Rough Weather: A Spenser Novel

to let it show, and I was always fascinated at the thoughtful solutions to that problem that she came up with. However, her location, in the heart of Cambridge, gave her a huge market for her skills, and in the fall, when Harvard was cranked up to its maximum silliness, Susan had very little free time.
    The Tashtego patrol had obviously been augmented since thewedding. There was a security search on the dock in New Bedford before we went on the launch.
    “Can’t go aboard with a weapon,” the security guy said. “We’ll hold it here for you.”
    I didn’t argue. Gun hadn’t done a hell of a lot for me last time.
    There were guards with shotguns on the launch. On the island, one man in each Jeep carried his shotgun on his lap. No antebellum carriage ride for me this time. I got in the front seat of one of the Jeeps. The guy with the shotgun sat behind me in the backseat.
    “There’s cocktails in the atrium,” Maggie Lane said when I presented myself at the door. “Heidi has asked that you join us.”
    Heidi was, apparently, not in seclusion. Maggie led me briskly down the hall. I hated briskly. When I wasn’t rushed, I liked to saunter. She paused at the atrium door to wait for me. She didn’t say anything, and her face didn’t show anything. But her shoulders looked impatient. I could hear the sound of a stringed instrument and the low sound of elegant conversation.
    “Before I plunge into the social whirl,” I said, “how did you happen to get this job with Heidi?”
    “We both went to Lydia Hall College,” Maggie said. “Though we weren’t there at the same time. But when Heidi was looking for an assistant she called the placement office, and they sent meout, and we …” Maggie spread her hands to imply that the rest was history.
    “You know when she graduated?” I said.
    “Oh, before my time. Nineteen eighty, maybe.”
    “What was her maiden name?” I said.
    Maggie looked slightly startled.
    “Maiden name? Before she got married?” Maggie said. “Hell, I don’t know. When she hired me her name was Heidi Van Meer.”
    “First husband?” I said.
    “Second, I believe.”
    “And Bradshaw?”
    “Current husband,” Maggie said. “Estranged.”
    Maggie opened the door and stepped aside, and I went in past her. The room was amazing. It was all glass, including the domed roof, and in all directions it offered a view of the Atlantic Ocean stretching empty into the distance, hinting of eternity. The men wore blazers in various tones of blue and brown, green and gray, striped and solid. Most of them wore white or pale tan slacks. The women were in little cocktail dresses, some black, some flowered, all showing a lot of suntanned arms, backs, shoulders, and chests. A woman in a long, roomy white dress was in an alcove against the wall of the main house, playing a large harp and using a lot of wrist flourish to do it. She had a flower in her hair.
    There was a bar near the harpist, and a bartender in a white jacket and a black bow tie. There were two cocktail waitressesdressed in the short-skirted black dress, white apron getup that had been the staple of dirty French-maid postcards in my early youth. At the far window, with her hair piled high, and the sun shimmering on her jewelry, wearing a very minimal white cocktail dress and very high heels, Heidi Bradshaw was talking to a man with shoulder-length blond hair who looked like he might be the lead dancer for the Chippendales. He was stuffed into a wheat-colored unstructured linen jacket over a maroon polo shirt with the collar turned up. They were sipping something that from where I stood looked like mojitos.
    Heidi saw me and waved and gestured me over. I went.
    “Here you are,” she said, and gave me a small air kiss near my cheek. “This is Clark.”
    I said, “Hello, Clark.”
    He nodded. Probably too muscular to speak.
    “Clark’s looking out for me,” Heidi said.
    “That’s nice,” I said.
    One of the French maids came by with a tray.
    “Mojito, sir?” she said.
    “No, thank you,” I said.
    “Oh, don’t be a poop,” Heidi said. “Have a drink.”
    “I don’t care much for mojitos,” I said.
    Clark looked like he wanted to smack me for not liking mojitos. But he contained it.
    “Bring Mr. Spenser something he likes,” Heidi said to the waitress.
    The waitress looked at me.
    “Beer would be swell,” I said.
    “Yes, sir,” she said, and she walked away toward the bar. I watched her. She did a nice