CHAPTER 33
The roller woman turns out to have a first name, but apparently no surname, because Maxine is all she is willing to tell me. She also has made luncheon reservations for two at a cozy inn I have never heard of down one of the confusing little side streets of Vineyard Haven. I can think of no particular reason to turn down her invitation, especially because I make no effort to come up with one. So Maxine drives the Suburban, which seems unscratched by our collision, and I follow in the Camry, whose rear bumper is badly mangled.
Vineyard Haven is the common but unofficial name of the town of Tisbury, or else it is the other way around-more than thirty summers on the Island and still I cannot keep them straight. The word picturesque tends toward overuse, especially to describe New England shore towns, but the narrow, neatly tangled lanes of Vineyard Haven, each lined with tiny white clapboard homes, stores, and churches, actually deserve the accolade. The town looks like a film set, except that no director would dare to create a town so perky, full of bustling energy, amidst gorgeous leafy trees and magnificent views of the water from… well, just about everywhere. Ordinarily, a trip to Tisbury brings a smile to my face, because it is so shamelessly perfect. But today, dragging my bumper along Main Street, I am too busy wondering what is going on.
I assume I am about to find out.
“Sorry about your car,” Maxine murmurs as soon as we are seated. The dining room only has about a dozen tables, and all of them look out on a grim churchyard, the rooftops of houses down the hill, and the inevitable blue water beyond. Ten tables are empty.
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“Aw, come on, handsome, lighten up.”
She grins the same infectious smile I first saw at the rollerdrome the day after we buried the Judge. She is wearing a brown jumpsuit and a multicolored scarf, her clothing every bit as unconventional as her hair. I find that I like her a lot more now that she has a name, even though I expect to discover sooner or later that Maxine, like just about everybody else I have met since my father died, has as many different names as she needs.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” I mutter, refusing to be drawn.
“Why? You are handsome.” Although I’m not, really.
“Because I are married.”
Maxine puffs her lips in amusement but lets this go, for which small mercy I am grateful. I usually hate being out with women other than my wife, out of a holy terror that somebody will see us together and draw the wrong conclusion. I value my reputation for fidelity, and I believe in the old-fashioned notion that adults have a responsibility to live up to their commitments-something I learned as much from my mother as from the Judge. Yet, sitting here with the mysterious Maxine, I find myself unable to worry about whether anybody will think we are a couple.
Which is why I must tread carefully.
“So, if I can’t call you handsome,” she sighs, “what would you rather have me call you?”
I want no intimacy with this woman. Or, rather, what I want is irrelevant, since I are married. “Well, given the difference in our ages, you should probably call me Professor Garland, or Mr. Garland.”
“Yucch.”
“What?”
“I said… yucch, Professor Garland.” Flashing those dimples at me. “And you’re not that much older than I am.” Smiling.
I am tempted to smile back. “Why are you following me?” I ask, trying to stay on track.
“In case you change your mind about that skating lesson.”
She laughs. I don’t.
“Come on. I’m serious, Maxine. I need to know what’s going on.”
“You’ll figure it out sooner or later.” Her wide, lively face is buried in the menu. “I hear the crab cakes are the best on the Vineyard,” she adds as the waiter nears, but half the restaurants on the Island make the same claim.
We both order the crab cakes nevertheless, we both choose the rice, we both ask for salad with the house dressing, we both decide to stay with the sparkling water we are already sipping. I am not sure which one of us is copying the other, but I wish he or she would stop.
“Maxine,” I ask as soon as the waiter is gone, “what are we doing here?”
“Having an early dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to talk, handsome. Sorry, sorry. I mean Professor Garland. No, I mean Misha. Or I could say Talcott. Tal? Isn’t that what they call you? By the way, did anybody ever tell you that you have too many names?” More laughter. Maxine, however many names she may have, is far too easy to be with.
I stay on message. “You just thought you’d run into my car so we could have a talk?”
That fun-loving grin again. “Well, it got your attention, didn’t it? Oh, yeah, before I forget.” Maxine opens her large brown purse, and although my exhausted eyes might be playing tricks, I am pretty sure I see a holstered gun before she pulls out an envelope and snaps the bag closed again. Still smiling, she drops the envelope on the table. It is as thick as a telephone book. “Here.”
“What is that?” I have no particular desire to touch it, not yet.
“Well, I did wreck your bumper, and I can’t exactly give you my insurance card.”
Shaking my head at the unreality of the moment, I pick up the envelope and peek inside. I see a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. Lots of them. Not new, either: well used.
“How much money is this?”
“Um, twenty-five thousand dollars, I think.” Not managing to sound quite as casual as she wants to. “Around that, anyway. Mostly hundreds.” The pixie grin again. “I know foreign-car repairs can be expensive.”
I drop the money back on the table. Something truly weird is going on. “Twenty-five… thousand?”
“Why, it’s not enough?”
“Maxine, I would sell you my car for maybe one-tenth of that.”
“I don’t want your car.” Deliberately missing my point. She taps the envelope. Her unpainted nails are trimmed very short. “I have a car. Take the money, honey.”
I shake my head, leaving the cash exactly where it is.
“What’s the money really for?”
“The damage, handsome. Take it.” She tilts her head to the side. “Besides, you never know when you’ll need some extra cash.”
Somebody obviously knows about our debts, a fact that irritates me.
“Maxine… whose money is this?”
“Yours, silly.” Oh, but Maxine has a smile! I struggle to keep my composure.
“What I mean is, where did you get it?”
She points. “Out of my purse.”
“How did it get into your purse?”
“I put it there. Do you think I let just anybody go through my purse?”
I pause, remembering the lessons from my years of law practice. In a deposition, formulate the questions with care. Most of them should be capable of Yes and No answers. Lead the witness, through her Yes es, to where you want to be.
“Somebody gave you that money, right?”
“Right.”
“Gave it to you to give to me?”
“Maybe.” She is being playful, not cautious, which is scarcely surprising, given that I have no means of compelling her to answer.
“Who was the person who gave you the money?”
