You’re still young. You can still dream and then do something about it.”
“Far easier said than done.”
“I think that’s why they call them dreams.”
“You want another cup?”
“No, I think I’ve hit my caffeine allotment for today. By the way, I’m having dinner with Dak Silkwell tonight.”
“Really? You two becoming best buds?” she said jokingly.
“He’s just someone I need to talk to.”
“Well, I need to get back to work. Hope you and Dak have a great time. But don’t let him get you drunk. You won’t like yourself in the morning. Trust me.”
She walked off, leaving him to wonder about what she had meant by that.
Chapter 23
By the time Devine got back to the inn Harper and Fuss were gone. He stood at the spot where he had seen the scope flash and then eyed the window of his cottage.
Not a difficult shot. Cover was good. The shooter had chosen their position well. The grass had been too soaked to hold any footprints.
“I can’t believe this happened.”
He turned to see Pat Kingman standing there.
“Yeah, I wasn’t too thrilled, either.”
“I can put you in another cottage.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just tape the hole up until you can get it repaired. It wasn’t too big. The hole it would have put in me would have been a little bigger.”
She looked like she might be sick, so Devine said hurriedly, “I’m okay, Ms. Kingman, and I’m sure they’ll find out who did it and that will be that.”
“Well, I certainly hope so. You let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
She turned and hurried back to the inn.
Devine drove out to Jocelyn Point. He had some more questions for Alex.
When he got there, she was heading out astride a turquoise-colored bike with a big basket. There was a cool hand-painted slash of lightning along the frame. In the basket was a large waterproof knapsack.
She had on wool pants and a thick white sweater with a tweed blazer over that, and her hands were gloved. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had on earmuffs. Her expression was excited.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“My art class, remember?” she said.
“Oh, right. Little nippy to be riding a bike.”
“It’s only a few miles.”
“How about I give you a lift? We can talk on the way and then I can wait and drive you back here.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind, really.”
“Well, it would save me some time, and this heavy knapsack makes turning a chore.”
She parked her bike on the porch, while he stowed her knapsack in the back seat.
She directed him to the public school, which was set in a block of empty warehouses, boarded-up business parks, and vacant, weed-filled lots.
As he pulled into the school she said, “This was all starting to go downhill when I was a little girl. Then all the businesses closed, jobs went overseas, and there was no backstop. Rural Maine has lost a lot of population. Mainers rely a lot on tourism, but the pandemic blasted a big hole in that, and we still haven’t recovered.”
“I’m sure.”
“Compared to Boston and New York the cost of living is lower, but it’s not all that cheap to live here, either, when you factor in food and fuel, and a lot of the jobs don’t pay a living wage.” She looked out the window. “And the weather can be... challenging. We’re actually projected to lose population for the next twenty years. Leaders need to step up. Invest in the state, in the people, or the picture is not going to miraculously get better. Mainers deserve that. Hell, everybody in this country does.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“It’s my home and my country,” she said. “I need to be informed. Where do you live?”
“Right now, it’s a moving target. Did you get your interest in all that from your father?”
She looked at him warily. “I am not a politician. I have no interest in that at all.”
“You don’t have to be a politician to help your community.”
“Right now, I just want to help the kids in my class.” She opened the car door. “Are you coming in or staying out here?”
“Can I come in?”
“You have to sign in at the front desk and I have to vouch for you.” She eyed his waist. “I don’t know about the gun.”
“Do they have a security person here?”
“They used to, until they couldn’t afford the position anymore.”
“I think my federal creds will carry the day.”
And they did.
For the next hour and twenty minutes Devine watched from a corner as Alex taught two classes of sixth graders in a makeshift classroom with no windows, high ceilings, and not much heat. And yet the kids loved it. He could see that from their enthusiasm and their questions and how seriously they took Alex’s comments as she went around the room to view each student’s efforts. She was unfailingly positive and detailed, and her suggestions were delivered with genuineness, humor, self-deprecation, and delicacy.
And she smiled — often, he saw, which he had never really seen her do in the limited time he had known her. At the beginning of the class she had passed out granola bars and juice boxes, which, she had told Devine, she paid for with her own money. That was why the knapsack had been so heavy.
Later, as they walked back to the Tahoe, she said, “The entire school is 130 percenters.”
“What does that mean?”
“The government pays for lunches for students whose family income is at or below 130 percent of the federal poverty line. That’s about thirty-six thousand a year for a family of four.”