“So maybe we can see if his heart is real good.” He turned to Timmy Dee, our electronics bug.
“That song of Miranda’s,” Dan said. “Did you erase that tape?”
After thinking a moment, Timmy said, “Still got it.”
“Is it any good?”
Timmy puffed up with indignation. “Twenty cycles to twenty thousand, chum.”
“I don’t like this,” Midge said.
“You’re about her size,” Dan said to her. “Can you dig up a wig the color her hair was?”
“Yes, but...”
Once we understood what he had in mind, once skepticism was over and we saw how it might hit Fletcher Hopper, we all went to work on it. Timmy’s job was the most difficult. We added refinements, added more after that dress rehearsal which chilled my blood.
Then we had to wait for exactly the right moment, begging the fates to give us the chance before Hopper could unload the property and take off. It had to be late, it had to be moonlight, and it had to be a night without a breath of wind.
Dan Cheney found a friend who could impersonate a rich, busy boat buyer. We got the weather we wanted, finally. I located Hopper at the country club at midnight. He was playing bridge. He was unpleasant about being interrupted until I explained I had a hot prospect for the Quest, and my man had to fly out before dawn and would be gone for a month. Then with a slightly oily cordiality, Fletcher said, “Be right with you, Frank, old boy. Meet you at the house in fifteen minutes. Righto.”
We arrived a few minutes after he did. He pumped the hand of the fake buyer, Mr. Thomason, and told him what a great boat the Quest was. We went down to the dock to look her over. It was a cool night. No wind. The water was like black glass, the moon was fat and high.
First, of course, we heard Miranda’s voice. Her song. A nutty little song she had learned in school. She sang it in French. It was a simple, cheerful little melody, except that at the end of each verse it dipped into a minor key, just a little bit sad and mocking. Timmy had taped it. Her husky voice, her little song, and the stillness of the moonlight as the song came closer. Timmy had rigged a high-fidelity tape deck, a transistorized amplifier, a small speaker of superb quality, and a converter to change the current from the 12-volt batteries to alternating current.
Hopper had been saying, “No maintenance problem on this boat, Mr. Thomason, she...”
He was on the dock. He froze, completely still, head cocked, listening. And then the Tabby came ghosting along. Vic had come up with the idea about rigging the little electric outboard motor to the same batteries. In an eerie silence she came spooking along, her song innocent and sad.
“About the maintenance, Mr. Hopper. You were saying?”
She passed the dock about 25 feet out, heading out the Pass. I could see the girl at the tiller, sitting just as Miranda always sat, her silhouette under the tall sail quite recognizable.
“Mr. Thomason wants to know about maintenance,” I prompted. He didn’t seem to hear.
The catamaran went by, following the curve of the channel. Hopper groaned and went scrambling aboard the cruiser, fumbled around in a stowage box, came back with a strong flashlight. He put the beam on the girl, now a hundred feet away, receding, the voice becoming less audible. She did not turn around. Midge had worked hard to attain the tan Miranda had. She wore the same style yellow suit Miranda had worn. The wig was coiffed to Miranda’s careless style.
The song ended. On the actual tape Miranda had laughed once. Timmy had retaped the laugh a half dozen times, spliced the segments together. So she went off out of the path of moonlight into darkness, laughing.
We asked Fletch what was wrong.
“Wrong?” His voice was pulled so taut it sounded as if it hurt his throat. “Wrong! That song! That sailboat that just went by!”
“Song?” I asked. “What song?”
“Sailboat?” Thomason said. “Don't be an idiot. Any sailboat would lie dead tonight, or have to use the auxiliary.”
He dropped the flashlight. It was a good light. I could see it down there on the bottom, still burning. He ran for the house, grunting as he ran, as if he was expending more than the physical effort of running. The door banged. No lights in the house went on. So we drove away.
We still miss Miranda, but it isn’t as sharp as it used to be. And the only time Dan gets up to walk when the silence happens is when he is too far from Midge to reach her hand, to hold it tightly, to assure himself that she is nearby.
The people who bought the Groley place seem pleasant. I’m going to sell them a boat one of these days. They paid a stiff price for the house. I guess it isn’t like the old days, in small towns, when you could get a real bargain if you were willing to live in a house where someone had hung himself.