Anything Goes

oatmeal without scorching it and do a hem without the stitches showing, you’ll never lack for an occupation in bad times,’ my granny used to say.”
    Lily feared Robert might go into gales of laughter over the image of Mrs. Prinney ever being a mere slip of a girl and gave him a gentle kick and a warning look.
    Robert’s incipient laugh turned to a yelp.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I kick you?“ Lily said innocently.
    When Mrs. Prinney finally departed, Lily wasted no time. “Do you have the articles with you?”
    Jack handed over his handwritten transcripts to her because Robert had bent down and disappeared under the table to examine his injured leg.
    Lily read through the lead story. Then read through it again more slowly. “Claude Cooke was on the boat? Claude Cooke!”
    There was a thump as Robert banged his head try ing to get out from under the table. “Cousin Claude!”
    Lily didn’t want to discuss Claude in front of Jack Summer and gave Robert a quick, fierce look warning him. “Do you know any of these people?“ she asked Jack. “Besides Mr. Prinney and your editor?“
    “Only Major Winslow, your next-door neighbor, by sight. Is this Cooke person a relation of yours?”
    “Cousin,“ Lily said. “And I don’t know if it’s the same person. Cooke is such a common name. I know about Major Winslow. I must go over and call on Sissy. What do you know about him? Her father?“ Jack shrugged. Did she think he moved in circles that included the Winslows?
    “Not much,“ he said. “I’ve seen him in town, taking the train to New York. I hear they used to socialize a lot. Not with folks around here, though. With the high-society crowd. Had some prince or princess up for a big to-do a couple years ago, I heard. The whole town turned out to meet the train and gawk.”
    Robert had taken the first pages from Lily and asked, “What about this Fred Eggers?“
    “Never heard of him before,“ Jack admitted. “Nor the fella from New York. Winningham, was it?”
    “And these were the only people on the boat?“ Robert asked.
    “Yeah, plus Billy Smith and—“
    “Billy Smith!“ Lily yelped.
    Robert looked at her. “Have you gone mad? Who is this Billy Smith that you screech his name that way?“
    “The nasty little man who was in the kitchen; I told you about him. He’s Mimi’s husband—in a way.“
    “Billy is a nasty item,“ Jack said. “A real river rat. But he knows about everything there is to know about getting around on the water. Folks around here call him ‘Waterbug’—that is, when they’re not calling him something a lot worse. I’ll bet he could take a steamboat against the incoming tide with bottles of hootch all over the deck and never lose a drop.“
    “Was that what he was doing on board? Working?“ Lily asked.
    Robert rolled his eyes. “You don’t suppose Uncle Horatio had invited him along as a guest, do you? What do you mean about the hootch, Jack? Is he a rumrunner?“
    “Oh, sure. Everybody knows it. But he’s so slick about it that he’s never been caught. Last spring a bunch of G-men were up here keeping an eye on him and they couldn’t even keep track of him. Of course, everybody knew what they were. Pretending to be traveling salesmen staying at the hotel and bulging with guns.“
    “So if he’s so good with boats, how come the yacht sank?“ Lily asked.
    “It was a whale of a storm, Miss Brewster. A real freak. And, too, Billy was working for your uncle. If Brewster told him to pull closer to the island, Billy’d of done what he was told. Horatio Brewster was about the only person he seemed to listen to. Talked awful about him, but was afraid to cross him in person.”
    Lily and Robert were looking at him doubtfully.
    “Really,“ he protested. “Mr. Kessler told me the rain was coming at them horizontally and so heavily you couldn’t see more than a few feet. And the boat was rocking and bucking. Even Billy Smith couldn’t do anything about that. And he certainly wasn’t responsible for the weather turning that way.“
    “But couldn’t he have taken advantage of it?“ Robert asked.
    Jack stared at Robert for a long moment and said, “Yeah, he could have.“
    “There doesn’t seem to be any mention of murder in this article,“ Robert said. “Where did they find Uncle Horatio’s body? How does anybody know he’s really dead? Maybe he got washed downriver and is even now in some poor widow’s hovel with amnesia. I can see it,“