down and latched my seat belt, wrinkling my nose with distaste. The metal was sticky.
Wes revved his motor and accelerated as if he were on a race track, then, when he came up on a slower moving vehicle or red light, pounded the brakes to stop. And he did it over and over again. It was nauseating. Reaching Portsmouth Circle, a rotary that served as the unofficial entrance to the city from the interstate, felt like a major accomplishment. Wes swung south on 1-95, and at the next exit, reeled east toward the ocean.
“If we’re going far,” I said, turning to look at him, “let me drive.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You drive like a maniac.”
Amazement showed on his face. “What are you talking about? I’m a good driver.”
“Oh, God. Slow down, will you? You’re not a good driver-you’re a jerky driver. If you don’t stop it, I’m going to get sick.”
“Okay, okay.”
He slowed to a reasonable speed, but his driving stayed staccato. I readjusted my grip on the overhead handle, and hung on.
Fifteen minutes later he slammed to a stop at the edge of the dunes in Hampton Beach. The sky was overcast and thick. It looked like rain. I held on to the dashboard for a moment, relieved that we were uninjured and no longer moving.
“Wow. Whatever’s going on, I sure as shooting hope it’s worth what I just went through on that ride.”
“So,” Wes said with faux concern, “are you always cranky before breakfast or only when you’re with a new man?”
“Oh, God, save me from fourteen-year-old race-car drivers.”
“I’m twenty-four,” he protested.
“Well, you look and drive like you’re fourteen.”
“You’re getting old. The older you are, the younger other people look to you.”
“Did you bring me to the beach so you could insult me?”
“No,” he said, opening his door and stepping out. “That’s just an added benefit. Come on, don’t get me started. Follow me.” He handed me the portable CD player he’d extracted from the backseat. “Take this.”
“What in the world?…” I began, but he disappeared behind the car and opened the trunk. He pulled out a scraggly woolen blanket and a scuffed red-and-white Playmate cooler and locked the car.
“Ready?” he asked.
“For what?”
“Come on.” He scrambled up a dune, pushing through tall grass, and with a sigh and a shrug, I followed.
Wes headed toward the ocean, and looked around. He selected a fairly level spot about ten feet from the surf. Snapping the blanket to lay it flat, he smoothed it out and sat down, gesturing that I should join him. The wind off the blue-black ocean was bitter, and I shivered as I sat down, lifting the collar of my pea coat and rubbing my hands together.
As I got settled, I looked around. Wind-whipped whitecaps rippled across the ocean surface. The beach was mostly deserted. I saw someone sitting about a hundred yards to the north, huddled in a lawn chair staring at the ocean, and far to the south, a man was throwing driftwood to a golden retriever. Each time the man tossed the branch, the dog dashed away and retrieved it, trotting with a jaunty swagger, to drop it at his master’s feet.
Wes turned on the CD player, and Frank Sinatra began to sing “Fly Me to the Moon.” “I have no reason to think you’re wired, and I damn well know I’m not,” he whispered, leaning toward me. “But I’m going to be quoting a police source, so I can’t take any chances. With the ocean sounds and the CD, if we whisper, we should be fine.”
“Are you serious? You think I might be wearing a wire? You’ve been watching too many movies.” I noted that even as I expressed incredulity, I whispered.
Wes leaned back, resting his weight on the palms of his hands. “You might be right. So what? Indulge me, okay?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
He pulled a thermos of coffee, two plastic mugs, and a box of doughnuts out of the Playmate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a doughnut. I took a honey-glazed and nibbled. It didn’t taste like food. It tasted like dessert. Wes took an oversized bite of a chocolate-glazed doughnut. He used the back of his hand to wipe away smudged chocolate from his cheek.
“What do you want to hear about first?” he asked. “Phone, prints, or background?”
“It doesn’t matter. Phone, I guess. Were you able to learn who called Mr. Grant?”
Wes nodded. “Basically, no one.”
“What do you mean, ‘basically’?”
“His daughter, a widow named Dana Cabot who lives in Boston, called several times. So did his next-door neighbor and his lawyer, Epps. Also, there were two business calls.” He shrugged. “Other than that, no one but you and another dealer, Barney Troudeaux, called him during the last month.”
“What kind of business calls?”
Wes reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single sheet of lined paper, folded into a small square. Consulting it, he said, “His doctor’s office. And Taffy Pull, a candy store on the beach.” He refolded the paper and placed it on his lap.
“Nothing there seems to stand out, does it?”
He shrugged. “Not to me. The police are checking them out.”
“Do you know what they’ve learned?”
Wes pursed his lips. “No.”
“Your source won’t tell you?”
“My source says he-or she-doesn’t know.”
“Do you believe him-or her?”
He turned both hands up and gave me a “my guess is as good as yours” look, then smiled, and said, “I’ll keep pushing.”
I nodded. It was hard to imagine that calls from a candy store or his doctor were relevant. The former was probably a sales call, and the latter was most likely routine.
“Did Mr. Grant make any calls?” I asked, thinking that perhaps he’d initiated one or more of those calls.
“No one but you, Troudeaux, and his lawyer.”
“Not even his daughter?”
“Nope. No other calls.”
“Was he in frequent touch with his lawyer? Mr. Epps?”
“Doesn’t look like it. There were a couple of calls, but earlier in the month. Nothing from, or to, Epps in the last week.”
“How about Barney? When did Barney last call him, or vice versa?”
He smiled. “Are you ready? Troudeaux called Mr. Grant at seven-thirty-two the night before he died.”
“The night before,” I repeated. I turned toward the ocean, and watched as water rushed in, then slowly seeped away. “What does he say they talked about?”
“Changing an appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“Did you know Mr. Grant kept a diary?”
“Yes. My appointment to see him the morning he was killed was in it.”
“Right. Well, apparently, so was Barney Troudeaux’s. Troudeaux had an appointment to see Mr. Grant the morning he died, too.”
“That morning? You’re kidding!”
“Yeah, at nine. Except that Barney said he called Mr. Grant and changed it.”
“How do you know?”
“My source tells me that Barney said that Mr. Grant agreed to change the appointment to three that afternoon.”
“Why the last-minute change?”
“A board meeting for the association Barney heads up.”
