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problem?’ And that’d set him off.”
    â€œWould his mother remember the particular row? Was she there?”
    He thought about it for longer than seemed necessary. He took off his sunglasses and when he looked at me his eyes seemed troubled.
    â€œI think that was it,” he said. “The row was sparked off by something he said to his mother. He was just down in Northbridge for the night, stayed up here mostly … no, I can’t get it back. But something like that. You’ll have to ask Pat.”
    â€œWould that upset her?”
    â€œShe’s upset already. She’ll take some more if she must—to get somewhere.”
    He’d done enough talking. He scattered the crumbs on the water and went back to work. The anchor came up and he headed back to the marina. We swayed a bit as we crossed a bigger boat’s wake, but the engines had a beautiful easy sound, and the
Satisfaction
cruised smoothly.
    â€œGood motors,” I said.
    â€œServiced by Ray. Exclusively.”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about your wife’s first husband?”
    Nothing happened; no sudden stiffening, no sweating, noknuckle-whitening. “Not much. Pat didn’t talk much about him at all. Divorced way back. He’s dead now, I think.”
    â€œHave they got his name or yours?”
    â€œMine.”
    He was concentrating now, moving between the fairly tightly packed boats toward his mooring. I looked ahead and saw a tall figure standing by the pylons; she had a rope in her hands and was tugging at it nervously. Guthrie followed my gaze.
    â€œThis’ll give you another idea of what Ray’s like,” he said. “That’s his girl, Jess. You never met a nicer kid.”
    She was the young woman who’d been sitting on the wall, smiling into the lens. But now she was standing stiffly, she looked older, and she wasn’t smiling anymore.

4
    The deft, unhurried movements she used to help Guthrie tie up the boat seemed to be second nature to her. She was tall and athletic; the short hair, shirt, and jeans gave her a practical look and made no concessions to the usual ideas of femininity, but she was as female as you’d want—which is better. She had Paul Guthrie’s full approval, apparent in every movement he made. He nipped up the ladder, hugged her and made the introductions enthusiastically.
    â€œCliff Hardy, Jess Polansky. He’s going to look for Ray, Jess.”
    This news didn’t seem to fill her with delight. She brushed back her light-brown hair and looked at me as if I was the understudy, not the star. “I thought … oh hell, I saw you take the
Satisfaction
out, and I thought it might mean Ray was coming back. Or something …”
    She burst into tears and Guthrie eased his shoulder over for her to huddle into. She had to bend to do it. As I looked at them I tried to interpret what I was seeing. Does a son want the girl his father so obviously wants for him? It struck me that I was getting out of my depth with fathers and sons, although I was old enough to have a son of Ray Guthrie’s age. As I’d told Cy Sackville, I didn’t even have a brother, and my own memories of my relationship with my father weren’t likely to be of much help. He was twenty-plus years dead, a quiet inner sort of man who didn’t seem to approveof anything much. I still occasionally had dreams in which I tried to win his approval, and failed.
    Guthrie pulled back, put his hands up on the girl’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. ‘‘Talk to Cliff, Jess, give him all the help you can.”
    Off the boat, facing the realities on dry land, Guthrie lost some of his bounce. He let go of Jess, swivelled and spoke to me with his head turned half-away. “Ray was last seen in the Noble Briton in the Cross. Friday of last week. He was drunk. That’s all I know. Stay in touch.” He walked away with his hands in his