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“Yes. It won a lot of awards.”

  He turned to Norman. “I’m going to pay for the car.”

  “Damn right you are. I sure as hell ain’t.”

  I held out my hand to Norm, who hesitated for a moment, then took it. “Thanks for coming over,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “It ain’t the way this boy was brought up, vandalizing someone’s property.”

  “Especially with swastikas,” I said.

  Norman shrugged. “With whatever.” He turned to Paris. “Come on, boy. You got a lot of work to do, you want to earn enough for this man to get his car painted.”

  They turned, went to the truck, and climbed in. As Norm started it up, Paris leaned out the window. “We got a deal,” he said.

  I waved and nodded, then watched as Norm backed out and rattled away.

  I turned to the house and saw Alex standing on the porch. She had changed into shorts and one of her own T-shirts.

  “What was that all about?” she said.

  We went inside and I summarized my encounter with Norm and Paris LeClair as I poured myself another mug of coffee.

  “Do you believe him?” she said.

  “Paris?” I nodded. “Actually, I do. I could be wrong, but I don’t think he did the other swastikas.”

  Alex frowned. “I don’t get it, then. Who…?”

  “I don’t get it, either. Young Paris LeClair did not strike me as an evil kid. He doesn’t even know what a swastika is. I have the feeling that whoever painted the outhouse is evil.”

  She grinned. “Schindler’s List. Aren’t you clever?”

  “Probably wasted on him.” I shook my head. “Kids always seem to hate history. I know Billy and Joey did. They had teachers who pounded names and dates and battlefields into their brains, made them memorize the Preamble to the Constitution and the seven causes of the Civil War and the twelve main exports of Bolivia, and damned if they could tell you what it feels like to risk your life for something you believe in. Or, for that matter, if they could tell you what it is they do believe in.”

  She patted my arm. “You should’ve been a teacher.

  “Well, I’m hoping to teach something to young Paris LeClair.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I TRIED TO CALL Sheriff Dickman to report the vile message on Alex’s answering machine. He hadn’t come in yet, so I left a message with the dispatcher, who said she expected him to check in soon.

  Alex said she intended to put in a long day at her desk. “Find something to keep yourself busy,” she said. “Like maybe tracking down the bastard who’s leaving me messages.”

  “Will you be okay?” I said.

  “I’ll lock the doors and keep my phone and my can of Mace handy. I lived alone in Boston for twelve years, don’t forget. I’m not afraid. I’m just mad. Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

  So a little after eight, I drove to Leon’s store. I plucked a Globe from the rack and took it to the counter. Leon squinted at me as I paid him. “Had any visitors lately?” he said.

  I nodded. “Norman Le Clair and his son Paris dropped in on me about an hour ago. Had the feeling you might’ve had something to do with it.”

  “I give it some thought,” he said. “Remembered young Paris and that wiggly-butt girl of his gigglin’ about something when they was in the other day. Something about spray paint.” He shrugged.

  “QED,” I said.

  “Sure,” said Leon. “Whatever. So I had me a chat with Norm.”

  “Paris admitted he painted my car,” I said, “but he swears he didn’t do Charlotte Gillespie’s sign or the outhouse.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I’m inclined to. He didn’t seem bright enough to be a good liar.”

  “Oh, he’s bright, all right.” Leon scowled. “I wouldn’t trust that boy, with his yellow hair and them damn fool earrings.”

  I shrugged. “I could be wrong.”

  Leon shook his head slowly. “Well, if it ain’t that boy, I don’t know who it could be. I’ll check with Pauline.” He rolled his eyes. “That old witch hears everything and don’t forget a thing.”

  “I appreciate your sending Norman and Paris over,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Just the neighborly thing, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “Let me have a can of black spray paint.”

  “You want Rustoleum or the cheap stuff?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Two bucks.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Rustoleum for that Wrangler of yours. If I was you, I’d get me three cans, do the whole thing.”

  “One can,” I said. “That car’s not worth three.”

  After I left Leon’s store, I headed over to the animal hospital. A chubby young woman sat behind the low counter talking on the telephone. She wore a white smock, and her curly blond hair was cut short and tight to her scalp. It looked like a helmet.

  She had her mouth close to the phone and seemed to be whispering. She glanced at me, lifted a finger, then swiveled around, putting her back to me.

  After a couple of minutes, she hung up and turned. “Can I help you?” She wore a plastic nameplate over her left breast. Betsy was her name.

  “I’d like to talk to Dr. Spear.”

  “Laura’s with an animal right now. Somethin’ I can help you with?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Actually, I’m looking for the assistant who returned Charlotte Gillespie’s dog.”

  Betsy frowned. “Charlotte Gillespie?”

  “The dog’s name was Jack,” I said. “He was a little yellowish puppy with a pointy nose. He’d been poisoned. It was about a week ago.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “He was cute. Wicked sick, though. He died.”

  “Yes, I know. Was that you?”

  “Me?”

  “Who returned the dog’s body?”

  “Why?” She looked up at me, then dropped her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?

  “No,” I said. “I just want to know who came for the dog.”

  “He knew the dog’s name,” she said. “He said the owner had asked him to come for it. Laura said it was okay to give him the puppy.”

  “But he didn’t give you his name.”

  “No. He just said he’d come to fetch the dead puppy.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Betsy’s eyes darted around the room as if she were looking for somebody to help her. They finally settled on her lap. “I don’t remember,” she mumbled. “I think he was wearing sunglasses and a hat.”

  “Was he young or old? Big or small? Fair or dark?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t remember at all.” She looked up at me. “We were wicked busy, and I hardly noticed. I mean, I asked Laura—Dr. Spear—and she said it was okay to get the dog from the fridge and give it to the man, so that’s what I did. I hardly even looked at him, you know?”

  “You must remember something,” I said.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t. Honest.”

  I nodded. I didn’t believe her. It occurred to me that someone who’d leave a threatening telephone message might also find a way to scare a young woman like Betsy into forgetfulness. Betsy seemed frightened, and the last thing I wanted to do was endanger her.

  “Well,” I said, “thanks anyway.” I took out one of my business cards, wrote Alex’s phone number on it, and handed it to her. “If you remember anything, maybe you’d give me a call?”

  She took the card, glanced at it, and slipped it into the pocket of her smock. “Sure,” she said. She smiled quickly. “I’ll think about it. But I doubt I’ll remember anything.”

  I was back at Alex’s wiping the dust off the swastika on my Wrangler when Sheriff Dickman’s truck pulled into the driveway. He got out, opened the back door, reached in, and came out with a big grocery bag. He had to hug it in both of his arms. He looked my way, nodded, and said, “Mornin’.” H
e took the bag to the front steps and put it down. Then he came over to me.

  We shook hands. “What’s in the bag?” I said.

  “Just some stuff from the garden. Hope you can use it.” He pointed his chin at my can of Rustoleum, which sat on the Wrangler’s hood. “Looks like you’re planning to cover up the evidence of a crime.”

  “The culprit has confessed,” I said.

  Dickman’s eyebrows shot up.

  “He did not confess to the No Trespassing sign or the outhouse door,” I said. “An ignorant kid who has no idea what a swastika represents.”

  “Assuming your culprit is telling the truth.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Assuming that.”

  “So is that why you called this morning?”

  “No,” I said. “Let’s have some coffee. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Dickman followed me to the house. I hefted the bag of vegetables. I could barely lift it. “We’ll be able to feed the whole town,” I grunted.

  “It’ll all keep for a few days. Just don’t put the tomatoes in the refrigerator. The cold sucks the sun-taste out of them.”

  He held the door for me. I put the bag of vegetables on the kitchen table, poured two mugs of coffee, and led him out onto the deck.

  Dickman gazed out over the valley and woodlands. “Nice view,” he said.

  “We get some pretty sunsets,” I said. I lit a cigarette and took a sip of my coffee. “Alex had a message on her answering machine last night.”

  “Huh? What kind of message?”

  I repeated it to him.

  “Good God,” he muttered. “You didn’t recognize the voice?”

  “No. He whispered, and he spoke very slowly, as if he was reading it.”

  “I want that tape,” said Dickman. “See if we can make anything out of it. How’s your lady doing with it?”

  “She seems okay today. She wasn’t so hot last night.” I took another drag from my cigarette. “I also talked with the girl who gave Charlotte’s dog back. I figure it has to be the same guy who burglarized that animal hospital. She said it was a man wearing sunglasses and a hat, but claimed she couldn’t remember what he looked like.”

  “Claimed?”

  “I think she was lying. She seemed frightened.”

  I glanced at Dickman. He was smiling.

  “What’s funny?” I said.

  “I bet you’re one helluva lawyer, Mr. Coyne.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m pretty good.”

  We sipped coffee and gazed off into the distance for a minute. Then I said, “Something’s happened to Charlotte, Sheriff. From the looks of that cabin, she left in a big hurry.”

  “Or got taken away.”

  I nodded.

  “No sign of a struggle or anything?”

  I shook my head. “It just looked like she was reading quietly at the kitchen table and was interrupted.”

  Dickman nodded. “So you think someone went up there, grabbed her, and painted a swastika on her outhouse.”

  I shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.”

  “Or maybe she heard something and decided to skedaddle.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “But something happened.”

  “Maybe I should put the fear of the law in that spray painter.”

  I shook my head. “He promised to see what he could find out. Maybe we should give him a couple days.”

  “What about that girl at the vet’s?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She might talk to you.”

  “Sounds like I better go take a look at that cabin myself.” Dickman took a sip of coffee, then turned to me. “Normally, I’d tell you to leave law enforcement to those of us who are paid to do it. You’ve been doing a helluvalot of snooping.” He grinned. “I did some checking. You’ve been in some interesting scrapes, for a man who specializes in family law.”

  “You checked up on me?”

  “I talked to a state police lieutenant down in Boston. Guy named Horowitz.” He arched his eyebrows.

  “Horowitz and I are acquainted,” I said neutrally.

  “He told me you were a pain in the ass,” said Dickman. “I gathered he admired you. Anyway, I’m inclined to trust you. Work with you, if you’re willing.”

  I held up a hand. “Whoa,” I said. “I’m really worried about Charlotte Gillespie, yes. And I do not like having swastikas painted on my car, or threatening messages on my answering machine. But I’m no cop, Sheriff. I’ve got a busy law practice in Boston. I just come up here on weekends, and that’s to spend time with Alex. I drive up on Friday nights and go back Sunday. When I’m here, it’s to relax. I like to drive the back roads, chop some wood, do a little fishing. If you think…”

  He was smiling at me. “Last I looked,” he said, “today’s Monday.”

  “Sometimes I stay an extra day.”

  “Heading back tonight, then?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m taking a couple extra days.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Horowitz said you couldn’t resist getting involved. He also said you’d deny it. He said if it was him, he’d try to keep you in line, but he knew he couldn’t.” Dickman leaned toward me. “I don’t know what we’ve got going on here,” he said, “but I don’t like it any more than you do. If I had my way, I’d put a full-timer on this situation and tell him to stay on it until he solved it. Preferably, that man would be me. But I also know that I’m spread all over York County, and I don’t have anybody I can spare to investigate a case of petty vandalism.”

  “But it’s hardly—”

  He held up his hand. “I know. Swastikas. Plus a missing woman.” He sighed. “Except she’s not missing. No one’s reported her missing. Except you, and you don’t count. As far as anybody knows, she’s just not home. How can I justify investigating that?” He shook his head. “That’s the way it is.”

  “What about that message? And—”

  “You have any idea how many reports of telephone threats we get every week?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “The point is, Mr. Coyne, the only actual criminal complaint we’ve received has been the vandalism of a very old and banged-up automobile, and we know who’s responsible for that.”

  “I reported that telephone message to you.”

  “True. That you did. But—”

  “You can’t ignore it,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I really have to do something.” He pushed himself up from the rocker. “Stand up, please.”

  I looked up at him. “What?”

  “I asked you to stand up.”

  I shrugged and stood up.

  “Raise your right hand.”

  “Huh?”

  “Do it.”

  I smiled and raised my right hand.

  “Now,” he said, “repeat after me. I, Brady Coyne, do solemnly promise—”

  I lowered my hand. “Come on—”

  “—to uphold the Constitution of the United States and the laws of the State of Maine, so help me God.”

  “Listen—”

  “Just repeat those words, Mr. Coyne.”

  I shrugged, raised my right hand again, and repeated his words.

  Dickman reached up, took my hand, and shook it. “Congratulations,” he said. “Now you work for me.” He took something from his pants pocket and handed it to me. It was a thin black leather folder, about the size of a small wallet. I flipped it open. It held a round silver badge with the words “Sheriff’s Deputy, York County, Maine” on it, along with a four-digit number.

  I looked up at him. “You’re joking.”

  “We sheriffs don’t joke about things like this,” he said.

  “I’m really a deputy?”

  He nodded.

  “Can I form a posse? Arrest outlaws? Shoot ’em if they draw on me?”

  “You can’t pick your nose without checking with me first. The pay is
lousy—which is to say, nothing—and there are no benefits, unless you consider figuring out what’s going on around here a benefit. You can quit anytime. Want to quit?”

  I shook my head. “No, I guess not. This is a helluva nice badge.”

  “Keep it in your pocket. And remember. Now I am your boss. You do what I say, and if I say not to do something, you can’t do it. If you learn anything, you’ve got to tell me. Got all that?”

  “I got it,” I said. I jiggled the badge in my hand. It had a pleasant weight to it. “Horowitz never tried to deputize me.”

  “Lieutenant Horowitz,” said Dickman, “has never been elected high sheriff of York County.” He drained his mug, then stood. “I’ve got to hit the road. Get me that tape.”

  Dickman followed me inside. I removed the little cassette from the answering machine and gave it to him, and we went out the front door. He climbed into his truck and started up the engine. Then he stopped and leaned out the window. “You forgot to give me the name of our spray painter.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t forget. I’m not going to tell you.”

  “You want to break the record for the shortest tenure as sheriff’s deputy in the history of York County?”

  “Look,” I said. “He’s just an ignorant kid. He didn’t do the outhouse or the sign. He’s going to try to find out who did. I threatened to tell you, and that seemed to motivate him. Once I do tell you, we lose that motivation. So can we leave it that way for now, boss?”

  “Ignorant kid, maybe,” he grumbled. Dickman put the Explorer in gear. “Suppose you ought to know that we located the place where Ms. Gillespie used to live. It’s in Falmouth, just north of Portland.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “It took some pretty fancy police work.” He smiled. “Looked her up in last year’s phone book.”

  “Mighty clever. Did you search the place?”

  “Search it for what?”

  I shrugged. “Clues.”

  “Right,” he said. “Clues. Of course.” He rolled his eyes.

  “What we found out,” he said, “is that the place is in a nice condo development. She was renting it. She’s not living there anymore. It’s all rented out to someone else now, so there’s not much sense in searching it for clues. Anyhow, Falmouth is in Cumberland County. Out of my jurisdiction.” He glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. “Listen,” he said. “I do want to know what happened to her. See what you can find out, Deputy.”