Sleep of the Innocent by Medora Sale Read Free Book Online Page B

to get onto it?”
    â€œDon’t bother. How many people can it take to find one girl? What I can’t figure out is what’s gotten into Baldwin. You’d think Marty Fielding was the goddamn mayor. Or the prime minister.”
    â€œJesus—where have you been for the last year?” said Patterson.
    â€œOut of it, obviously. Who’s Fielding? Besides being a rich lawyer. I know that.”
    â€œFielding is the membership secretary of the Yacht Club. No, it’s not even
The
Yacht Club. Baldwin doesn’t aspire—yet—to
The
Yacht Club. It’s the Sandy Cove Yacht Club. You know. Number two. We try harder.”
    â€œI see. And Baldwin wants to join—”
    â€œRight. And so he doesn’t want Fielding annoyed at him.”
    â€œHe’s crazy. He should keep his boat at a marina. It’s cheaper and less aggravating.”
    â€œOh, he doesn’t have a boat. If he gets in the Yacht Club, he’s going to buy a boat and learn how to sail.” Eric chuckled. “I wonder if Marianne gets seasick,” he added softly.
    â€œMarianne?”
    â€œHis wife. Last year it was horses, remember? He took riding lessons, the whole thing.”
    â€œYeah, I remember.”
    â€œOnly Marianne kept breaking out in some sort of rash, and they discovered she was allergic to horses. So he had to find something else.”
    Patterson’s gossipy, malicious voice went on and on while Lucas tried to imagine Baldwin on a boat. He was a big man, used to getting his own way through sheer size and forcefulness. Lucas imagined him standing by the mast, roaring at the wind to blow from the right quarter and stop all this messing about. And then—wonderful thought—being swept overboard. Boats. His thoughts drifted away from Baldwin. Lucas’s father belonged to
The
Yacht Club, all ties, blazers, white flannels, and quarts of gin. Those sails, at least twice a summer, in his father’s
Nonesuch,
with his stepmother lying about chattering and oozing sex all over the place. His father, to give him credit, still regarded sailing from the point of view of the serious racer he once had been and preferred to stay quiet and sober on the water; if Tricia hadn’t been along, Lucas might have enjoyed himself. But there was no point in going sailing with someone who talked incessantly. On a boat, in the middle of the lake, was the only place around where you could get away from the interminable sound of voices and phones ringing and bloody internal combustion engines. He shrugged. Patterson’s monologue seemed to have exhausted itself. He went back to finish his cold coffee and Danish before setting off for the motel.
    The March sun poured down on the ferry dock as the
M/V Uncatena
edged gently away from Vineyard Haven. Inspector John Sanders, Metropolitan Toronto Police Department, Homicide, and Harriet Jeffries, freelance architectural photographer, were up on deck, leaning companionably against the rail, staring down into the water. They were almost alone. Most of the people crossing were islanders, year-round residents of Martha’s Vineyard, and for them the off-island trip was routine enough to make them consider hot coffee and a warm, comfortable seat inside more important than looking at late-winter scenery.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Harriet, yawning and pulling her coat more tightly around her.
    â€œThe parking lot?” asked John, pointing to the broad expanse of asphalt where cars lined up to get on the ferry.
    â€œNo, you benighted idiot—the island. Now. In March. With lots of cold wind and no tourists. Except for us, of course.” She turned to look at him. “Do you suppose that the locals saw us and groaned—here comes the tourist season all over again?”
    â€œMaybe they took us for a sign of spring—like robins.” He wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders. “After all, the