Elwood watched Ray's arrival with mild interest and remained in his office, letting the receptionist bring Ray the ten feet from her desk to his door.

"Mr. Simmons to see you, sir."

"Appointment?" Elwood sniffed. His eyes traveled up and down Ray as if assessing value.

"No sir, he—"

"I want to talk to you about O'Hare's cottage." Ray butted in.

Elwood puffed his cheeks and frowned. The intrusion was unwelcome but the topic was one he suddenly felt obliged to hear. "Come in. Take a seat." Not a thank you to the woman. Not a welcome to him. Business must be plentiful in Thompson Bay. Ray entered and sat.

"You said something about the O'Hare's cottage?"

"Yes, I'm following up an investigation into the death of the young university student on their property. Adelaide Balfour?"

Elwood threw up his hands. "I know her name. This is a small town, Mr. Simmons. We don't have that kind of criminal activity so often that we forget names."

Pompous prick, Ray thought. "Right. So, I understand you handled the payment for the lease."

"Where did you get that information?"

"From Mrs. O'Hare. So you did handle the transaction?"

"Yes-s-s." Cautious. Uncertain.

"Could you tell me what form that took. Was it cheque? Cash? Credit card?"

"It is not the policy of this bank to discuss our client's personal business."

"I'm not asking an amount, just a method."

"Why would you need that?"

"I don't know if I do. I told you, I'm just following up on the investigation."

"Is this official? Are you an officer of the court or something?"

"Or something." Ray was beginning to itch over the man's attitude. "Is there some reason you don't want to tell me?"

"As I mentioned, Mr. Simmons, the bank's policy—"

"According to the provincial police report, and Mrs. O'Hare, a cheque deposit for two hundred was paid directly to the O'Hares account. Mr. Oliver Atturra stated that he paid a balance of twelve hundred dollars to this bank in cash the day after the killing."

Elwood cinched his lips. "If you already knew why did you ask?" A thin line of dampness appeared over his lip.

"Because Mrs. O'Hare told me the total rent was to be nine hundred. There seems to be a five hundred dollar discrepancy."

Elwood's face lit up in shades of pink and his eyes began a furtive dance around his desk. "There uh- there was an additional charge for cleaning up the beach, they made a terrible mess."

"Who did the clean up?"

"Huh?"

"The five hundred. Who got that for cleaning up?"

Elwood's face turned rosier and his finger poked between his neck and his collar. "I am not discussing the personal financial affairs—"

"That's fine, I can check back with Mr. O'Hare." Ray looked down at his notes but he could feel the heat from the banker. "What would interest me the most, Mr. Peters, is why eleven students were allowed to stay in a cottage rented, according to this statement by the lessee, for two couples?"

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about?"

"Well you had a copy of the lease from the O'Hares, did they say there was going to be a whole gang staying there?"

"Stel- Mrs. O'Hare simply asked me to collect the balance when they left and to put it in her husband's account. I uh- I didn't read the lease."

"So she told you the amount to collect." Elwood saw the hole he was digging and he clammed up, putting his shovel away and refusing any further questions. "Okay, Mr. Peters, thanks for your time, I'll get out of your hair... for now." Ray smiled and departed, leaving Elwood swallowing hard.

What little sun that made an appearance during the day had checked out and a pale grey sky sat, awaiting the eventual darkness. The air was damp. It smelled damp and sent a chill deep into the bones. Ray walked, head bent, back through town to the hotel. The things he'd learned were suspicious and interesting but did nothing to advance his goal; gossip and petty chiseling wasn't going to uncover a killer, at least he couldn't see how just yet anyway.

He caught a sign out of the corner of his eye just off the main street and chose to give its promise a try, after all, the Best Food in Cottage Country was a challenge to the testimonial he'd given Ada. He found a table for two near the rear and settled in to kill some of the time before his date with Irene later that night.

The coffee was passable and the slice of pie was fine although Ray felt a twinge for cottage country if this was the best. The owner made up the difference though. He was a thick shouldered, bandy-legged Italian with a fringe of black hair spurting from under his baseball hat. His manner and humour were worth the visit and, since the best food in cottage country didn't attract many customers this night, Ray learned a few more tidbits about some of Thompson Bay's more eccentric residents.

Dwight Nickleby, the town clerk, for example, was a sixty-two year old, hay-haired, Caribbean-tanned, water ski addict who loved to perform stunts for the summer tourists. His last attempt deprived him of the use of one arm and two legs for an entire season after jumping a raft and landing on an unsuspecting couple in a paddleboat.

Ray enjoyed the tales and his early evening passed quickly with un-requested refills of coffee and finally the cheque. He thanked the owner, promised to come back and then headed back to his room to kill the remaining time.

******

Captain Howard Smithy tipped his glass up and let the dregs of his drink trickle onto his tongue. He licked his lips and set the glass down, appraising his visitor. A swatch of graying hair fell over his forehead something akin to Hitler's style but the cramped face ended any further resemblance. The brows were grey and skimpy, sitting in an almost apologetic state over sad brown eyes and the pug nose accentuated the thin line of his lips. He re-crossed his short legs losing one of the worn slippers in the process.

"I hope this isn't a way for you to open up a huge can of worms to print in your paper, Duffy." Smithy grunted forward and retrieved the wayward slipper.

"I won't lie, Howard, if a story emerges from this you can bet I'll print it. He's got some interesting perspectives we missed... well, everybody missed. This fella is trying to get some closure, as they say. I don't hold out a lotta hope but I'd like to see him go back home convinced that at least the folks here tried to ease his pain somewhat."

"Oh please, Duffy, I'm wearing slippers. It's getting dangerously deep in here." Smithy gave his empty glass a longing look then laced his fingers across his stomach. "You're sure this isn't just some nosey thrill seeker." His frown resembled that of a stern schoolmaster.

"Positive. He's done a ton of homework with the provincials and quite thoroughly too."

"I'll get it myself and you can pick it up here tomorrow night. He can look at with you, Duffy. He can't have it alone. Clear?"

"Crystal, and thanks Howard. I'll see you get it back next day."

"Here, not at the station."

"Got it." Duffy shook his friend's hand and found his own way out the door.

******

Ray waited outside the hotel for Irene. He knew he wanted to ask her questions about the town and some of the people but it was more than that. Something about her struck a chord and he had to ask himself if he was just using his curiosity as an excuse to spend more time with her. When she came out at last he asked if she wanted to drive to someplace away from work or did she care if she was seen with a guest after hours.

He didn't want her to be embarrassed at having to explain anything to Ada. Irene shrugged and said she couldn't care less and suggested a little café a few blocks away near the library.

"Is it still open?"

"All night. Reg, the owner is an insomniac so he just keeps working."

"Are you alright? Seems like a bulb's burned out or something."

She looked at him and then into the black night sky. "Just stuff on my mind." Flat. Sad.

"Look, I don't want to be a bother. This is something I can ask another time."

"It's okay. Maybe it'll push some of that stuff to the back for a while."

The rest of the walk was taken mostly in silence, each aware of the other's proximity and the awkwardness of the situation.

The library was an attempt at modern architecture that clashed with just about ever surrounding building including the narrow shop that Irene pointed to as their destination. Two, cast concrete columns supported a curved, laminated wood arch over the coloured glass doors giving the entrance to the otherwise, stone and glass structure, the appearance of some artisan's end of day amusement. In eye jolting contrast, the coffee shop was a tipsy looking clapboard structure with curling shingles and peeling paint.

They pushed through the door under the clang of a cowbell and were greeted immediately by a man in a grubby apron—Reg. Reg looked like he needed sleep. The rings and bags under his eyes portrayed an image of a defeated boxer on an extended losing streak. He hugged Irene pointed to a table and set two coffees in front of them without asking.

"Nibbles?"

"No thanks, Reg." Irene pointed to her cup. "Just this is fine." She stirred some sugar into her drink and took a sip, sighing and slouching back in the chair.

"You really are tired, I don't think this was a good idea." Ray pried open a creamer and poured half into his cup.

"Despondent would be more accurate... and the idea was fine. Don't be bothered about it."

"Something go wrong at the hotel?"

"No- and you didn't ask me out for coffee to hear about my day."

"I don't mind though if it would help." She shook her head. "But you're right. I ah- I wanted to pick your brain a bit."

"What about, because it's a little sore at the moment." She managed a fleeting smile.

Ray toyed with his spoon and then hunched forward, forearms on the table. "Okay then, but I think I should start with a little bit about me."