Fever Dream

"What's your strongest memory of her?"

Maurice thought a moment. "Bringing her pots of rose hip tea."

Now it was Pendergast's turn to smile. "Yes, that was her favorite. It seemed she could never get enough. The library always smelled of rose hips." He sniffed the air. Now the room smelled only of dust, damp, and sherry. "I fear I was away from home rather more frequently than was good. I often wonder what Helen did for amusement in this drafty old house while I was out of town."

"She sometimes went on trips for her own work, sir. But she spent a lot of time right in here," Maurice said. "She used to miss you so."

"Indeed? She always put on such a brave face."

"I used to come across her in here all the time in your absences," Maurice said. "Looking at the birds."

Pendergast paused. "The birds?"

"You know, sir. Your brother's old favorite, back before... before the bad times started. The great book with all the bird prints in that drawer there." He nodded toward a drawer in the base of an old chestnut armoire.

Pendergast frowned. "The Audubon double elephant folio?"

"That's the one. I'd bring her tea and she wouldn't even notice I was here. She'd sit turning the pages for hours."

Pendergast put down his glass rather abruptly. "Did she ever talk to you about this interest in Audubon? Ask you questions, perhaps?"

"Now and then, sir. She was fascinated with great-great-grandfather's friendship with Audubon. It was nice to see her taking such an interest in the family."

"Grandfather Boethius?"

"That's the one."

"When was this, Maurice?" Pendergast asked after a moment.

"Oh, shortly after you were married, sir. She wanted to see his papers."

Pendergast allowed himself a contemplative sip. "Papers? Which ones?"

"The ones in there, in the drawer below the prints. She was always going through those old documents and diaries. Those, and the book."

"Did she ever say why?"

"I expect she admired those pictures. Those are some lovely birds, Mr. Pendergast." Maurice took another sip of his sherry. "Say--wasn't that where you first met her? At the Audubon Cottage on Dauphine Street?"

"Yes. At a show of Audubon prints. But she exhibited little interest in them at the time. She told me she'd only come for the free wine and cheese."

"You know women, sir. They like their little secrets."

"So it would seem," Pendergast replied, very quietly.

15

Rockland, Maine

UNDER ORDINARY CONDITIONS, THE SALTY DOG Tavern would have been just the kind of bar Vincent D'Agosta liked: honest, unassuming, working class, and cheap. But these were not ordinary conditions. He had flown or driven among four cities in as many days; he missed Laura Hayward; and he was tired, bone-tired. Maine in February was not exactly charming. The last thing he felt like doing at the moment was hoisting beers with a bunch of fishermen.

But he was becoming a little desperate. Rockland had turned out to be a dead end. The old Esterhazy house had changed hands numerous times since the family moved out twenty years ago. Of all the neighbors, only one old spinster seemed to remember the family--and she had shut the door in his face. Newspapers in the public library had no mention of the Esterhazys, and the public records office held nothing pertinent but tax rolls. So much for small-town gossip and nosiness.

And so D'Agosta found himself resorting to the Salty Dog Tavern, a waterfront dive where--he was informed--the oldest of the old salts hung out. It proved to be a shabby shingled building tucked between two warehouses on the landward end of the commercial fishing wharf. A squall was fast approaching, a few preliminary flakes of snow whirling in from the sea, the wind lashing up spume from the ocean and sending abandoned newspapers tumbling across the rocky strand. Why the hell am I here, anyway? he wondered. But he knew the reason--Pendergast had explained it himself. I'm afraid you'll have to go, he'd said. I'm too close to the subject. I lack the requisite investigative distance and objectivity.

Inside the bar it was dark, and the close air smelled of deep-fried fish and stale beer. As D'Agosta's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the bar's denizens--a bartender and four patrons in peacoats and sou'westers--had stopped talking and were staring at him. Clearly, this was an establishment that catered to regulars. At least it was warm, heat radiating from a woodstove in the middle of the room.

Taking a seat at the far end of the bar, he nodded to the bartender and asked for a Bud. He made himself inconspicuous, and the conversation gradually resumed. From it, he quickly learned that the four patrons were all fishermen; that the fishing was currently bad; that the fishing was, in fact, always bad.

He took in the bar as he sipped his beer. The decor was, unsurprisingly, early nautical: shark jaws, huge lobster claws, and photos of fishing boats covered the walls, and nets with colored glass balls hung from the ceiling. A heavy patina of age, smoke, and grime coated every surface.

He downed one beer, then a second, before deciding it was time to make his move. "Mike," he said--using the bartender's Christian name, which he had earlier gleaned from listening to the conversation--"let me buy a round for the house. Have one yourself, while you're at it."

Mike stared at him a moment, then with a gruff word of thanks he complied. There were nods and grunts from the patrons as the drinks were handed out.

D'Agosta took a big swig of his beer. It was important, he knew, to seem like a regular guy--and in the Salty Dog, that meant not being a piker when it came to drinking. He cleared his throat. "I was wondering," he said out loud, "if maybe some of you men could help me."

The stares returned, some curious, some suspicious. "Help you with what?" said a grizzled man the others had referred to as Hector.

"There's a family used to live around here. Name of Esterhazy. I'm trying to track them down."

"What's your name, mister?" asked a fisherman called Ned. He was about five feet tall, with a wind-and sun-wizened face and forearms thick as telephone poles.

"Martinelli."

"You a cop?" Ned asked, frowning.

D'Agosta shook his head. "Private investigator. It's about a bequest."

"Bequest?"

"Quite a lot of money. I've been hired by the trustees to locate any surviving Esterhazys. If I can't find them, I can't give them their inheritance, can I?"

The bar was silent a minute while the regulars digested this. More than one pair of eyes brightened at the talk of money.

"Mike, another round, please." D'Agosta took a generous swig from the foamy mug. "The trustees have also authorized a small honorarium for those who help locate any surviving family members."

D'Agosta watched as the fishermen glanced at one another, then back at him. "So," he said, "can anybody here tell me anything?"

"Aren't no Esterhazys in this town anymore," said Ned.

"Aren't no Esterhazys in this entire part of the world anymore," said Hector. "There wouldn't be any--not after what happened."

"What was that?" D'Agosta asked, trying not to show too much interest.