Pam Shepard said, ”Hello.“
I said, ”Come on, we’ll head back to the car.“
In the car Pam Shepard talked with Susan. ”Are you a detective too, Susan?“
”No, I’m a guidance counselor at Smithfield High School,“ Susan said.
”Oh, really? That must be very interesting.“
”Yes,“ Susan said, ”it is. It’s tiresome, sometimes, like most things, but I love it.“
”I never worked,“ Pam said. ”I always just stayed home with the kids.“
”But that must be interesting too,“ Susan said. ”And tiresome. I never had much chance to do that.“
”You’re not married?“
”Not now, I was divorced quite some time ago.“
”Children?“
Susan shook her head, I pulled into the parking lot at Bert’s. ”You know anybody in this town,“ I said to Pam.
”No.“
”Okay, then this place ought to be fairly safe. It doesn’t look like a spot people would drive up from the Cape to go to.“
Bert’s was a two-story building done in weathered shingles fronting on the ocean. Inside, the dining room was bright, pleasant, informal and not very full. We sat by the window and looked at the waves come in and go out. The waitress came. Susan didn’t want a drink. Pam Shepard had a stinger on the rocks. I ordered a draft beer. The waitress said they had none. ”I’ve learned,“ I said, ”to live with disappointment.“ The waitress said she could bring me a bottle of Heineken. I said it would do. The menu leaned heavily toward fried seafood. Not my favorite, but the worst meal I ever had was wonderful. At least they didn’t feature things like the John Alden Burger or Pilgrim Soup.
The waitress brought the drinks and took our food order. I drank some of my Heineken. ”Okay, Mrs. Shepard,“ I said.
”What’s up?“
She looked around. There was no one near us. She drank some of her stinger. ”I… I’m involved in a murder.“
I nodded. Susan sat quietly with her hands folded in front of her on the table.
”We… there was…“ She took another gulp of the stinger. ”We robbed a bank in New Bedford, and the bank guard, an old man with a red face, he… Jane shot him and he’s dead.“
The tide was apparently ebbing. The mark was traced close to the restaurant by an uneven line of seaweed and driftwood and occasional scraps of rubbish. Much cleaner than New Bedford harbor. I wondered what flotsam was. I’d have to look that up sometime when I got home. And jetsam.
”What bank?“ I said.
”Bristol Security,“ she said. ”On Kempton Street.“
”Were you identified?“
”I don’t know. I was wearing these sunglasses.“
”Okay, that’s a start. Take them off.“
”But…“
”Take them off, they’re no longer a disguise, they are an identification.“ She reached up quickly and took them off and put them in her purse.
”Not in your purse, give them to me.“ She did, and I slipped them in Susan Silverman’s purse. ”We’ll ditch them on the way out,“ I said.
”I never thought,“ she said.
”No, probably you don’t have all that much experience at robbery and murder. You’ll get better as you go along.“
Susan said, ”Spenser.“
I said, ”Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.“
”I didn’t know,“ Pam Shepard said. ”I didn’t know Jane would really shoot. I just went along. It seemed… it seemed I ought to—they’d stood by me and all.“
Susan was nodding. ”And you felt you had to stand by them. Anyone would.“
The waitress brought the food, crab salad for Susan, lobster stew for Pam, fisherman’s plate for me. I ordered another beer.
”What was the purpose of the robbery?“ Susan said.
”We needed money for guns.“
”Jesus Christ,“ I said.
”Rose and Jane are organizing… I shouldn’t tell you this…“
”Babe,“ I said, ”you better goddamned well tell me everything you can think of. If you want me to get your ass
