“Like lighting hundred-dollar bills on fire,” Bobby answered resignedly.
When the waitress brought their second beers, he barely noticed her. Adam thanked her, then asked his friend, “How are you affording that?”
“I’m not. Had to take a second mortgage on the place we fixed up together. Only reason I could buy it is my granddad left me a little.” A look of bleakness seeped through Bobby’s stoic mask. “You haven’t been here for a while. I love this place, for sure. But us ordinary folks are getting squeezed out of the real estate market by summer people with money. Not to mention we’re losing work to these Brazilians and day laborers from the mainland, and property taxes keep going up. Families who’ve been here since time began are barely hanging on.” He looked at Adam, as though recalling the difference in their circumstances. “Your dad always had plenty of money. Still, you’re well out of all this. Except for what happened to him, I guess.”
“More to my mother. I guess you heard about the will.”
“Oh, yeah.” The words were weighted with significance. “We’ve heard.”
“I guess everyone has,” Adam said resignedly. “How has it been working with the state police?”
“About what you’d expect. They send over this sergeant named Mallory-thinks he’s a hotshot and that cops on this island are all buffoons. Not that he says that. It’s more the way he’s so patient and polite. Like when I was talking to Grandma after she got Alzheimer’s.”
Adam had to laugh. “From now on, Bobby, I’ll speak very slowly and distinctly.”
Bobby’s grin was rueful. “It really is like that, you know.”
“So how long do you have to put up with these guys?”
“As long as they keep digging.”
Adam shook his head. “I can’t believe that anyone killed him. I don’t know why they’d think so.”
“Well, they do.” Bobby looked away, then into Adam’s face. “Is anyone in your family getting legal advice?”
Adam feigned surprise. “They’ve got no reason to lawyer up. What with the will, they can’t afford to anyhow.”
Bobby stared at his beer. “Maybe they should try,” he said in a flatter tone. “I know where they can get a second mortgage.”
“Not on a house that belongs to Carla Pacelli. I’m the only one with money, and not much at that.” Adam paused, then asked quietly, “How much should I worry about them, Bob?”
Bobby considered his answer. “All I can tell you,” he said in a lower voice, “is there’s a problem with the autopsy report.”
“What kind of problem?”
For what seemed to Adam a painfully long time, Bobby concealed his thoughts behind half-closed eyelids. “How close are you to your brother, Adam?”
With difficulty, Adam summoned a look of composure, maintaining the same puzzled tone. “Teddy? We used to be very close.”
Bobby seemed to inhale. “If you still are, you might ask him the last time he was at the promontory. Depending on how you like the answer, tell him to get a lawyer-”
“Bobby,” Adam interrupted, “I know my brother. He hated that place.”
“So he says. Problem is, he also hated your father.”
“No more than I did.”
Bobby shook his head. “Maybe so. But Teddy stuck around.” Pausing, he glanced at the nearest table, then continued speaking under the din. “Might as well tell you what Teddy already knows. Your brother used to have a boyfriend on the island, and Sean Mallory went to see him. Seems like Teddy used to fantasize about giving your dad a shove, then watching him hit the rocks headfirst. Pillow talk, I guess.”
Adam’s skin went cold, and then a memory pierced his consciousness. The brothers had set up an old army tent to camp in the backyard. Teddy was twelve, Adam ten-the evening before, Teddy had refused to join the family picnic at the promontory, and Ben had mocked his fear of heights. “I guess you’re made for sea level,” their father had concluded. “A metaphor of sorts.” Lying in the tent, Teddy repeated this, then said, “Loves those sunsets, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever think about pushing him off that cliff?”
Teddy’s tone of inquiry unsettled Adam badly. All at once, he felt the difference between them, the line of demarcation that was their father. “Not really, no.”
“Because I do, all the time. Sometimes it feels like the bastard is choking me to death-”
Facing Bobby, Adam shook his head, as if to clear it. “That sounds like something a kid would say. Even at that, it doesn’t sound like Teddy.”
“People grow up,” Bobby rejoined, “get serious about life. Maybe there’s a lot he hasn’t told you. Like that he called his ex-boyfriend the night your father died, leaving a message that he needed to talk.”
“About what?”
“The message didn’t say. But your brother sounded desperate, almost out of his mind. Not like I remember him from high school, this kind of gentle guy.” Bobby stopped to stare at him. “You don’t know anything about this, do you?”
“No,” Adam conceded. “Nothing.”
“That’s pretty interesting, don’t you think? Anyhow, I’ve made my point, and said way too much to do it. But ask yourself which neighbor of yours likes to walk that trail after dinner.”
Adam searched his memory. “Nathan Wright used to.”
“Tell Teddy to see a lawyer,” Bobby repeated. “That’s all I have to say. If you want to talk about old times, I’m happy to stick around. Or you can tell me about what you’ve been up to.”
Bobby’s misgivings were palpable, and in his last words Adam heard a plea-Help me make this a night with an old friend. “Then let’s switch to whisky, Bob, and do it right.”
For the next few moments, waiting for two glasses of Maker’s Mark on ice, Adam spun stories about Afghanistan-in his telling a strange and exotic place in which Adam was a seriocomic bit player. Over one whisky, then another, they began reprising the Nantucket game, recalling key moments in a night that made them champions of their league. “You know,” Bobby said in a thicker voice, “my dad always said that next to Ben Blaine, you were the best quarterback we ever had.”
Adam laughed briefly. “Funny, Bob. My dad said that, too.”
At length, they got up, with Adam leaving crumpled bills on the table. Outside it had rained; the night air had cooled, and shallow pockets of water glistened on the asphalt. The two men embraced, and then drew back, looking into each other’s faces.
“Good luck with Barbara,” Adam said. “I hope it all works out.”
Bobby’s shoulders slumped. “Me too,” he murmured. “I always wanted kids, you know.”
“So did I,” Adam replied, and realized that this was true. “A family of my own, where I made things turn out better.”
Bobby looked up again. “Ask Teddy about the insurance policy,” he said, and walked unsteadily toward his car.
Four
The next morning brought a dark, lowering sky, clouds heavy with incipient rain. Shortly before nine, Adam met Sergeant Sean Mallory at the promontory overlooking where Benjamin Blaine had fallen to his death.
Though Mallory was accompanied by another plainclothes cop-a stocky, dark-haired woman named Meg Farrell-Adam focused on her superior. Mallory was perhaps forty, with a graying crew cut, bleak blue eyes, and a long face made for tragedy, accented by a quiet, somewhat monotonal voice and an air of watchful patience. He reminded Adam of a priest in the confessional, prepared to hear the worst. In Afghanistan, he had learned to make swift judgments about men whose lives were foreign to him, knowing that an error could mean his own death. Now he assessed Sean Mallory. A dangerous man, he guessed. His one advantage was that Mallory did not know what
