from
the room's four tall double-hung windows, prying the
exterior stops off the frames and lifting the heavy
sashes--they are the things that actually have the glass
panes in them--out of their channels.
The trick is to avoid cracking the wooden pieces
while prying them up, because you will need to use
them again when you put the sashes back in; that, or
pay a lot to have all new ones custom-made for you. So
I proceeded carefully with a type of pry bar called a
cat's-paw, its blade wide and thin so as to slide deeply
in and distribute the prying pressure.
And it worked beautifully. Easing off the wooden
strips, I lined the old square-cut nails up on the windowsill
as I removed them. Nowadays, nails are
manufactured from miles-long lengths of wire, thousands per
minute, but these had been made one at a time by hand
and I wanted to save them, though I wouldn't be reusing
them. They belonged to the house.
From the window I could see all the way down Key
Street to the harbor. Cars had already begun flooding
into town, a whole week before the official beginning
of the Salmon Festival, which Ellie said was going to go
on come hell or high water and never mind the little
matter of a couple of murders.
In the park behind the old red-brick Peavey Library,
men were busy setting up the striped awnings
under which we would eat the salmon supper: steamed
new potatoes and boiled corn and blueberry pie, and of
course the grilled salmon. A group of town women
were slapping a fresh coat of white paint onto the
bandshell, where there would be live music. Ellie was
among them, her coppery hair shining in the sun, and
all over town I could see bright posters, placards, and
banners announcing the upcoming festivities.
A nail pierced the tip of my thumb. Staring at the
droplet of blood, I heard Ellie's words suddenly in my
mind:
Why did Reuben have to come back wow/?
The idea niggled at me as I brushed out the channels
where the window sashes had been: dust and old
paint chips, bits of the past undisturbed for years,
much like the recollections of people returning to East
port for the festival. Many had grown up here, and
now they were coming back to dust off old friendships,
regale themselves with old memories, and generally indulge
in a little harmless nostalgia for the good old
days.
Maybe Reuben had come back for the festival,
also. From what I'd heard of him, he hadn't had many
friends. But I gathered he'd had victims. So maybe that
was why he'd come back now: to prey upon them
again.
Thinking this, I unrolled some copper weather
stripping and clipped a length of it. One thing an old
house teaches you right away is the value of a good
tool; instead of tin snips, I had a cuts-all gadget that
was sharp enough to amputate fingers. Using it and the
tack hammer, I fastened the copper strip to the top of
one of the upper sashes and trimmed it neatly to fit.
Killing Reuben was one thing; having victims led
logically to having enemies. But displaying his body,
hanging it up like some bloody flag: that was something
else. There was also the question of the other
victim, the one with Victor's dratted tie in his throat.
How had he hooked into all this bad business--if he
had? And then there was a final problem, one my mind
kept skittering away from.
I clipped another piece of weatherstripping, nailed
it into the groove of the window channel. As I did so, a
breeze moved stealthily, lifting the hairs on my neck.
But it was only a cold draft coming in through the open
window.
Replacing the sash in the channel, I checked its fit
to make sure it was tight but also free to slide easily up
and down. Then I got out the real prize from my window-restoration
toolkit: the gimlet. This is a device like
a small, needle-sharp-tipped wood screw, but in place
of the screwhead it has a wire-loop handle.
Because the thing is this: once the exterior
the room's four tall double-hung windows, prying the
exterior stops off the frames and lifting the heavy
sashes--they are the things that actually have the glass
panes in them--out of their channels.
The trick is to avoid cracking the wooden pieces
while prying them up, because you will need to use
them again when you put the sashes back in; that, or
pay a lot to have all new ones custom-made for you. So
I proceeded carefully with a type of pry bar called a
cat's-paw, its blade wide and thin so as to slide deeply
in and distribute the prying pressure.
And it worked beautifully. Easing off the wooden
strips, I lined the old square-cut nails up on the windowsill
as I removed them. Nowadays, nails are
manufactured from miles-long lengths of wire, thousands per
minute, but these had been made one at a time by hand
and I wanted to save them, though I wouldn't be reusing
them. They belonged to the house.
From the window I could see all the way down Key
Street to the harbor. Cars had already begun flooding
into town, a whole week before the official beginning
of the Salmon Festival, which Ellie said was going to go
on come hell or high water and never mind the little
matter of a couple of murders.
In the park behind the old red-brick Peavey Library,
men were busy setting up the striped awnings
under which we would eat the salmon supper: steamed
new potatoes and boiled corn and blueberry pie, and of
course the grilled salmon. A group of town women
were slapping a fresh coat of white paint onto the
bandshell, where there would be live music. Ellie was
among them, her coppery hair shining in the sun, and
all over town I could see bright posters, placards, and
banners announcing the upcoming festivities.
A nail pierced the tip of my thumb. Staring at the
droplet of blood, I heard Ellie's words suddenly in my
mind:
Why did Reuben have to come back wow/?
The idea niggled at me as I brushed out the channels
where the window sashes had been: dust and old
paint chips, bits of the past undisturbed for years,
much like the recollections of people returning to East
port for the festival. Many had grown up here, and
now they were coming back to dust off old friendships,
regale themselves with old memories, and generally indulge
in a little harmless nostalgia for the good old
days.
Maybe Reuben had come back for the festival,
also. From what I'd heard of him, he hadn't had many
friends. But I gathered he'd had victims. So maybe that
was why he'd come back now: to prey upon them
again.
Thinking this, I unrolled some copper weather
stripping and clipped a length of it. One thing an old
house teaches you right away is the value of a good
tool; instead of tin snips, I had a cuts-all gadget that
was sharp enough to amputate fingers. Using it and the
tack hammer, I fastened the copper strip to the top of
one of the upper sashes and trimmed it neatly to fit.
Killing Reuben was one thing; having victims led
logically to having enemies. But displaying his body,
hanging it up like some bloody flag: that was something
else. There was also the question of the other
victim, the one with Victor's dratted tie in his throat.
How had he hooked into all this bad business--if he
had? And then there was a final problem, one my mind
kept skittering away from.
I clipped another piece of weatherstripping, nailed
it into the groove of the window channel. As I did so, a
breeze moved stealthily, lifting the hairs on my neck.
But it was only a cold draft coming in through the open
window.
Replacing the sash in the channel, I checked its fit
to make sure it was tight but also free to slide easily up
and down. Then I got out the real prize from my window-restoration
toolkit: the gimlet. This is a device like
a small, needle-sharp-tipped wood screw, but in place
of the screwhead it has a wire-loop handle.
Because the thing is this: once the exterior
Similar Books
