“He’s cute.”
“Got to be good at something.”
“You can bring him with you if you sit out on the deck.”
“Outdoor seating?”
“The deck. Go around back.”
I didn’t know the Pequot had a small, slightly raised deck off the kitchen with a white plastic table where the Hodges family probably sat to eat their meals and watch the fishing boats come and go. Dotty was there to greet me and fuss over the dog, which was something you have to get used to when your dog’s got a personality like Eddie’s. Eternally
“So you weren’t lying,” said Dotty as she wiped off the plastic table.
“I wasn’t?”
“About having a dog to let out. I thought it was an excuse.”
The two of us watched Eddie run his nose over the whole of the deck before coming back to my table to sit down at my feet.
“I guess you’re all checked out.”
“Absolut?”
“Yup. And a shot of water for the dog.”
“With or without fruit?”
“He’d probably go for a slice of lime.”
While I was waiting for her to bring our drinks I spread all the papers I’d collected that morning out on the table so I could capture the information I wanted on my yellow legal pad. I numbered each point and drew a little circle around the numbers I thought were the most important. Then I made a list of the things I didn’t know, that I wanted to know. These I also put in order of priority, with the most important getting double underlines. The task felt satisfying. I hadn’t done anything like that for almost five years.
Hodges came out with two drinks and a bowl of water. I almost covered the pad and was glad I didn’t. I didn’t want to insult him. He sat down and stuck the bowl in front of Eddie’s nose.
“Good-lookin’ dog.”
“He wants you to think so.”
“I got a pair of Shih Tzu back at the house. Little ugly fuckin’ dogs. They were Dotty’s mother’s. She gets ’em as puppies, then dies and leaves them with me.”
He covered the moment by concentrating on Eddie. Dogs are really good for that.
“I got Regina’s bank accounts and a plot plan for her house,” I said.
He looked over at all the papers spread out on the table.
“She got a million bucks?”
“About eight thousand. Didn’t even own the house. Far as I can tell, though, didn’t pay rent, either. Didn’t pay anything, but,” I placed a series of canceled checks on the table, “oil, LIPA, phone—no long distance— propane for the stove, Sisters of Mercy, twenty bucks a month. Then it’s periodic checks to the IGA, pharmacy, the kid that cut her lawn, occasional cabs.”
“Paid the cab with a check?”
“The rest are checks to cash, mostly at Ray’s Liquors. Can’t tell if some of that went to a little fortification.”
“Lived pretty lean.”
“Leaner than me, which is saying something.”
“You got Pequot expenses.”
“No rent, no medical, no taxes.”
“Didn’t file?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Lived under the radar.”
“Typical of the neighborhood.”
“Who owned the house?”
“Some outfit named Bay Side Holdings. Here in Sag Harbor. Going there next.” I dropped the slip of paper with their address down in front of him. He picked it up and frowned.
“Must be in a house, or something.”
I took the slip back from him.
“Dutch Wharf Road?”
“All houses. Except at the end where there’s a busted-up old dock building. Used to have a launch ramp, but the water got shoaled over and nobody bothered to dredge. Maybe the Town closed it up. Anyway, nothin’ commercial there now.”
I got Hodges to bring me a ham sandwich which I washed down with a Sam Adams. Eddie took half the fries. Something he wouldn’t touch if I dropped it in his bowl at the cottage. Probably didn’t want to offend Hodges either.
It took a while to find the head of Dutch Wharf Road. It was over on the east side of town where a lot of the roads are narrow and tangled up with the grassy little inlets that ring that part of the bay. Hard to imagine that Sag Harbor was once America’s biggest port, filled with square riggers and awash in whale oil.
It was just like Hodges said. A narrow, leafy street lined with small cottages, all built at different times, but well established and lovingly cared for. I followed the numbers to the end of the street and the abandoned launch ramp. Number 675 was the last house on the right. It fit in with the neighborhood—fresh white brick and white clapboard, with the gable end facing the street. It had a very steep roofline, which was the fashion for small Tudor houses in the twenties and thirties. Looked like something you’d find in the Cotswolds. Ivy covered part of the lawn and grew up the facade. No name on the mailbox. There was a basic, anonymous-looking Nissan in the driveway. No garage.
No answer at the door. I’d given up ringing the bell and was about to leave when I heard a sound coming from the back of the house. I went around the north side through a thick stand of arborvitae. The backyard was stuffed with trees and shrubs. It looked like they’d been growing there for about a hundred years, which was probably about right. On one tiny patch of grass, illuminated by a spot of sunlight, stood a weathered wheelbarrow filled with sticks and uprooted plant life. A few yards away a guy’s butt stuck out from under an out-of-control forsythia. The butt wore khakis and belonged on a large man. I shuffled my feet a little and cleared my throat as I approached.
“Excuse me.”
The guy backed out from under the forsythia on his hands and knees and stood up. He was over six-three, reasonably slender, but with a very big head. Thin gray hair circled a bald dome. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies, on the high side, and wore very thick glasses through which he squinted at me painfully.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Milton Hornsby.”
He held a bunch of pulled-up weeds in his gloved right hand. In the other hand was a small garden trowel. He looked down as if trying to decide which to discard.
“My name is Sam Acquillo. I have something important to discuss with Mr. Hornsby.”
He held up both hands as if in surrender.
“That would be me.”
I leafed through the manila folder I had under my arm and pulled out Regina’s death certificate, which I held out in front of him. As I talked he dropped the weeds and trowel on the ground and pulled off his gloves.
“I’m here to notify you of the death of Regina Broadhurst. Died last week. You can see my name here.” I pointed to a line on the death certificate. “I’m also the administrator of the estate.”
I held out that piece of paper with my other hand. He took both to look at more closely. His squint got worse, turning his eyes into thin slits.
“What’s your relation?” he asked, still looking at the paperwork.
“Neighbor.”
“Attorney?”
“Nope. Just a neighbor. Far as we know there’s only one family member, a nephew. That’s one of the things I
