Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(11)

“I think it’s sort of an experiment.”

“I’ll have that, if you please. Make sure the water you bring with it is fresh springwater, not tap, and absolutely ice cold but without ice, along with a few sugar cubes. If you could manage a slotted spoon and a reservoir glass, that would be most appreciated.”

“A reservoir glass.” The waitress scribbled everything down. “I’ll do my best.”

“Shall we order dinner?” Lake asked. “The fried clams are a specialty.”

Pendergast shot another glance at the chalkboard. “Perhaps later.”

“A pint of the Riptide IPA for me, please.”

The waitress went away and Lake turned to Pendergast. “Striking-looking girl. She’s new.”

He could see Pendergast had so little interest he didn’t appear to have heard.

Lake cleared his throat. “I hear you got yourself arrested today. It’s all over town, of course. You’ve made quite a splash.”

“Indeed.”

“I guess you had your reasons.”

“Naturally.”

The young waitress returned with their drinks, setting everything in front of Pendergast: glass; spoon—not slotted; a dish of sugar cubes; a small glass pitcher of water; and the absinthe in a tall glass. “I hope this is okay,” she said.

“A credible effort,” said Pendergast. “Thank you.”

“Looks like you’re about to conduct a chemistry experiment,” said Lake as Pendergast carefully arranged everything.

“There is in fact some chemistry involved,” Pendergast said, placing a sugar cube in the spoon, balancing it over the absinthe glass, and carefully dribbling the water over it.

Lake watched the green liquid turn cloudy. The scent of anise drifted across the small table and he shuddered.

“There are certain oil-based herbal extracts in absinthe that dissolve in alcohol but have poor solubility with water,” Pendergast explained. “They come out of solution when you add the water, creating the opalescence, or louche.”

“I’d try it if I didn’t hate licorice. Isn’t wormwood supposed to cause brain damage?”

“The act of living causes brain damage.”

Lake laughed and raised his glass. “In that case: to Exmouth and the mystery of the walled-up skeleton.”

They clinked glasses. Pendergast sipped from his and set it down. “I’ve noticed a somewhat cavalier attitude in you,” he said.

“How so?”

“You’ve just lost a very valuable wine collection. Usually, burglaries leave people feeling unsettled, violated. Yet you appear to be in good spirits.”

“And with you on the case, why not?” Lake sipped his beer. “I take life pretty easily, I guess. I learned to do that, growing up.”

“And where did you grow up?”

“Outpost, Minnesota. Quite a name, isn’t it? Just twenty miles south of International Falls. Population, one hundred and twenty. The winters were right out of Kafka. To cope, you either drank, went crazy, or learned to take life as it comes.” Lake chuckled. “Most of us chose the last option.” He took another sip of beer. “Had a quarry just outside of town. That’s how I got into working with stone. Plenty of time on my hands between November and April.”

“And then?”

“Well, there I was—a Midwestern farm boy, gone to New York to make it in the art world. It was in the early ’80s and my work somehow struck a chord. What’s old is new again, that was the idea. What a crazy place. As I became more successful, it went to my head—the money, the fame, the parties, the whole god-awful, pretentious, downtown-art-gallery world.” He shook his head. “Like everyone else, I got into cocaine. I finally woke up. I realized if I didn’t do something, get out of that environment, I’d lose my muse entirely.”

“How did you pick this place?”

“I’d met this great gal, and she was as sick of New York as I was. She’d spent summers in Newburyport as a child. We bought the lighthouse, restored it, and the rest is history. We had a good run, Elise and me. God, I loved her. Miss her every day.”

“How did she die?”

Lake was a bit startled by the directness of the question and the use of the word die, when everyone else employed such euphemisms as “passed.” “Pancreatic cancer. She was diagnosed, and three months later she was gone.”

“You never get bored here?”

“If you’re serious about being an artist, you need to work in a quiet place. You’ve got to retreat from the world, away from the bullshit, the curators, the critics, the trends. And on a practical level, I also needed space. I do big pieces. And I mentioned the wonderful source of pink granite just up the coast. I can go to the quarry and pick out my stone, and they custom-cut it and deliver. Luscious stuff.”

“I’m somewhat familiar with your work,” said Pendergast. “You’re not afraid to avoid the trendy or the ephemeral. And you have an excellent feeling for the stone.”

Lake found himself blushing. He sensed this man rarely, if ever, gave out praise.

“And your new friend, Ms. Hinterwasser? How did you meet her?”

This was becoming a little too direct. “After Elise died, I took a cruise. I met her there. She’d recently divorced.”