Crimson Shore

Constance Greene could smell the sea air as soon as Pendergast turned their vintage Porsche roadster onto the Metacomet Bridge, a decaying pile of rusted trestles and struts that spanned a broad salt marsh. The mid-October sun momentarily glittered off the water as they sped along. On the far side of the marsh, the road plunged momentarily through a dark pine wood, then broke free again. There, lying along a curve where the marshlands met the ocean, lay the town of Exmouth, Massachusetts. To Constance, it looked as she imagined a typical New England town should: a cluster of shingled houses along a main street; several church steeples; a brick town hall. As they slowed and passed down the main street, she examined her surroundings with interest.

The town had a faint air of benign neglect that only added to its charm: a seaside village with white clapboard buildings, seagulls wheeling overhead, uneven brick sidewalks and local shops. They passed a gas station, several old storefronts with plate-glass windows, a diner, a funeral parlor, a movie theater turned into a bookstore, and an eighteenth-century sea captain’s mansion, complete with widow’s walk. A sign out front identified it as the Exmouth Historical Society and Museum.

The few townspeople strolling on the sidewalks stopped and stared at them as they passed by. Constance found herself surprised at her own curiosity. Although she’d never admit it, she knew that, despite her voluminous reading, she had seen so very little of the world that she felt like a Marco Polo in her own land.

“Do you see any likely wine criminals?” Pendergast asked.

“That elderly gentleman in the madras jacket with the purple bow tie looks suspicious.”

Pendergast slowed and carelessly eased the roadster to the curb.

“We’re stopping?”

“We have a little time. Let us try what I understand to be a local delicacy: the lobster roll.” As they got out, the gentleman in the madras jacket passed with a nod and smile, and continued on.

“Definitely suspicious,” murmured Constance.

“He should be locked up on the strength of that bow tie alone.”

They walked along the sidewalk and turned down a lane leading to the waterfront. A cluster of fishing shacks mingled with shops and a few restaurants, and a row of piers led into a bay at the mouth of the tidal marshes. Beyond, over the waving sea grasses, Constance could see a bright line of ocean. Could she live in a town like this? Absolutely not. But it was an interesting place to visit.

Alongside the commercial pier stood a seafood shack, with a hand-painted sign of a lobster and a clam dancing to a row of mussels playing instruments.

“Two lobster rolls, please,” said Pendergast as they stepped up to the shack.

The food quickly arrived: massive chunks of lobster in a creamy sauce, overstuffed into a buttered, split-top hot dog roll and spilling out into their cardboard trays.

“How does one eat it?” Constance said, eyeing hers.

“I am at a loss.”

A two-toned police squad car eased into the nearby parking lot and made a circuit. The car slowed and the driver, a large man with captain’s bars on his shoulder, eyed them for a moment, gave a knowing smile, then continued on.

“The chief himself,” Pendergast said, tossing his uneaten lobster roll into a trash can.

“Something seemed to have amused him.”

“Yes, and I believe we shall soon discover why.”

As they strolled back up the main street, Constance saw a ticket fluttering on the Porsche’s windscreen. Pendergast pulled it out and examined it. “It seems I parked straddling two spaces. How remiss of me.”

Constance saw that Pendergast had indeed parked the car squarely across two painted parking-space lines. “But the entire street is practically free of parked cars.”

“One must obey the law.”

Pendergast tucked the ticket into his suit pocket and they got into the car. He started it up and eased back out into the main street. In a moment they had passed through town and were out the other side, the shop buildings already giving way to modest shingled houses. The road rose up through grassy meadows bordered by massive oaks before coming out on higher land overlooking the Atlantic. Ahead, toward the bluffs, Constance could see the Exmouth lighthouse—their destination. It was painted bone white with a black top and stood out against the blue sky. Next to it rose the keeper’s residence, austere as an Andrew Wyeth painting.

As they approached, Constance also made out a scattering of sculptures in a meadow along the edges of the bluff—rough-cut granite forms with polished and somewhat sinister shapes emerging from the stone: faces, body forms, mythical sea creatures. It was a striking location for a sculpture garden.

Pendergast brought the roadster to a halt in the graveled drive alongside the house. As they got out, Percival Lake appeared in the door, then strode onto the porch.

“Welcome! Good Lord, you certainly travel in style. That’s a ’55 Spyder 550, if I’m not mistaken,” he said as he came down the steps.

“A ’54, actually,” Pendergast replied. “It’s my late wife’s car. I prefer something more comfortable, but my associate, Miss Greene, insisted on it.”

“I did not,” she interjected.

“Your associate.” Constance did not like the way the man’s eyebrows rose in ironical amusement as he looked at her. “Pleased to see you again.”

She shook his hand rather coldly.

“Let us visit the scene of the crime,” said Pendergast.

“You don’t waste any time.”

“In a criminal investigation, there is an inverse relationship between the quality of evidence and the length of time it has been awaiting examination.”

“Right.” Lake led them into the house. They passed through a front hall and parlor with sweeping views of the ocean. The old house had been immaculately kept up, airy and fresh, with the sea breeze swelling the lace curtains. In the kitchen, an attractive bleached blonde in her thirties, slender and fit, was dicing carrots.

“This is my associate, Carole Hinterwasser,” Lake told them. “Please meet Agent Pendergast and Constance Greene. They are here to find my wine collection.”

The woman turned with a smile, displaying white teeth, dried her hands on a cloth, and shook their hands in turn. “Excuse me, I’m just making a mirepoix. I’m so glad you could come! Perce is really devastated. Those wines meant a lot to him—way more than the value.”

“Indeed,” said Pendergast. Constance could see his silvery eyes darting about.

“This way,” said Lake.

At the back of the kitchen stood a narrow door. Lake opened it, flicked on a light switch. It illuminated a set of steep, rickety stairs going down into darkness. A rich, cool smell of damp earth and stone rose up.

“Take care,” he cautioned. “These stairs are steep.”

They descended into a mazelike space, with stone walls covered in niter, and a stone floor. In one alcove was a furnace and water heater, in another a finished room with a collection of air tools, sandbags, protection suits, and equipment for polishing stone.

They turned a corner and came into the largest room in the basement. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with empty wooden wine racks. Curling yellow labels were tacked to the wood or strewn about the floor, along with broken bottles and a heavy perfume of wine.

Pendergast picked up a piece of a broken bottle, reading the label. “Chateau Latour, ’61. These burglars were singularly careless.”

“They made a mess of the place, the cretins.”

Pendergast knelt before the closest rack, examining it with a bright LED penlight. “Tell me about the weekend of the theft.”

“Carole and I had gone away to Boston. We do that frequently, to dine, go to the symphony or a museum—recharge our batteries. We left Friday afternoon and returned Sunday evening.”

The light probed here and there. “Who knew you were gone?”

“Pretty much the whole village, I imagine. We have to drive through town on our way out, and as you can see Exmouth is a small place. Everyone knows we make frequent trips to Boston.”

“You said they broke a window. I assume the house was locked?”

“Yes.”

“Is there an alarm system?”

“No. I suppose in retrospect that seems stupid. But crime is almost nonexistent here. I can’t remember the last time there was a burglary in Exmouth.”

Now a test tube and tweezers appeared from somewhere in Pendergast’s suit. Using the tweezers, he plucked something from the wine rack and put it in the tube.

“What is the history of the house?” he asked.

“It’s one of the oldest north of Salem. As I mentioned, it was the lighthouse keeper’s place, built in 1704, and added on to at various later dates. My wife and I bought it and took our time with the renovations. As a sculptor I can work anywhere, but we found this to be an idyllic location—quiet, off the beaten track yet close to Boston. Charming and undiscovered. And the local granite is splendid. There’s a quarry just on the far side of the salt marshes. Some of the pink granite used to build the Museum of Natural History in New York came out of that quarry. Lovely stuff.”

“I should like a tour of your sculpture garden sometime.”

“Absolutely! You’re staying at the Inn, I assume? I’ll be sure to arrange a viewing.”

While Lake was praising the local granite, Constance watched as Pendergast moved about on his knees, getting his suit filthy, scrutinizing the cellar floor. “And the bottles of Braquilanges? I assume they are in that case in the far corner?”

“Yes, and thank God they missed them!”

Pendergast rose again. His pale face seemed troubled. He went over to the wine, which sat by itself in a wooden crate with the crest of the chateau stamped on it. The top was loose, and he lifted it up and peered inside. Ever so gently he reached in and removed a bottle, cradling it almost like a baby.

“Who would have believed it?” he murmured.

He put it back.

Crossing the floor, feet crunching on glass, Pendergast returned to the empty wine racks. This time he examined the upper sections. He took a few more samples, shone his light along the ceiling, and then along the floor, where the racks were anchored. Suddenly, he grasped two wooden braces holding up the center part of the racks and gave a mighty pull. With a cracking and groaning of wood the rack came away, exposing the wall behind, laid with dressed stone.

“What in the world—?” Lake began.

But Pendergast ignored him, pulling more pieces of the wine rack away, until the entire central area of the mortared wall behind the rack was exposed. Now, taking out a small penknife, he inserted it between two of the stones and began to scrape and cut, wiggling free one stone and pulling it out. He laid it with care on the ground and shone his penlight through the hole he’d made. With surprise, Constance realized there was a space behind.

“I’ll be damned,” said Lake, coming forward to look.

“Step back,” said Pendergast sharply.

He now removed a pair of latex gloves from a suit pocket and snapped them on. Then he took off his jacket and spread it on the grimy floor, placing the stone upon it. Working more rapidly, but still with great care, he removed another block of stone, and then another, arranging them faceup on his jacket. Constance winced; already the English bespoke suit looked beyond redemption.

A shallow niche gradually became exposed. It was empty, save for chains set into the stone at the top and bottom of the back wall, from which dangled wrist and leg irons. Constance contemplated these with cool detachment; she had long ago discovered similar articles in the subbasement spaces of Pendergast’s own Riverside Drive mansion. The FBI agent himself, however, had grown even paler than usual.

“I’m floored,” said Lake. “I had no idea—”

“Silence, if you please,” Constance interrupted. “My guardian—that is, Mr. Pendergast—is occupied.”