“Misplaced hopes,” said Walker. “I was hoping she would know people in Coulter. I’d sip my tea and she would say, ‘Scully? Sure, I know the family. All nice people except Jimmy and his cousin Billy. They hung out with those awful Johnson brothers.’ ”
“I take it she didn’t have much for us.”
“I know more than I want to about the town, but it doesn’t put us any closer to finding out who the second guy was.”
Stillman looked at him impassively. “What about the town?”
“Why all the houses were fancy. The place was founded by what she calls ‘tinkers.’ They arrived when the Industrial Revolution hit New England and traveled around selling tools and machinery, mostly to farmers in the fringe settlements as the frontier moved west. They had a reputation for cheating and swindling their customers.”
“A fine old American tradition,” said Stillman. “Everybody who got rich did it by cheating somebody.” His voice trailed off as he returned to his papers. “Well, nice try, anyway. Where’s Serena?”
“She’s on her way to Concord to check the birth and death records.” Walker sighed. “Another waste of time.”
Stillman didn’t contradict him. He dialed another number. “Hello. My name is Mike Metzger, and I’m calling for Mr. Philips. Yes. The Internal Revenue Service. You’re Mrs. Philips? Oh, then maybe you can help me. No, you’re not being audited, we’re doing a projection. If you could give me the names of the dependents you’ll be declaring on your Form 1040 next year, and their ages.” He wrote as he listened. “I see. Very good. Thank you for your time.” His finger moved down his list.
Walker turned and stepped toward the door, but Stillman said, “I’ve just got a couple more calls, and then I thought maybe we could get lunch. Why don’t you go change into tourist clothes?”
“Good idea,” said Walker. “Where do you want to go?”
“The Old Mill in Coulter.” He didn’t wait for Walker’s response, but dialed the next number. “Hello. My name is Art Miller. I’m calling from MCI-WorldCom. What I’d like to offer is six hours of free long-distance calling for each member of your household just for trying our service. How many people would that be? Can you give me their names and ages?”
Walker muttered, “I’ll be right back,” and went to his room to change.
When he returned, Stillman was saying, “We’re not sure yet when the estate-planning seminar will be held. In small-town areas we like to be sure which date people prefer, so we’ll have the best attendance. Which date during the first week of September would be best for you? Good. Now that I’ve got your personal profile, we’ll be able to tailor our advice to your needs. We’ll call. Thanks.” He hung up, then stood and stared at his sheaf of papers.
Walker said, “What was that all about?”
“I’m making a list of men between twenty and fifty, with special attention to men who can’t be reached by telephone—meaning they could be the one who departed for the great area code in the sky with James Scully.”
“Why all the different impersonations?”
Stillman said, “You design it for the person you’re talking to. You hear an old codger’s voice, you want a list of his heirs. You hear a young woman, you want the men in her life. Simple.”
To Walker it wasn’t simple. It meant that each time Stillman heard a voice, he had to be ready to become the right caller, with the right lie. “How’s it going?”
“About as well as can be expected. I’ve called all the listed numbers, and picked the names that are possibles and those that aren’t home. That’s a lot better than we started with, but it’s not a small enough number to do anything with.”
“Have any idea how the FBI is doing?”
“Yeah. McClaren says they’re doing lousy. No names yet. Let’s go to Coulter.”
This time, when they drove into Coulter, Walker tried looking at the town through Ivy Thwaite’s eyes. Now the proportions made sense to him. The big buildings on Main Street had been built to accommodate people who had brought ready money in from elsewhere. The ground floors of the ornate buildings had probably always been occupied by rows of small shops, just as they were now. They had sold clothes and personal accoutrements to men whose livelihood as swindlers depended on good costuming, and to their women, whose major compensation for being isolated in a remote village would have been a high standard of living.
Now, through one of those meaningless coincidences that history always seemed to produce, the town had been reborn in the same form. A cadre of young engineers or computer geeks or science nerds with an idea to sell had eschewed the high prices and congestion of Boston and built their own version of Coulter.
Stillman parked on Main near Grant Street. As they strolled down Main Street, Walker noticed that today, too, the town had attracted a few tourists. When he and Stillman crossed the bridge over the river to the Old Mill, they had to wait inside the door while the waiter conducted a family to a table, and Walker picked up a strong southern accent in the children’s chatter. There were several cars in the nearby lot that had out-of-state license plates.
Other waiters had appeared at the far end of the big dining room, and they were setting tables in an area cordoned off by a white rope strung between brass stanchions. Walker counted ten tables.
When they had been seated and the waiter was taking their order, Stillman acknowledged Walker’s distraction. “What’s going on over there?” he asked the waiter.
The waiter half-turned, as though he had not noticed it before. “The tables? I guess they’re getting ready for a private party. I just came on.”
While they ate, Walker noticed Stillman occasionally watching the preparations without letting himself appear to. He spoke little, and Walker knew it was because he was listening to conversations around him, probably trying to distinguish the natives from the tourists, and the old-time residents from the newcomers who had migrated here to work at New Mill Systems.
Walker occupied himself by looking at the wall above him, where another part of the restaurant’s collection of old photographs was hung.
When they were outside, Stillman said, “Interesting, wasn’t it? Waiters don’t usually come on at one-thirty. Either they work lunch or they work dinner. On a big day, they work both.”
“Maybe they brought him in to help get ready for the party.”
“Mysterious that he didn’t know what it was.”
“I think Ivy Thwaite was right about this place.”
“Oh?” said Stillman. “You mean the waiter is secretive because it’s a congenital condition he inherited?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about him. I was looking at the pictures on the wall. I noticed some new things. The place had electricity. It was all wired up before the turn of the century. Most towns like this still had gas lamps for years. Everybody on the street was all dressed up and riding around in a fancy buggy.”
“You have to remember they were getting their picture taken,” said Stillman absently. “That was probably a big deal at one time—an occasion—so they didn’t get their pictures taken in old boots covered with cow shit.”
“There was nobody on the whole street like that.”
“Then probably it was Sunday.”
Walker sighed in frustration and looked back at the Old Mill. “I could see that building in the picture. You know what? It didn’t have a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“A sign. A sign that said what it was. Did you ever see a business—I mean one that has customers who are strangers and isn’t illegal—that didn’t have a sign on it?”
Stillman walked beside him for a few steps. “You’ve got me. I don’t mean you’re right. I just don’t know. If I did see one, it didn’t have a sign on it, and I didn’t know it was a business.”
Walker took in a breath, preparing to explain, but then he let it out. “You’re right.”
“Then can we talk about the present?”
“Sure.”
“Between last night and this afternoon, I managed to make a list of the grown men in this town. It came to a hundred and forty-three, pretty close to your guess.”
“Damned close,” said Walker.
“All right,” Stillman conceded. “Damned close. Of course, if I missed a few, then it would just be pretty
