He fished in his pocket, took out his wallet. "I heard a meteor came over here a few months back."
"That's right," the girl said.
He thumbed through the bills in the wallet. "You see it?"
"I saw the light out the window. Everybody did. And then there was a sound like thunder. When we went outside there was a glowing trail in the sky."
"Did anyone find the meteorite?"
"Oh no, it hit out to sea."
"How do they know?"
"That's what all the papers said."
Ford nodded, finally getting the money out.
"Is the harbor down there?"
She nodded. "Take the right past the store--dead-ends at the wharves."
"Any place to buy live lobster?"
"The co-op."
He took the bag of candy and the paper and went back to his car. Popping the fireball in his mouth, he looked at the front page of The Lincoln County News. Plastered at the top was a headline:
Body, Gun Recovered from Sunken Boat
There was a blurry photograph of a Coast Guard vessel at sea hauling a body on board with grappling hooks. Ford read the article, his interest piqued. Turning to the inside, he saw a picture of the two girls who'd been attacked, a high school yearbook picture of the dead attacker, and several photographs of the ruined boat hauled into dry dock. This was big news in Round Pond--a high-seas robbery attempt, complete with a boarding, attempted murder, and a sunken boat. Something to do with a legendary treasure. It aroused his investigative instincts: the story had gaps, inconsistencies, which cried out for explanation.
He turned the page, read about the bean supper at the Seaside Grange, complaints about a new traffic light, an article about a soldier returning from the Middle East. He scanned the police notes, read a scolding editorial about a poorly attended school board meeting, looked through the real estate and employment ads, read the letters to the editor.
Finally he folded up the paper, charmed by the picture he had acquired of the town. A quiet little New England fishing village, impossibly picturesque, economically stagnant. Someday the real estate developers would get their hooks in a town like this and it would be all over. He hoped that someday never arrived.
He started the car and drove down the road toward the harbor. Almost immediately it came into view--lobsterman's co-op on his right, piers, a dockside restaurant, a harbor full of fishing boats, the heady smell of salted fishing bait.
He parked and went over to the co-op, a wooden shack sitting above a pier, wooden flaps opened, tanks of water brimming with lobsters. A chalkboard gave the day's prices. A bald man in orange waders came to the window.
"What can I do for you?"
"Do you lobster these waters?"
"No, but my daughter does. I just sell 'em."
Ford could see a young woman in the back, manning the lobster cookers.
"You see the meteor?"
"No. I'd gone to bed."
"Did she? I'm interested in it."
He turned. "Martha, fellow here wants to know if you saw the meteor."
She came over, drying her hands. "Sure did. Came right over us. I saw it through the window while I was washing dishes."
"Where'd it go?"
"Straight past Louds Island and out to sea."
Ford held out his hand. "Wyman Ford."
The woman took it. "Martha Malone."
"I'm hoping to find that meteorite. I'm a scientist."
"They say it fell in the ocean."
"You're a lobsterwoman?"
She laughed. "You must be from out of town. I'm a lobster fisherman."
"Here's the problem." Ford decided to get right to the point. "That night, the ocean was dead calm. The GoMOOS weather buoy out there didn't register even the slightest ripple at the time of the impact. How do you explain that?"
"There's a lot of sea out there, Mr. Ford. It could have landed a hundred miles offshore."
"You haven't heard of anyone around here talking about finding a crater or seeing any evidence of blown-down trees?"
A shake of the head.
Ford thanked her and walked back to his car. He popped a malted milk ball in his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. Once in the car, he flipped open the glove compartment, removed the notebook, and crossed out "Round Pond."
And that was it. It had been the wildest of wild-goose chases.
40
Abbey Straw carried two baskets of fried clams and a brace of margaritas to the table where the couple from Boston were seated. She set down the food and drink. "Can I get you folks anything else?"
The woman examined her drink, her long fingernails clicking irritably on the glass. "I said no salt." She had a heavy Boston accent.
"My apologies, I'll bring you another." Abbey swept up the drink.
"And don't think you can just wipe off the salt, I'll still taste it," said the woman. "I need a fresh drink."
"Of course."
As she was about to leave, the man said, gesturing at his plate, "Is this all you get for fourteen bucks?"
Abbey turned. The man weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing a double-knit golf shirt stretched to the theoretical limit, green slacks, bald with a fat-dimple right in the center of the bald area. Thick black hair grew out of his ear holes.
"Is everything all right?"
"Fourteen bucks for ten clams? What a rip-off."
"I'll get you some more."
As she headed toward the kitchen, she heard the man speak again, loudly, to his wife. "I hate these places where they think they can hose the tourists."
Abbey went back into the kitchen. "I need more clams for table five."
"What, they complaining?"
"Just give me the clams."
The chef chucked three small clams on a side plate.
"More."
"That's all they get. Tell 'em to go fuck themselves."
"I said more."
The chef dropped another two on the plate. "Fuck 'em."
Abbey reached over, scooped out another half-dozen, heaped them on the plate, and turned to go.
"I tole you before, don't touch my stove."
"Fuck you, Charlie." She went back out, placed the plate in front of the man. He had already finished the ten clams and tucked into the new plate without pause. "More tartar sauce, too."
"Coming right up."
A tall man was just being seated in her section. On her way to get the tartar sauce, she stopped by, gave him a menu. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please."
As she poured the cup, she heard the querulous voice of the man from Boston rising above the general conversation. "Problem is, they think we're all rich. You can just hear them licking their chops when summer arrives and people start coming up from Boston."
Abbey was momentarily distracted and the coffee she was pouring slopped over the edge of the cup.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," said the tall man. "Really."
She looked at the man for the first time. Angular, large hooked nose, jutting jaw--lean and strong in a curiously pleasing way. When he smiled, his face changed dramatically.
"Hello? The tartar sauce?" came a loud voice from the next table.
The tall man nodded, winked. "Better take care of them first."
She hurried off and returned with tartar sauce.
"AFT," the man said, snatching it up and spooning it onto the clams.
She went back to the tall man, ticket in hand. "What can I get for you?"
"I'll take the haddock sandwich, please."
"Anything to drink besides coffee?"
"Water's fine."
She hesitated, glanced over at the Boston table to see if there was anything else, but they were busy eating. He followed her glance. "Sorry about them."