Heart of Stone (10 page)

He folded her in his arms and patted her back, his face impassive. His gaze bored into me from across the room.

“Come, child,” he said. “Let us go back to camp and pray for your friend.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Reverend Tommy Grierson whisked his daughter out of Harvey's Double-Dip, clutching her to his side, practically concealing her under the panels of his white linen jacket. I watched them disappear behind a flock of summer vacationers posing for photographs on the sidewalk of Lake Road.

Poor Emily Grierson, I thought. How much and for how long would she pay for her sin? She'd lost Jerry Kaufman, and now she would have to win back her fire-and-brimstone-breathing father's good graces. I sensed she might never succeed. And this episode would draw her deeper under the control of his church, sucking her in like an eddy. I had grown up godless. My parents were confirmed atheists. Culturally Jewish, for sure, but Elijah and I had rarely set foot inside a temple or synagogue. And, as the previous night proved, I still didn't discuss my beliefs with others, even those I agreed with. Faith, or lack thereof, should be personal, not a badge or an advertisement. Or a public crusade lakeside, handsome head of hair or no. I felt a deep sadness for Emily Grierson and hoped her faith, imposed or coming from within, would provide her solace.

I wiped my eyes, turned to head back to Cedar Haven, and bumped smack into Chief Tiny Terwilliger.

“Whoa,” he said as I bounced off him like a pinball off a bumper. “Watch where you're going. What's your hurry?”

I apologized, thinking he should do the same for his hand that had taken advantage of our collision to gauge the softness of my right breast.

I readjusted my brassiere. “Excuse me, I'm in a hurry.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I've got to talk to you.”

I squinted at him. “About what?”

“The pictures you owe me.” He smiled gap-toothed. “And I got your ten dollars, too.”

“I believe it was nine sixty plus ten.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, a smirk on his lips. “I should know better than to talk money with a Jew.”

I gaped at him, brows arched, but he didn't notice. I didn't believe he thought he'd said anything wrong. As if he'd said that tall people were closer to the ceiling than short people were.

“You do remember that I'm Jewish,” I said finally.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “That's why I said it. It's a compliment.”

“I guess I'm not used to your brand of charm.”

“No need to apologize,” he said, waving a hand at me. “I'll get you your money. Now when can I get my pictures?”

“I still have to develop them. And I'll give them to you free of charge since it's been such a pleasure working with you,” I said, wanting to wipe the stink of his anti-Semitic stereotypes off me.

“No, no,” he insisted. “Business is business, isn't that right? So when can I get them?”

“You seem to be in a hurry.”

“I want to show them around town to see if anyone recognizes the man. We still don't know who he is. And the state police want them, too.”

That made sense. I told Terwilliger that I'd go back to the cabin to finish developing the film, and he could drop by to retrieve the prints around five.

“Five o'clock? I'm just finishing my supper at that hour. I'll stop by at seven thirty.”

“Seven thirty?” I asked. “I'm just finishing my second cocktail at that hour. And I'll be at Arcadia Lodge this evening, so it will have to wait till tomorrow.”

He pulled the cap off his head and wiped his face with it. He huffed and frowned then said he'd stop by Arcadia after eight. “And have my pictures ready.”

It was just three when I got back to Cedar Haven. My negatives had dried, and I set about making prints for the nose-picker. Max's photo enlarger was buried under some old newspapers in the storage shed, and, as he had told me earlier, it was indeed broken beyond repair. One of the lenses was missing. Simple contact sheets would have to do. I decided not to bother with the roll I'd shot atop the cliff. Those photos, along with the longer shots of the bodies, would surely turn out too small to be of any use to Terwilliger. I would just give him the negatives to do with as he pleased. But I'd taken several tight shots of the unknown man's face that were large enough for anyone who knew him to recognize him.

I made short work of the prints, three sheets for each roll shot on the stony beach, in case I'd botched one or two of them. In twenty minutes flat, I'd mixed the developer solution, printed, fixed, and washed my three sets of prints. I hung them to dry in the pantry and went for a nap. I hadn't slept much the night before, of course, and I wanted to be rested and presentable for that evening's gathering at Arcadia.

Inside my small cabin, I threw open the windows and lay down on my bed. A gentle breeze provided welcome relief from the heat, and soon I was asleep and dreaming of a lake and a cat. A red tabby named Rusty. The cat was afraid to swim in the water and paced the edge, searching for a dry spot to cross. He circled around and around, even dipping a tentative paw into the water from time to time. He recoiled and shook it vigorously and backed off. Emily Grierson arrived from behind the cat and walked into the lake as if in a trance. Then the cat turned into me. I jumped into the lake after Emily and disappeared under the waves. I didn't come back up for air.

I awoke in a sweat, not so much from the dream as from the heat of the afternoon. Still, the nightmare hadn't needed to dive too deep into my subconscious to latch onto the thing that had upset me so recently. It was just below the surface. I tried to shake Emily from my thoughts, like the cat shaking the water from his paw. She was with her family, after all, and they would see to her well-being. As for poor Jerry Kaufman and the stranger who'd died beside him, there was nothing I or anyone else could do for them.

It was already five. I showered and washed my hair properly in anticipation of the evening ahead. Dressed in a light-blue sundress with a deep square neckline that showed my bust to good advantage, I joined Lena and Max in the big cabin in time for evening cocktails. Max mixed drinks for us all while I collected my dried contact sheets for Chief Terwilliger and slipped them and their negatives into a brown envelope. I hadn't even looked at them and had no intention of doing so now.

I was feeling refreshed from my nap and shower, but something was missing. Max handed me a double White Label on the rocks, and that put things right. I wanted to wash the foul taste of dead divers and grieving girls out of my mouth. Max finished his duties at the bar and joined Aunt Lena and me in the small parlor. They sipped their gin and tonics and munched on crudités and onion dip. I rose to pour myself a second glass of whiskey.

“Dear girl, did you spill your drink?” asked Max.

“Yes, that's it,” I said. “There's a large hole in the top of the glass.”

“Take it easy, Ellie,” said Aunt Lena. “You'll want to have your wits about you later on.”

After the emotions of the day, I felt I'd earned the indulgence, but she made a good point. I savored my second drink slowly, lost in thoughts of my own, as the old folks prattled on about other matters.

“Sing, O muse, of the photographs you developed this afternoon,” said Max, rousing me from my coma.

“What's that?” I asked.

He took a draw on his drink and regarded me from the sunken depths of his comfortable armchair. He would need help getting out of it later. “What snapshots did you take for the long, knuckle-dragging arm of the law?”

“It's a sad story,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “Those two men who died yesterday diving off Baxter's Rock. The ones who didn't
bounce
, as you so delicately put it.”

“Poor fellows,” he said. “Not a pretty sight, I'd wager.”

“Still no idea who the older one was?” asked Lena. I shook my head. “And you say his trousers and shoes were in Max's car, but no shirt or billfold?”

“That's right. He must have removed his shirt near the edge of the cliff. Maybe the wind blew it away.”

“That makes sense,” she said.

“Do either of you know the drag coefficient of the average wallet?” asked Max. “I believe that a mighty wind would be needed to lift a man's billfold off the ground.”

Aunt Lena and I ignored him. Acknowledging him only encouraged more of the same talk. Instead she asked me about the boy.

“His name was Jerrold Kaufman,” I said. “Sixteen years old.”

Again I thought of Emily Grierson and lost any élan I might have had for the discussion. “It's a sad story,” I said, draining my glass. “Let's change the subject, shall we?”

Isaac met us at the mouth of the drive leading to Arcadia Lodge. He directed me to a parking spot that was convenient for the elders in my car, then lent an arm to Aunt Lena and escorted her into the Great Lodge. Adorable little pervert. I wondered what he thought of his boyhood obsession now. I entwined my right arm around Max's left, and we followed. I watched Isaac from a few paces back. He was attentive, sweet, and chatty with Aunt Lena, surely making her feel welcome and special. I heard snatches of their conversation. He was sharing some details about the farmer's stand on Route 15 and the tomatoes and sweet corn he'd bought there that afternoon. Such a fine, well-mannered young man. I entertained some stray unladylike thoughts about his more ungentlemanly behavior, but I chose not to share them with dear Cousin Max.

Jakob Eisenstadt, still wearing the Greek fisherman's cap, greeted me from his seat. “Eleonora, how lovely to see you again.”

I cocked my head. “You know my full name?”

“Your father told me once,” he said in his sweet German accent. “We used to talk from time to time when you kiddies were playing or mischief-making. I enjoyed our conversations. It was nice to speak the old language. His German was superb.”

I nodded and drew a sigh. “Yes, he was quite good at just about everything.”

“You enjoy the evening with the young people,” he said. “I want to talk with my old friends Max and Lena. Lena, my dear. I haven't seen you in years.” His eyes sparkled as he beheld her, and I sensed he had little interest in speaking to Max.

Dispatched by the old man with a smart shove, I scanned the room for Isaac. What I got instead was Miriam. She was standing there with a man and a woman. Outside guests. He was tall and slim, in his mid-forties, chewing on an olive. A little horsey in the face, with teeth like Citation. His companion, however, was a stunner. Dark-skinned and exotic-looking, she was at least fifteen years younger than he. When I looked back at Miriam, she was eyeing me, a glass of sangria in her hand.

“Hello, Ellie,” she said in her usual languid tone. “You're back. How nice.”

“Yes,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.

“I'm Nelson Blanchard,” said the man, stretching out a hand. His eyes, peering through black horn-rimmed glasses, twinkled, and his smile hinted at an unabashed eagerness that was off-putting. “And you're Ellie,” he informed me, holding my hand tight in his clammy grip.

“Yes, I am,” I said, tugging to get my hand back. “Are you a diviner, or did you just hear Miriam say my name?”

His toothy smile cracked, but he managed to prop it up a little longer. “Yes, well, as a matter of fact, I did hear Miriam say it just now. Clever you.”

He was still holding fast to my hand, making the situation even more uncomfortable. For me, at least. Finally he released me and introduced his companion.

“This is my wife, Lucia,” he said, pronouncing her name the Italian way.

“How do you do?” she asked, offering her dry hand. She was in her late twenties, maybe thirty, and spoke with just a trace of a Spanish accent. Her Ds brushed softly between her tongue and the cusp of her incisors.

“These are my friends, Nelson and Lucia,” said Miriam, for all intents and purposes closing the barn door after the horse had run off, if horses were introductions. “Nelson is a gynecologist, though he fancies himself a playwright, and Lucia is an actress and a talented cellist. We play together often.”