Chapter Nine

THERE WERE PEOPLE singing in the kitchen of the inn when Sheriff Clay Spears got home from duty. The setting sun made rainbow patterns through the stained-glass panels in the front door as he pushed it open, and his ears were filled with “Love Is in the Air,” by John Paul Young, coming from the back of the house. The inn’s residents always sang in the kitchen. Bill’s wife, Siobhan, had been the worst offender. Maybe, after her death, there was some unconscious effort to honor her by carrying on that joyful practice. Clay had passed by and seen even the grumpiest of residents participating, even ex–criminal overlord Vinny Robetti sitting in his wheelchair peeling potatoes and humming Sinatra.

Susan and Angelica got to the big bursting chorus just as Clay came in and dumped his bag in the corner.

Vinny was at his usual station at the little table and chairs, chopping carrots.

“You wanna sit here, you gotta work,” Vinny said, pushing a chopping board toward the sheriff without looking up.

“Can I join the choir?” Clay asked.

“No. Any more of this and you’ll get my ears bleeding.”

Clay took up a knife reluctantly and started chopping. Susan put a beer in front of him.

“How’s crime in Gloucester?” Susan asked. “Anything you can give me to beef up my contribution to the local rag? I’m sitting on a wild story about the anniversary of a flagpole installed in the town square.”

“It’s quiet,” Clay answered. “Just how I like it. Tonight’s game night, and for once it’s my night off. So everybody get out your lucky turtle’s foot, or touch wood, or drink holy water, or do whatever it is that you do when you want the universe to behave itself. Because if I get called out to a major case before the seventh-inning stretch, I’m gonna…”

Everyone waited for Clay to issue some violent threat. He searched his mind for something these people might believe him capable of, but nothing presented itself. Everyone knew he had been violent approximately once in his entire life, and that was in response to two men trying to kill him and bury him in the woods.

“Well, I’m gonna get really upset,” he said eventually.

“Can we go back to the turtle’s foot?” Susan paused by the oven, a saucepan in hand. “You mean rabbit’s foot, right?”

“Whatever,” Clay said.

“In Lithuania, particularly in rural households where tradition holds strong, it is forbidden to whistle indoors,” Angelica proclaimed as she delicately peeled an onion. “It’s bad luck.”

“OK, so no whistling. Not until the game’s over,” Clay said.

“The practice is said to summon demons,” Angelica went on. “I know this because—”

“You’re doomed, pal,” Vinny said and nudged Clay. “You can’t go an hour without whistling. You whistle in the bathroom like a goddamn canary.”

“A dozen canaries,” Susan agreed.

“Because as a young girl I spent my formative years in—”

“We got birdwatchers scaling the side of the house with binoculars, trying to get a look in at all these goddamn canaries.” Vinny smirked.

“I was enrolled in a school in which—”

Susan was reddening with giggles. “They’re all like Holy crap! It’s a flock of rare, endangered Bostonian canaries all converging on this one modest bathroom.”

“I don’t whistle that loud,” Clay sighed.

“Yes, you do.”

“You actually really do.”

“The school in which I—”

“There’s whistling to yourself, like you don’t even know you’re doing it,” Vinny said, “and then there’s what you do. You whistle like you’re trying to call ships in from the sea. Like you want people to notice that you’re whistling and comment on it. Like Jesus, can this guy whistle or what?”

Susan was laughing hard now. “Is he classically trained? Did he study for that?”

“DOESN’T ANYONE WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY EXPERIENCES IN RURAL LITHUANIA?” Angelica roared.

The room fell silent. It was in the hush that Clay noticed the boy, Joe, standing in the doorway.

“I’m hungry,” the child announced.

“Come here, kid.” Clay pulled out the third chair at the little table. “Take a seat. We’ll get you a snack.”

“You wanna sit here, you gotta work,” Vinny said, pointing his knife tip at the child.

“You can keep us entertained with conversation,” Clay said and put a hand on the tiny boy’s shoulder. “That can be your work. Where’s your mom?”

“Still sleeping.” Joe kicked his legs under the table, his blue eyes following Vinny’s gnarled, scarred hand as he moved the blade. “We’ve been driving a long way, sometimes at night. She’s tired.”

“I bet.”

“What are you guys making?” Joe asked.

“Personal pies,” said Susan as she fished around in the cupboard, examining boxes of crackers. She put a stack in front of Joe. “We’ve counted you and your mom in.”

“What’s a personal pie?” the boy asked.

“Once a week somebody’s in charge of making dinner here,” Clay explained. “Susan makes these great beef pies. Only, when she did it the first time, she figured three big pies would be enough for all the residents to share. But—”

“But it’s nearly impossible to divide a circular pie equally,” Angelica sniffed. “Particularly three large pies being divided between seven people by someone with an obvious bias toward male diners and diners toward whom she has an established romantic affection.”

“So now everybody gets their own personal pie.” Susan rolled her eyes. “No dividing necessary, no bias possible. It’s a lot more work but a lot less drama. I bet they teach you in school how important it is to share, don’t they, Joe?”

“I don’t go to school anymore,” Joe said.

“Oh, why not?” Clay asked.

“School is stupid and boring.” He gave a wide grin. “It sucks big time!”

A wave of laughter swept over the room. Vinny pointed his knife at the child again.

“I like this kid. What did you say your name was?”

“Joe,” the boy replied. “You can call me Joey if you want.”

“Zoe, was it?” Vinny tapped the blade against his ear.

“Joe, Vinny,” Clay said. “It’s Joe.”

“I can’t go back to my school because there’s no time,” the boy continued. “We’re going on an adventure now and we’re miles and miles away. It would take so long to get back, probably school would be over by the time I got there and all the teachers would be going home.”

“Where did you come from?” Angelica asked.

The boy tucked his chin into his chest suddenly, stared at the floor. Behind his back, Angelica shrugged at Susan.

“So you’re on a road trip,” Susan said. “A vacation. That’s exciting, right?”

“Kind of. But it can be scary sometimes,” Joe said.

“Scary?” Vinny squinted. “You kiddin’? What’s scary about a vacation? Maybe you’ll get some fresh air and sunshine. Maybe you’ll make a friend. How terrifying.”

Joe shrugged. “It’s fun if no one’s following you. But maybe, you know… Maybe someone is. So you’ve got to keep a look out. You’ve got to be careful.”

There was a heavy pause in the room.

“What are you talking about, buddy?” Clay asked. “Who would be following you?”

“Nobody.” Joe stopped kicking his legs under the table.

“Then why did you say someone might be?” Susan asked.

“I don’t know.” Joe shrugged again.

“Joe?” came a voice from the hall. The child’s head snapped up and he flew off his chair and disappeared through the door. The silence that lingered after him hummed with tension as the residents returned to their work.