4

Freshly showered and shaved the next morning, Cotton left his room and went down to the hotel bistro. Contrary to yesterday afternoon, now there were other people around. Decker was among the guests. She was perfectly attired and her make-up was flawless— as usual. A slight hint of perfume surrounded her. On the table before her, there was a glass of orange juice, a plate with a bagel on it, and a variety of different jams.

Cotton went over to the buffet and got himself a coffee and a plate of croissants. He sat down at Decker’s table, and they began to discuss the day’s agenda.

“We should split up so that we can work faster and finish before the snowstorm gets here,” Decker suggested.“You question the people on the western side of the island, and I’ll head east and try my luck there. We’ll call each other if we find out anything important. Otherwise, we’ll meet at the car at seventeen hundred hours and return to the hotel.”

“Shall we give the sheriff a friendly visit?”

“What for? He got his instructions from me yesterday; he doesn’t need to know anything more than that. Let him eat his donuts in peace with his buddies in the sheriff’s department.”

They left the hotel after breakfast. An icy wind greeted them on their way to the parking garage, stinging their faces. Dense clouds hung over the island, sending down sleet mercilessly.

There is only one town on Chappaquiddick, and houses are scattered sparsely across the island. To get into town, the agents drove across the bridge and continued on to the center of the island. When they arrived, they parked the car and went on foot from there. It was very cold, but at least it had stopped sleeting.

Chappaquiddick turned out to be a small, sleepy hamlet, but it still made a good impression. Large pompous Victorian villas intermingled with the dainty façades of smaller houses. The cold air had covered the roofs and streets with a layer of frost.

The two agents went their separate ways. Cotton headed west, walking towards the first of the nearby houses. He soon learned that the locals were more open than he had dared to hope.

Mrs. Cooper, a chubby, elderly lady who owned an average-sized, well-kept house, turned out to be an almost inexhaustible source of information concerning the people of Chappaquiddick. But her focus was mostly gossip, which Cotton had little use for. He was getting ready to leave when a shadow seemed to cross the face of the otherwise friendly woman.

“What’s happening over at the beach, that’s a real bad thing,” she told him, lowering her voice.“Don’t you agree?”

Cotton simply stood there, not knowing how to respond.

“Can you imagine how scared people are now?” the woman said in a conspiratorial tone.“The murderer could be anyone, isn’t that right? And they haven’t even figured out whether he’s from here or not, I heard. I think that instead of worrying about ourselves, we should worry about the tourists next summer. Who wants to spend their vacation on an island where they might be murdered?”

Worried, Cotton left the house. How Mrs. Cooper had found out about the murders didn’t concern hi