“Had a dry cabin out the road,” Jefferson said. “Don’t know where.”
“Well, thanks, gentlemen, I appreciate the time. If I have any more questions I’ll be in touch. None of you are traveling anywhere anytime soon?”
All three looked annoyed. All three shook their heads. Liam thanked them again and left.
In his truck he sat and thought for a moment. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, no matter how much you had to start with. On the other hand, a lot of old, wealthy people wrote a lot of big checks because they weren’t going to take it with them. He thought of the conversation he’d overheard while the presentation was taking place, and wondered.
Sixteen
Thursday, September 5
WY SPENT HER MORNING TEST-DRIVING her new car around Blewestown and environs. She went all the way out East Bay Road, which dead ended in Konstantinovka, a small village of Old Believers, Russian Orthodox who had split from the mother church over the way the sign of the cross was made (or so Wy had read and didn’t quite believe). After the split they had migrated from Russia to, among other places, Alaska. Konstantinovka was a charming town, a village really, with white-painted clapboard houses surrounding a beautiful Russian Orthodox church. The church had a blue and white dome with a gilt cross on top, and the double doors of the entrance were surrounded by painted mosaics of people with gilt halos. If the inside was as beautiful as the outside a congregant might be able to endure standing for the entirety of the three-hour ceremonies.
She turned without stopping and drove back to town, taking her time. It had been dark when she and Liam and Jo drove the road on Wednesday night. Today she could see that it ran halfway between the beach and the bluff. Homes were built on the shoulder of the road and at the foot of the bluff, with some perched on the very edge of the small bluff that sat at the water’s edge. There were more than a few farms and she saw one with rolled bales of hay scattered around a newly shorn field. A nursery advertised a three-for-one sale on their remaining trees. A tank farm backed up a fuel oil business, there were half a dozen storage units, and a warehouse with a sign over the door that read simply “Gear” which had a completely full parking lot. There were more of the inevitable drive-through espresso stands, one small grocery store with a liquor store attached, a sprawling Mormon church, and half a dozen bars, all with enormous parking lots. She passed two restaurants advertising fine dining on their signs, one old, one new, both with signs that read “Closed for the winter. See you next spring!”
She took a quick look down Gabe McGuire’s driveway as she passed but didn’t see anything. Stands of cottonwood marked where the creeks drained. Spruce in all flavors formed dark clumps everywhere you looked.
It was a very spread out community, she thought. As private as you wanted it to be, and evidently some liked it very private indeed. Given the real estate listings she and Liam had seen over the last six months they were willing to pay a high price for it and the taxes that came with it. She wondered what that charismatic Victorian reprobate, Albert Blewes, would have thought of his namesake. He would undoubtedly have become a realtor if he lived today.
She arrived back in town, braked at one of the four stoplights Blewestown boasted (Newenham still had none) and turned left to go down the hill. About halfway down she saw a person who could only be the infamous Sybilla Karlsen, because she was old, female, and naked. She pulled over to the shoulder and got out, slipping her jacket from her shoulders. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “Are you Sybilla?”
The old lady, terribly thin with translucent skin and white hair standing up in a corona around her head, looked around. “Oh, hello,” she said, beaming. “Who are you?”
“I’m Wyanet Chouinard,” Wy said, slipping her jacket over Sybilla’s shoulders. A pickup honked as it flashed by way too fast and Wy had just enough time to give the young man driving it a death glare before it was past. “But please call me Wy. You met my husband earlier this week. Liam? Liam Campbell?”
“Oh my yes,” Sybilla said, allowing herself to be shepherded to the Forester and ensconced in the passenger seat. “What a nice young man. So handsome and so gentlemanly. He gave me a ride home.”
“Yes, he told me. He enjoyed meeting you.” Wy fastened Sybilla’s seat belt.
Sybilla tutted. “I hate these infernal things. They clutch at you so.” She smiled up at Wy. “I can think of more pleasant ways to be clutched.”
Wy grinned. “So can I.” She went around and got in. On impulse she said, “May I take you to lunch, Sybilla?”
Sybilla smiled beatifically. “Oh my yes, I’d love that—”
“Wy,” Wy said. “Or Wyanet, if you like.”
“What a lovely name.”
“It’s Lakota Sioux.”
“And are you?”
“No.” She hesitated, as Sybilla was of a generation that could find what she said next problematic. “I’m actually part Yupiq.”
Sybilla looked delighted. “Really? Yupiq? We don’t see many Yupiq in Southcentral. Sugpiaq, of course, some Tlingit, and a few Athabascan. But I don’t remember meeting a Yupiq before now.”
Wy thought of her maternal relatives in Icky. “Only half.”
“Close enough for government work,” Sybilla said firmly.
Wy laughed. “Let’s stop by your place first and you can dress.”
Sybilla looked down at Wy’s jacket. “Oh my yes, this jacket certainly won’t do for dining out.”
What would do was a trim wool suit that looked very Jackie O., albeit it was now two sizes too large. Sybilla even had
