In the quiet caused by Sheri Lynn, most of the customers went back to their breakfasts and their own conversations. The man a few stools down was still looking at Gregor, but he didn’t seem hostile anymore, just curious. Gregor didn’t think there would be anything wrong with satisfying his curiosity. It might even help him get the information he needed. Then a woman of indeterminate age got out of her seat at one of the window booths and sat down on the stool next to him.
“Are you the Gregor Demarkian who is the detective?” Her voice had just a trace of New York flat in it.
“That’s right,” Gregor told her. “Who are you?”
“My name is Maggie Kelleher. I own the bookstore.”
Suddenly, Gregor knew who this woman reminded him of. She didn’t look anything like Bennis Hannaford, but she was like her nonetheless. There was something about the way she carried herself, and the calm but challenging look in her eyes—as if she spent her time demanding something of the universe that the universe didn’t want to give back.
Ricky Drake stirred in his booth. He was heavier than he looked at first glance, and sullen. “Maggie used to be one of us,” he said, “but then she went to New York.”
Maggie Kelleher didn’t turn around to look at him. “I’ve read about you,” she said to Gregor. “I’ve read a lot about you. Have you come down here to help the police make it look like Ginny Marsh killed her own child?”
“I take it you don’t think Ginny Marsh did kill her own child,” Gregor said.
Maggie gave him a long, slow look. Then she hopped off her stool and went back to her booth. Gregor thought she had abandoned him entirely, but in a moment she was back, with a full cup of hot coffee in her hands. She put it down on the counter next to him.
“I was up there on the day of the storm, you know,” she said. “Up at the camp.”
“And?”
Maggie Kelleher shrugged. She had very elegant, very expressive shoulders. She also had very intelligent eyes. “Half the town was up there, if you want to know the truth. Stephen and Lisa Harrow from the United Church of Christ. He’s the minister there.”
“He’s a bigger atheist than David Sandler these days,” the man a few stools down said. “Nobody knows what Stephen’s up to being a member of the clergy these days,”
“There were a lot of people,” Maggie went on. “Rose MacNeill who owns the religious gift shop. In the big Victorian house. You might have seen it on your way here.”
“I did.”
“I keep trying to remember everybody who was up there, but I can’t. It was the middle of the storm and everything was crazy. And of course, that’s the highest ground in town.”
“David Sandler said something about the high school.”
Maggie Kelleher nodded. “That was the official refuge, of course, but it was safer up at the camp and we all knew it. And Zhondra had made it clear enough that she didn’t mind company for the duration as long as the company behaved itself.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning no acting like Ricky back there would act if he got around someone who was gay. It was all right. The people who felt like that didn’t come up anyway. They went to the high school or out to Henry Holborn’s place.”
Gregor frowned. “Henry Holborn. He’s a—what? Minister?”
“Something like that,” Maggie replied. “I don’t know what you know about places like this, Mr. Demarkian, but there are a lot of guys out here, they didn’t go to the seminary or get ordained in a regular religion the way Catholics and Presbyterians do. They went to Bible college—there are hundreds of Bible college all across the South—anyway, they went to Bible college and then they came home and started preaching. And if they got enough people to come listen to them, that got them the money to found and build a church. Henry Holborn is one of those. His place is called the Bellerton Full Gospel Christian Church, and it’s enormous.”
“Henry Holborn is a good man,” Ricky Drake declared. “He’s a messenger from God.”
“I don’t know if Henry Holborn is a messenger from God,” Maggie said, “but he is a very successful preacher, the most successful one we’ve had around here for years, and the complex he built is far enough from the water to be safe from most hurricane problems. So there were a lot of people out there. All the members of his church who could get there, for one. Except Ginny Marsh, who was out at the camp. Bobby was there, though.”
“Who’s Bobby?”