Read Online Repair to Her Grave by Sarah Graves - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Graves
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sit-up-and-listen voice still worked, “there are some things you’re going to do, and not do, from here on out.”
I pointed an index finger. “First, you will confine yourself to library research. Manuscripts, diaries, letters, and account books and so on, things Jared Hayes left behind in the house when he vanished.”
Raines opened his mouth to object, but I got in ahead of him; two could play that game. “But when the rubber meets the road, my friend Ellie White and I will be in the driver's seat, not you.”
I took a deep breath. “No more blundering around in Eastport demanding that people talk to you,” I went on. “If you need that sort of question answered, and I suspect that you will, ask it of us, and we will try to find the answer for you.”
Ellie's eyebrows went up in the wow, good plan expression she saves for when I have really outdone myself, and I felt the small burst of pride I always experience on these rare occasions.
Thank you, I telegraphed at her. “Also, I want you to watch out in general about who you talk to, where you go. Not just when you want to know something, but all the time. And don’t argue,” I added as he made as if to object again.
“… tanks and regulators,” Sam said to Maggie on the porch. “And a few more dive flags.”
I closed my ears to this; the idea of Sam being underwater at all was just one of the many notions I was having to learn to ignore—some more successfully than others—in the process of cutting the apron strings.
“Guys like Wilbur Mapes, for example,” I went on to Raines. “He's no joke, Jonathan. You should stay away from him. People around town like his dog better, because the dog at least growls before it bites you. Wilbur just turns mean in a heartbeat.”
Raines looked impressed. But I wasn’t finished. “Finally, I don’t believe for a minute your story about your Ph.D. dissertation. I think you’re really here to try to find a certain rare violin.”
Once more he tried to interrupt; I waved a hand at him and he fell gratifyingly silent.
“And you won’t. But if you insist on sticking with it,” I went on, “kindly at least refrain from flat-out rubbing our noses in your denials. We’re not stupid even if we don’t live in Boston and attend graduate school, which by the way I’ve already learned that part of your story isn’t true.”
He examined his fingernails, looking like a kid who knows he deserves the scolding he is getting.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said. “I never thought that, honestly. And your plan sounds fine, except that there's one thing you haven’t thought of.”
“Which is?” Ellie asked.
“That I’ve made such a hash of it already,” Raines replied. “I thought this was just going to be another small town. You know, with people dying to talk. Flattered, thrilled to be asked.”
He shook his head. “But Eastport… well, I was too eager and people didn’t like it. And now”—he sighed heavily—“if you ask questions on my behalf, they’ll know it's for me, and they won’t answer you, either. If only there were a way to …”
He hesitated, then seemed to gather his courage. “And there is another thing. I hadn’t wanted to tell you. It sounds so … so melodramatic. But there's someone who wants to stop me.”
Great: now we had a villain, opposing the lovesick hero in his brave, solitary search for… Oh, for heaven's sake.
“Jonathan, it doesn’t only sound melodramatic. It sounds absurd.” For one thing, why would a villain want to stop someone from writing a Ph.D. dissertation? “You can’t even keep your …”
Stories straight, I was about to say. But, “Look, let's just cut to the chase, shall we? First of all, I want to know where you heard that tune you were whistling. Earlier”—I looked hard at him—“when you first got here.”
Maggie and Sam had finished with the drysuits and were now in the back parlor powering up the computer. “While
I pointed an index finger. “First, you will confine yourself to library research. Manuscripts, diaries, letters, and account books and so on, things Jared Hayes left behind in the house when he vanished.”
Raines opened his mouth to object, but I got in ahead of him; two could play that game. “But when the rubber meets the road, my friend Ellie White and I will be in the driver's seat, not you.”
I took a deep breath. “No more blundering around in Eastport demanding that people talk to you,” I went on. “If you need that sort of question answered, and I suspect that you will, ask it of us, and we will try to find the answer for you.”
Ellie's eyebrows went up in the wow, good plan expression she saves for when I have really outdone myself, and I felt the small burst of pride I always experience on these rare occasions.
Thank you, I telegraphed at her. “Also, I want you to watch out in general about who you talk to, where you go. Not just when you want to know something, but all the time. And don’t argue,” I added as he made as if to object again.
“… tanks and regulators,” Sam said to Maggie on the porch. “And a few more dive flags.”
I closed my ears to this; the idea of Sam being underwater at all was just one of the many notions I was having to learn to ignore—some more successfully than others—in the process of cutting the apron strings.
“Guys like Wilbur Mapes, for example,” I went on to Raines. “He's no joke, Jonathan. You should stay away from him. People around town like his dog better, because the dog at least growls before it bites you. Wilbur just turns mean in a heartbeat.”
Raines looked impressed. But I wasn’t finished. “Finally, I don’t believe for a minute your story about your Ph.D. dissertation. I think you’re really here to try to find a certain rare violin.”
Once more he tried to interrupt; I waved a hand at him and he fell gratifyingly silent.
“And you won’t. But if you insist on sticking with it,” I went on, “kindly at least refrain from flat-out rubbing our noses in your denials. We’re not stupid even if we don’t live in Boston and attend graduate school, which by the way I’ve already learned that part of your story isn’t true.”
He examined his fingernails, looking like a kid who knows he deserves the scolding he is getting.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said. “I never thought that, honestly. And your plan sounds fine, except that there's one thing you haven’t thought of.”
“Which is?” Ellie asked.
“That I’ve made such a hash of it already,” Raines replied. “I thought this was just going to be another small town. You know, with people dying to talk. Flattered, thrilled to be asked.”
He shook his head. “But Eastport… well, I was too eager and people didn’t like it. And now”—he sighed heavily—“if you ask questions on my behalf, they’ll know it's for me, and they won’t answer you, either. If only there were a way to …”
He hesitated, then seemed to gather his courage. “And there is another thing. I hadn’t wanted to tell you. It sounds so … so melodramatic. But there's someone who wants to stop me.”
Great: now we had a villain, opposing the lovesick hero in his brave, solitary search for… Oh, for heaven's sake.
“Jonathan, it doesn’t only sound melodramatic. It sounds absurd.” For one thing, why would a villain want to stop someone from writing a Ph.D. dissertation? “You can’t even keep your …”
Stories straight, I was about to say. But, “Look, let's just cut to the chase, shall we? First of all, I want to know where you heard that tune you were whistling. Earlier”—I looked hard at him—“when you first got here.”
Maggie and Sam had finished with the drysuits and were now in the back parlor powering up the computer. “While
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