The Cove

Quinlan said, “Maybe the calvary will arrive before St. John and your aunt get their wits back together and can get away. But even if they do escape, we’ll get them sooner or later.”

To Quinlan’s surprise, they were herded up the wide, beautifully painted white steps and into Thelma’s Bed and Breakfast. He guessed he had thought they’d be taken to the Vorheeses’ house.

“I’ll be damned,” Quinlan said as he got a poke with a rifle, shoving him into the large drawing room. There was Thelma Nettro, sitting on that chair of hers that looked for all the world like a throne. She was smiling at them. She was wearing a full mouth of false teeth and her pumpkin peach lipstick.

She said, “I wanted to join in the fun, but I just don’t get around as well as I used to.”

There was Purn Davies sitting on one of the sofas, looking white and shriveled. Good, Corey had whacked him hard.

“Why are we here?” Quinlan asked, turning to Reverend Hal Vorhees.

“You’re here because I wanted you here. Because I ordered my people to bring you to me. Because, Mr. Quinlan, I’m going to tell you all what we’re going to do with you.”

They all stared at Martha as she moved from behind Thelma Nettro’s chair. There was nothing soft and bosomy about her now. There were no pearls around her neck. Her voice was loud and clear, a commander’s voice, not her gentle cook’s voice announcing an incredible meal. Jesus, Quinlan thought, what was going on here?

“Martha?” Sally said, bewildered. “Oh, no, not you too, Martha?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“I don’t understand,” Sally said. “You’re a wonderful cook, Martha. You go out with poor Ed. You take grief from Thelma. You’re nice, damn you. What’s going on?”

Quinlan said slowly, “I knew there had to be a ringleader, one person with a vision, one person who could get all the others to fall in line. Aren’t I right, Martha?”

“Exactly right, Mr. Quinlan.”

“Why didn’t you just let them elect you mayor?” Sally said. “Why murder innocent people?”

“I’ll let that go, Sally,” Martha said. “Oh, poor Mr. Shredder. You, Corey, set him down in that chair. Too bad Doc Spiver fell sick of cowardice and remorse. He drew the straw and had to kill that woman who’d overheard a meeting we were having. We caught her on the phone, dialing 911. Poor bitch. She was different. We didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t like those tourists who came into town for the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. No, we wouldn’t ever have picked her. She was too young; she had children. But then, we didn’t know what to do with her either. We couldn’t very well let her go.

“When she got loose that first night and screamed her head off—you heard her, Sally, Amabel told us the next day—we put a guard on her. But then two nights later she got loose again, and that time Amabel was forced to call Hal Vorhees over, because of you, Sally. There was no choice. Since it was Doc’s fault that she got loose, since he’d been her guard, we all decided that she had to die. There was simply no other choice. We were sorry about it, but it had to be done, and Doc Spiver had to kill her. He just couldn’t stomach it. He was going to call Sheriff Mountebank.” She shrugged.

“Fair is fair. Yes, we’ve always been scrupulously fair. Helen Keaton drew the straw. She put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. If it hadn’t been for that sheriff and that medical examiner down in Portland, it would have been declared an accident. Yes, that was a pity. Amazingly unfair.”

It was remarkable, Quinlan was thinking, that every criminal he’d ever known had loved to talk, to brag about how great he was, how he was smarter than everyone else. Even a little old lady.

“Yeah,” he said, “a real pity.”

Martha was fiddling with her glasses, since she wasn’t wearing her pearls, but her voice was calm and assured. “You don’t appreciate what we’ve done, Mr. Quinlan. We turned a squalid little ghost town into a picture postcard village. Everything is so pristine. Everything is so beautifully planned. We leave nothing to chance. We discuss everything. We even have a gardening service for those who don’t enjoy tending flowers. We have a painting service that comes in every week. Of course, we also have a chairperson for each service. We are an intelligent, loyal, industrious group of older citizens. Each of us has a responsibility, each has an assignment.”

“Who selects the victims?” Corey asked. She was standing beside Thomas, her hand on his shoulder. He was still conscious, but his face was white as death. She’d wrapped a hand-crocheted afghan around him. It looked as if a grandmother had spent hours putting those soft pastel squares together.