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“That’s how we caught him. At night, waited outside the house. Which I thought had been torn down long ago. If Peter was sweet on one of them girls, he never got the chance to say good-bye.”

I said, “Because he was burned so badly. He didn’t live long enough.”

Arlis gave me the look again: Are you an idiot? “Of course he died. What I’m telling you, if you’d listen, is that they had to leave the island. People around here will accept damn near anything. But helping a Nazi who pours moonshine on a good man and lights a match? We didn’t want ’em here after that, and they knew it.”

I had to risk it. “You’re talking about all three families. The Dorns, Brusthoffs, and the—”

“Isn’t that what I just said!”

“Then why didn’t they sell the house?”

“The house we just passed? Them people did sell it. That’s why I thought it was long ago torn down.” Arlis shook his head, then rolled his eyes. “What else you gonna do when you leave an island and you can’t come back?”

I wanted to call Chestra but realized I didn’t have a number. Had I even seen a phone in the house? If the family estate had been sold years ago, what was she doing there? Why were old family photos still on the wall?

Arlis had to be wrong. There was no reason for him to lie, but he’d already demonstrated that his memory was faulty.

Chestra, on the other hand, had lied—I felt certain of it. But she was much too smart to base an elaborate charade on such a flimsy deceit. Her reasons would become known to me. Lies are the DNA of diplomacy and good manners. I assumed her reasons were altruistic at best, self-serving at least. If they weren’t, I’d know soon enough.

I much prefer lies to inaccuracies. Lies reveal themselves.

It was nearly sunset by the time we got the trawler docked. Low tide was a little before 8 P.M., in synch with the rising moon. It was a spring low—all new and full moon tides are called spring tides—which meant water was lower than normal.

It peeved me to acknowledge that Arlis was right, but Jeth couldn’t get the Viking into a slip. He churned up a lot of mud trying, but there’s a limestone base beneath the muck and it wasn’t worth bending a propeller.

Jeth was still smiling, though, when he bowed up to the fuel dock and let Tomlinson scamper monkeylike off the pulpit railing, then backed away. He used the PA system to show off a little, saying, “You can find me with the other millionaires tying up at Ferry Boat Landing.”

Arlis—right again. He let me know it, too, with his ragged smile.

A ugie kicked a trash can as we docked. Crumpled his plastic cup and lobbed it into the water, before snapping at Oswald, “Grab your shit and let’s get out of here”—a couple of telling ticks of the bomb inside him. He was going to be trouble.

I wanted to get the wooden sign, ark light, and other objects we’d found back to the lab and into salt water or sodium hydroxide as soon as possible. First, though, I made a quick detour to the docks, looking for Mack. The Sanibel Police Department is efficient and professional. If Augie made a scene—I felt certain he would—they would deal with him in the whisper-quiet way of experts.

Mack kept the department’s phone number above the cash register. A marina that rents boats is guaranteed to have the occasional outraged customer, and Mack had seven jon boats and two runabouts that he rented throughout the year—barring hurricanes. The police were no strangers to Dinkin’s Bay.

As I stepped off the boat, the moon was ghostly silver to the east; the sun was westward, in slow, incendiary descent. Dinkin’s Bay, our small marina, was suspended in balance: a mangrove clearing, boats, buildings, and people.

I was carrying our sopping dive bags, smiling hello at friends, asking them to wait until I returned from the lab to help Tomlinson tell our story of high seas salvage. There was also the not-so-small matter of refueling, unloading, and cleaning the Island Gypsy, then discussing a suitable present for owner Bill Gutek.

The rules are unwritten: If you borrow a boat, replace anything you use or damage, leave it cleaner than you found it, with tanks topped off, and reward the owner for his generosity with a gift.

Before I found Mack, though, I was intercepted by Rhonda Lister, who lives aboard the venerable old Chris- Craft cabin cruiser, Tiger Lilly. She and her longtime partner, JoAnn Smallwood, had arrived on Sanibel years ago, both of them broke, and on the run from abusive husbands. They’d pooled their meager funds and started an advertising sheet they called the Heat Islands Shopping Guide.

The shopping guide is now a full-color weekly newspaper worth a ton of money. The women have demonstrated their entrepreneurial genius by expanding into real estate, and also investing in a couple of restaurants, including a gourmet sports bar that was Tomlinson’s brainchild: Dinkin’s Bay Rum Bar and Grille, located only a few miles away on the road to Captiva, near the wildlife sanctuary.

The women own a beachfront condo, and a home near Asheville, but they prefer to live where they have always lived: on their roomy old hulk of a boat, Dinkin’s Bay Marina, where they have become maternal icons in our small community’s hierarchy.

Rhonda sounded motherly now as she took my arm, stood on tippy-toes to inspect my face, and said, “One more scar on that mug of yours, you’re gonna look like a Japanese haiku. That hack job someone did on your forehead, those stitches should have been removed a week ago.”

The hack job had been done in the field, with monofilament fishing line, by the wife of a man who had an unpronounceable name.

Rhonda was right. I should have removed the stitches myself days ago.

She touched her finger near where I’d been head-butted, then where the driveshaft had caught me. The cut wasn’t as deep or long as the one on my forehead, but it needed attention.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” she said, “I will. I tried to corner you last night, but you disappeared. Why’d you leave the party so early?”

“We dove today. I didn’t want to stay out too late.”

She gave me a knowing, concerned look. “That’s the same sort of baloney Tomlinson tells us when he sneaks off to see his mystery women. She has you on the hook now, too?”

In a marina community, well-kept secrets are as common as well-kept fences.

“Her name’s Mildred Engle. She doesn’t have me on the hook, and there’s nothing mysterious about her. She’s going to finance our salvage project—which means Jeth has a job.”

Women are as territorial as men but more subtle. “No kidding? Then we’ll finally meet her. She’ll come to the marina and say hello to the friends of the men she’s dating, just like any woman would do if she’s got nothing to hide.”

I was smiling, surprised by the heat of her disapproval. I said, “We’re not dating. And I’m sure Ms. Engle will make an appearance some evening, eager for the Dinkin’s Bay ladies to vote on whether—”

I stopped and turned, because I heard men arguing. Augie was standing nose to nose with Arlis, yelling at the old man. Arlis looked to be enjoying himself—maybe because a half-dozen fishing guides formed a semicircle behind him.

I told Rhonda, “Mack should call the cops, and I need to get back to the lab.”

The woman said, “Meet me aboard Tiger Lilly in an hour so I can take care of those cuts. I mean it. Or I’ll come looking for you. Seriously, we need to talk.”

Through the marina’s office window, I could see Mack on the phone, already aware of what was going on. The fishing guides could look after Oswald and Augie until the police arrived.

I put my hand on Rhonda’s shoulder and squeezed. “Make it half an hour.”

It was nearly 8:30, and I was eager to knock on Chestra’s door, tell her what we’d found, and say, “Okay, it’s time for the truth. What happened the night of October 19, 1944? Really.”

32

I told Rhonda, “I don’t know how old the woman is. And I don’t understand why you’re so concerned.”