“Well,” Stephanie said, at last, “I suppose people like stories that are good for a shiver or two on a winter night, especially if the lights are on and the fire’s nice and warm. Stories about, you know, the unknown.”
“How many unknown things per story, dear?” Vince Teague asked. His voice was soft but his eyes were sharp.
She opened her mouth to sayAs many as six, anyway, thinking about the Church Picnic Poisoner, then closed it again. Six people had died that day on the shores of Tashmore Lake, but one whopper dose of poison had killed them all and she guessed that just one hand had administered it. She didn’t know how many Coast Lights there had been, but had no doubt that folks thought of it as a single phenomenon. So—
“One?” she said, feeling like a contestant in the Final Jeopardy round. “One unknown thing per story?”
Vince pointed his finger at her, smiling more widely than ever, and Stephanie relaxed. This wasn’t real school, and these two men wouldn’t like her any less if she flubbed an answer, but she had come to want to please them in a way she had only wanted to please the very best of her high school and college teachers. The ones who were fierce in their commitments.
“The other thing is that folks have to believe in their hearts that there’s amustabeen in there someplace, and they got a damn good idea what it is,” Dave said. “Here’s thePretty Lisa, washed up on the rocks just south of Dingle Nook on Smack Island in 1926—”
“’27,” Vince said.
“All right, ’27, smartybritches, and Teodore Riponeaux is still on board, but dead as a hake, and the other five are gone, and even though there’s no sign of blood or a struggle, folks saymustabeen pirates, so now there’s stories about how they had a treasure map and found buried gold and the folks that were guarding it took the swag off them and who knows whatall else.”
“Or they got fighting among themselves,” Vince said. “That’s always been aPretty Lisa favorite. The point is, there are stories some folks tell and other folks like to hear, but Hanratty was wise enough to know his editor wouldn’t fall for such reheated hash.”
“In another ten years, maybe,” Dave said.
“Because sooner or later, everything old is new again. You might not believe that, Steffi, but it’s actually true.”
“Ido believe it,” she said, and thought: Tea for the Tillerman, was that Al Stewart or Cat Stevens?
“Then there’s the Coast Lights,” Vince said, “and I can tell you exactly what’s always made that such a favorite. There’s a picture of them—probably nothing but reflected lights from Ellsworth on the low clouds that hung together just right to make circles that looked like saucers—and below them you can see the whole Hancock Lumber Little League team looking up, all in their uniforms.”
“And one little boy pointin with his glove,” Dave said. “It’s the final touch. And people all look at it and say, ‘Why, thatmustabeen folks from outer space, droppin down for a little looksee at the Great American Pastime. But it’s still just one unknown thing, this time with interestin pictures to mull over, so people go back to it again and again.”
“But not the BostonGlobe,” Vince said, “although I sense that one might do in a pinch.”
The two men laughed comfortably, as old friends will.
“So,” Vince said, “we might know of an unexplained mystery or two—”
“I won’t stick at that,” Dave said. “We know of at least one for sure, darlin, but there isn’t a singlemustabeen about it—”
“Well…the steak,” Vince said, but he sounded doubtful.
“Oh, ayuh, but eventhat’s a mystery, wouldn’t you say?” Dave asked.
“Yah,” Vince agreed, and now he didn’t sound comfortable. Nor did he look it.
“You’re confusing me,” Stephanie said.
“Ayuh, the story of the Colorado Kid is a confusing tale, all right,” Vince said, “which is why it wouldn’t do for the BostonGlobe, don’tcha know. Too many unknowns, to begin with. Not a singlemustabeen for another.” He leaned forward, fixing her with his clear blue Yankee gaze. “You want to be a newswoman, don’t you?”
“You know I do,” Stephanie said, surprised.
“Well then, I’m going to tell you a secret almost every newspaper man and woman who’s been at it awhile knows: in real life, the number of actual stories—those with beginnings, middles, and ends—are slim and none. But if you can give your readers just one unknown thing (two at the very outside), and then kick in what Dave Bowie there calls amustabeen, your reader will tellhimself a story. Amazin, ain’t it?
“Take the Church Picnic Poisonings. No one knows who killed those folks. Whatis known is that Rhoda Parks, the Tashmore Methodist Church secretary, and William Blakee, the Methodist Churchpastor, had a brief affair six months before the poisonings. Blakee was married, and he broke it off. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” Stephanie said.
“What’salso known is that Rhoda Parks was despondent over the breakup, at least for awhile. Her sister said as much. A third thing that’s known? Both Rhoda Parks and William Blakee drank that poisoned iced coffee at the picnic and died. So what’s themustabeen? Quick as your life, Steffi.”
“Rhoda must have poisoned the coffee to kill her lover for jilting her and then drank it herself to commit suicide. The other four—plus the ones who only got sick—were whatdoyoucallit, collateral damage.”
Vince snapped his fingers. “Ayuh, that’s the story people tell themselves. The newspapers and magazines never come right out and print it because they don’t have to. They know that folks can connect the dots. What’s against it? Quick as your life again.”
But this time her life would have been forfeit, because Stephanie could come up with nothing against it. She was about to protest that she didn’t know the case well enough to say when Dave got up, approached the porch rail, looked out over the reach toward Tinnock, and remarked mildly: “Six months seems a long time to wait, doesn’t it?”
Stephanie said, “Didn’t someone once say revenge is a dish best eaten cold?”
“Ayuh,” Dave said, still perfectly mild, “but when you kill six people, that’s more than just revenge. Not sayin itcouldn’t have been that way, just that it might have been some other.