which was found empty and adrift a mile or so up the creek. The crime lab’s got the boat, looking for stuff the eye can’t see, but so far we have no idea where the murder occurred. Do you know of any place your uncle liked to go?”
“No. When I was little, he fished with me off the dock. I didn’t go in the boat with him.”
“Do you know of any conflicts in his life, any people he didn’t get along with?”
Other than Aunt Iris? I thought. “No.”
“Maybe you’ll think of something and let me know.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Zack, from next door, said you were investigating some kids.”
“Zack Fleming told you that?”
“Zack Whoever from next door,” I replied. “He said there’ve been three previous arsons, which the police haven’t solved.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. I was hoping you could tell me more.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like why you think it was kids.”
He nodded. “This site and the others have an amateurish look. And there are always beer bottles, which usually mean high school or college kids partying it up. They like to throw them into the fire.”
I flinched. In my first dream an object had whistled close to my ears and exploded, sounding like glass against metal.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. It just seems. . hard to imagine,” I said lamely.
“Where’s Tilby’s farm? Can you give me directions?”
“There’s nothing much to see there,” he said, then tore a sheet from his notebook. “But I guess I’d want a look too.”
He drew a map, which I tucked in my pocket.
“William ever talk to you about his relationship with local kids?”
I shook my head. “No. Not really.”
He chewed a doughnut and swallowed. “Aside from those
‘not really’ times, what did he say?”
“Well, he thinks — thought — that most kids today are spoiled, that they’re given everything and don’t value anything. That’s pretty much it.”
“Did he ever tell you about someone vandalizing his boat?”
“No.”
“Spray painting his truck?”
“No.”
“Setting fire to the grass at the top of his driveway?”
“No! I had no idea he was having trouble.” I felt badly, as if I should have somehow known and helped him out.
“Are you psychic?” the sheriff asked.
I straightened, surprised. “No.”
“Keep your cell phone charged and with you.”
Because I couldn’t sense danger? Did one statement follow on the other?
“Tell Iris that I’ll be coming around to check on how she’s doing and that I know she wants William back as soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
He handed me his card. “Call me. Any thoughts, any questions, any worries. Any time.”
“Thanks. There is one other thing. Uncle Will liked to hunt.
I went through the house, but I didn’t see any guns.”
“He kept them locked up in his pickup. Legally, I can’t remove them; illegally, I took the key. Do you want it?”
“No. But thanks for doing that.”
I asked him for the lawyer’s phone number and address, which he wrote down, then I asked for directions to Jamie’s, feeling as if I needed strong coffee and carbohydrates to think through what I had just been told.
“Go for the day-olds,” the sheriff advised.
I nodded. “Half price and just as good.”
“Exactly.” He got a funny look on his face, then laughed. “I told you that.”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
ELEVEN A.M., AND it was already hot and humid. I took Water Street over to High, passing a marina, a crab house, and a municipal park, thinking that being close to the river, I’d catch what little breeze there was. High Street, which ended at the river, was Wisteria’s “Main Street.” On the first block above the intersection with Water were large homes bearing plaques with the words “Historic Landmark.”
Beyond that block were smaller houses, many of them converted to shops and restaurants.
I found Jamie’s place, Tea Leaves Cafe, on the fourth block up from the water in a long building that had been built as a series of windowed storefronts. After buying six fresh doughnuts and an iced cappuccino, I snagged a seat by the window. It was a comfortable kind of place, with an old tile floor and wooden tables and chairs painted in a rainbow of colors, none of the sets matching. At the back of the cafe were two cases displaying bakery items, salads, and yogurt.
I watched a girl about my age waiting on customers. I wished I were her, working a summer job in a place that seemed friendly — and normal.
Sipping my cappuccino, I gazed out the window at the people walking by, eyeing a family with little kids, suddenly missing Jack, Claire, Grace, and Mom so much that I started to sniffle. I pulled out my cell phone. I could call. I could call and — ruin their vacation? Even if I said everything was fine, my voice might give me away. Instead, I’d text Mom later on and tell her that Wisteria was “interesting.”
I dabbed at my nose, then saw a guy standing on the curb across the street, looking in my direction. He was tall, wearing slick sunglasses and a preppy-looking shirt, its sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbows, as if he were working an office job. He smiled a gorgeous smile. I surveyed the sidewalk on my side of the street, then turned to look behind me, wondering who he was smiling at. When I turned back, he pointed in my direction. You, he mouthed, and lifted the shades. Zack.
The traffic light changed, and he started across the street, as if he was coming to Tea Leaves. I felt a thump-thump inside my rib cage and realized suddenly that it was my heart. He came through the door and flashed me a grin.
Then he joined a girl and guy at a table across the room.
The girl, the crying girl, the hot costar.
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her — I was probably ogling the baked goods — for she was straight out of Drama Club at my old school, the kind of person who was on stage even when she wasn’t. A table of tweens watched her with awe as she talked with Zack and the other guy. The other guy had brown hair streaked with peroxide and close-set eyes with brows rising toward the center. A smile would have made him cute in a quirky way, but his mouth was a long straight line.
Pulling my eyes away from the three of them, I got out my map of the town and the sheriff’s map to the burn site, trying to focus on what I was here to do. I’d call the lawyer, find a food store, look for“ Hi, Anna.”
I glanced up. “Hi. . hi.”
“Zack,” he said, as if I might have forgotten his name.
I nodded. “Zack Fleming.”
He smiled, not only with his mouth, but with his amazing eyes.
“The sheriff told me your last name.”
