“She says she had the feeling you weren’t just asking about Paulie. See, what you gotta understand, Georgie—and I know you do, which is what kinda surprised me about what you were asking—is there’s a lot of people out there who want to cause harm to the Gregorys. Sometimes it’s for political reasons, sometimes it’s just nutcases. People who want to make themselves famous at the Gregorys’ expense. So, yeah, somebody all of a sudden starts asking about where family members were and what they were doing at certain times, the kids know that’s when they have to pull the curtains, lock the doors, call for help. She had help there, Georgie. Did you know that?”

“The black guy.”

“Yeah. Recognize him? Pierre Mumford. Used to be my teammate on the ’Skins.”

“He wasn’t exactly discreet in making his appearance.”

“Nope. Wasn’t supposed to be. Since the Gregorys have all kinds of issues, all kinds of things to be concerned about, if you will, they use different assistants for different reasons. Sometimes they want to make a show of being protected, they use someone like Pierre. Sometimes they’re more subtle and you don’t even know someone’s watching out for them. Could be a little old lady walking her dog or something. You understand what I’m saying, Georgie?”

“I do, Chuck.”

“So you can also understand that somebody like Cory doesn’t necessarily know where everybody fits in. So when she finds she’s being questioned by an assistant district attorney, it kind of freaks her out. And when she goes home and learns that a few years ago some detective was asking her brother and cousins questions about this same weekend you were asking about, well, that’s when she calls me. You got something you wanna know about that weekend, Georgie, something that involves the family, you’re better off asking me.”

“I just want to know where Paul McFetridge is.”

“Yeah, but why now? Why after all these years, you suddenly want to find him?”

It crossed my mind to tell him that it had recently occurred to me that I had no friends, that McFetridge was the last close friend I had had, that I just wanted to reach out and talk to someone about the way things used to be. I got rid of those thoughts in a hurry.

“McFetridge,” I said, “came up in a discussion I had with a guy named Bill Telford, whose daughter was killed that weekend.”

“We know about Anything New, Georgie. His name speaks for itself.”

“Yeah, but he keeps contacting me.” And here I diverged from the straight and narrow. “I think he’s got somebody talking to him.”

“The girl in the store.”

“Somebody else.”

“So that makes you want to talk to Paulie?”

“Let me put it this way, Chuck. It reminded me that I knew him. Made me think that if I made enough calls to enough people, I’d find him.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Because I want to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“About what he remembers happening that weekend.”

“And you think that’s important?”

“I think somebody does.”

Chuck heaved a sigh. A big sigh. A two-hundred-ninety-pound sigh. “Okay, Georgie, I’ll see if I can help you out there. Only thing is, you gotta stop bothering the family, all right? It’s best for everyone that way.”

11

.

“MY FATHER IS HAVING A COOKOUT THIS SUNDAY,” BARBARA Belbonnet said. “Want to come?” She had never invited me to anything before. I looked across the room and wondered why she was doing so now. Once again, I was struck by the fact that this woman could be quite good looking when she was not stressed.

It was just that most of the time we had shared an office her face was turned away, bent between her shoulders while she talked into her phone, or focused on her computer screen while she tried to do in four hours work that she was being paid to do in eight. If someone had asked what she looked like, I might have said tall and athletic, light brown hair worn bunched on her head. If pressed for details, I would have said brown eyes, oval face, high cheekbones. Good shape, I guess. Hard to tell by the clothes she wore.

But now, as I studied her, I realized her hair was more blond than brown, her eyes were actually hazel, and her skin was virtually flawless. How, I asked myself, had I missed all that? Two people sitting in a room for weeks, each immersed in his or her own problems, barely looking at each other. Except now we were.

“Where?” I asked. Was that a good response to a personal invitation? I was still wondering why she was asking me, her office-mate, with whom she never so much as went to lunch.

“Oyster Harbors.”

Yes. Of course. An island community, where you have to go over a drawbridge and be cleared for entry by a man in a booth. Eight years on the Cape and I’d never been there.

“It’s the family home,” she said, as though embarrassed.

“Sure,” I said.

I BROUGHT WINE. Nickel & Nickel cabernet. The guy in the wine store on Route 28 acted as though he was selling the Romanov jewels. I told him I wanted a good wine and he pulled it out from behind the counter, cradled it like a baby, looked both ways, and said it would cost me $80 but be well worth it. I figured Barbara’s parents were likely to know their wine and made the purchase. Who’s this young man, Barbs? Oh, and such exquisite taste. He must be one of us!

I made it across the drawbridge well enough, but then had to wait several minutes while the guard searched for my name on a list.

“Ah, here it is,” he said at last. “Straight ahead. Bear left, then second left on Indian Trail. Go to the end of the road. You’ll see the cars.”

Indeed, I did. Mercedes Benzes, BMWs, Jaguars, Cadillacs, convertibles of all makes, including a Bentley. Luxury vehicles filled the crushed-shell driveway and lined the road in front of a twenty-first-century version of a sea captain’s home. The real thing, only better. With a widow’s walk on the roof.

I heard the sound of a steel band and multiple voices from the backyard as I walked onto the property, and so I steered directly there without going through the house. Men and women were clustered in little groups, maybe clustered closer than usual because it was not that warm, even though the sun was shining. Men wore polo shirts under sport coats or golf sweaters; women wore slacks and light jackets. All looked as though they were gritting their way through the brisk weather because it was worth it to have drinks and be in such august company.

A few people looked up as I entered the backyard, but no one acknowledged me. No one even stopped talking. I glanced around, thinking there had to be someone I knew, someplace where I could at least point myself to deliver my wine. An outdoor bar was located at the far end of the patio, manned by a bartender in a waistcoat and bow tie. I did not think he would fully appreciate my gift, so I stood there holding it by the neck, figuring sooner or later at least Barbara was bound to see me.

A tall man with a full head of perfectly brushed gray hair was leading the discussion in one of the groups. He watched me as he spoke, kept his eyes on me to the point I had to nod at him. Nod and smile and raise my shoulders in admission that I did not know what to do, where to go. I saw him say, “Excuse me,” to those he was with and make his way over to rescue me. Or confront me.

It could have been either.

His manner was a little brusque.

“Hello,” he said in a way that was impossible to interpret as welcoming, “I’m Hugh Etheridge.”

“George Becket,” I told him. “I work with Barbara.”

Only then did he extend his hand. I think he was glad to see that I was bringing wine and not pilfering it. I offered the bottle and he held it out from his chest and read the label closely. “California, is it? Oh, yes, Napa. Fine, fine. I’ll have it opened.” His admiration was at an end and he lowered the bottle and scanned the crowd, looking for someone to carry out the assignment or, perhaps, for someone to whom I could talk.