The Blue Last

and ran backward with a shout to him to hurry.

Before the pond with its sinister goldfish, she jumped from one foot to another as if she had to pee. When he arrived by her side, she thrust the doll (in its too-much-handled frock) toward Melrose.

“Me? Just a moment, why are you giving this job to me?”

“You look more like a vicar than me and I don’t want to get wet.”

“What are you talking about? Why should anyone get wet?” He held the doll away from him.

“Because you have to be in there to dunk him.” She nodded toward the pond.

“I’m not going in that water!” He did not add, with those goldfish!

“But someone has to!”

“All you need to do is dip your fingers in the pond and make a cross on his forehead. I’ve been to a lot of baptisms (he had been to none) and that’s how it’s done.”

“No it isn’t. I mean, it isn’t always. Benny told me, and so did the vicar, there were people who went into the water up to their chins. The vicar would shove their heads all the way in. I guess they had to hold their breath. Benny says it doesn’t take unless you’re all the way in.”

Melrose snorted. “Well, if this Benny is such an authority I’d think you’d rather wait for him. Besides he knows Richard-” Richard? “-a lot better than I do.”

He knew that hands-on-hips posture. Every child he’d ever had any dealings with resorted to it. Resolute. Determined. Implacable. A swell recommendation if you were running for a seat in Commons, but dire when it came to someone’s being baptized.

“I’ve been mistaken for a lot of things in my life, but never for a vicar” was his weak rejoinder to the hands- on-hips.

“You’re only wasting time arguing.”

Melrose raised the gown up and inspected the back. Its head and jointed limbs were hard plastic, its torso firmly stuffed and covered with a smooth, flesh-colored fabric, seamed down the back. A few threads were loosening, and a bit of stuffing was about to work its way out. Smugly, he said, “You know what will happen to this doll if you dunk him all the way into the pond?”

Her hands came away from her hips and she looked unsure. “Nothing will. He’ll just be wet.”

“Not only wet but waterlogged,” he said, cunningly. “You see this little seam here? Water will get in and Richard will squish for the rest of his life.” He shook the doll. “Or maybe even come apart.”

Truly uncertain now, she shook her head. “No, he won’t.”

Melrose gave a great sigh and a shrug and said, “Okay, if you’re so sure-” He removed one shoe and started on the other preparatory (it looked like) to his dive into the pond.

“No, wait!” She grabbed the doll back and chewed her lip. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“And I have to take that load of dirt to the bedding-out area.”

“I’ll go with you.”

She seemed relieved not to have to debate the baptism any longer.

“All right.” Melrose could not recall if he had ever had a wheelbarrow in his hands. He took hold of the handles and shoved it along while she trod by his side, looking up into his face to see whatever it was she wanted to see. He didn’t know. Trundling the barrow between the white columns and the line of cedars, he said, “What does he want all of this dirt for?”

“It’s fertilizer, not dirt.”

Was he to be saddled with a child who would contest his every word? (Didn’t they all?) “ ‘It’s fertilizer, not dirt,’ ” he mimed in a high, squeaky voice. “What’s the difference, then?”

“It says on the bag: ‘fertilizer.’ ”

“Well, you don’t expect them to put ‘dirt’ on it, do you?”

For a moment she was skeptical. On both sides of the large bedding area in front were white stone benches. She lay down on one as if the stone were a bed. She set Richard on her chest and moved his arms back and forth. “He could be a detective.”

Melrose had stopped the barrow by the edge of the bed and was reaching for the shovel. “Detective? Who are you talking about?”

“Richard. I’m only saying he could be. We’re not sure.”

Melrose dug in with the shovel. “Well, let me know when you are.”

As he shoveled and she watched, a silence descended. He doubted it had anything to do with their mutual respect for work. Around the far corner of the house, a white cat ran and after it a small dog, a terrier of some sort, with a white coat that looked springy, like lamb’s wool.

“Sparky!” Gemma called, and the dog left off chasing the cat and came to sit beside the flowerbed.

Melrose raised himself up, feeling the small of his back. Arthritis was no doubt setting in. He looked down at the dog who slapped his tail on the ground. “ ‘What fresh hell is this’?”

“It’s Benny’s dog, Sparky.” The dog bounded over to her and did some more tail pumping. She ruffed up his neck and made some of those irritating childish sounds one makes over babies.

“And where’s Benny, then? I mean to enlist him for the baptism immediately.”

“Sometimes Sparky comes by himself. He’s really smart. Benny says he goes out at night and walks all around till dawn. He remembers everything.”

“If he’s that smart, let him do the baptizing.”

Sparky trotted off; the cat had disappeared down the drive to a little cottage. Gemma said, “See down there?” She was pointing to that cottage inside the gates. “That’s where Mrs. Riordin lives. She’s lived there for years. I can get into it. She always goes into the shops on Wednesdays. Then I go in. You can, too, if you want to look.”

Had Jury deputized this child? “Why on earth would I want to do that?” When she shrugged, he went on. “And what are you doing it for? They’ll have you up on a B and E one of these days.”

“What’s a B and E?”

“The only police jargon I know. It means ‘breaking and entering.’ In case you didn’t know, it’s illegal.” Plop went another shovelful of fertilizer onto the bed. He hoped he was doing it right.

“If I take anything I only keep it a little while and then I always put it back,” Gemma informed him, from her prone position, the B &E jungle holding no terrors for her.

Melrose stabbed the tip of the shovel into the soft earth. “You shouldn’t be taking it in the first place.” He saw her draw something out of the pocket of her plaid skirt.

“Here’s an earring.” She held it out for him to see.

It was a nondescript gold earring, certainly not worth stealing. “Did you just take one?”

She nodded. “I don’t want to wear it. I just like holding something in my hand that belongs to somebody else. I always put things back in case you think I’m a robber.” This was pointed out in a fairly indignant tone. “You can go inside if you want. We can get inside; there’s a window round back that doesn’t shut properly.”

“Don’t pretend you’re going to rope me into your life of crime.” He stopped his work to look down toward the cottage. “Which window?”

Thirty-three

Having made a note of the window but taken a raincheck on the B &E, Melrose pushed the roots of another shrub in the ground as if he were burying a time capsule. He’d been on his knees for forty-five minutes now, probably more than he had during his entire childhood of churchgoing. If the Buddha had spent a half hour planting shrubs, he might not have been all that enamored of the full lotus position. God, the back! The recalcitrant back! He was tamping down earth when he was treated to the sight of a pair of paws and some shaggy breathing.

Melrose sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood for that boulevardier Sparky and his wanderings, but here he was, probably eager to debate planting in December. “I agree,” said Melrose, taking out his cigarettes and old Zippo. “But if Murphy says do it, I do it.” The Zippo rasped but did not fire. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light on you,