The saw bit a nail and Ben killed the power.
"That's three in one run," he said. "Whoever framed this wall didn't own a tape measure."
Nora set her chisel on the sill and crossed the room.
"Finch didn't frame this wall. This is later work. Somebody sistered a stud in here and closed it back up."
Ben pushed his safety glasses onto his forehead and studied the plate. "Hurry job?"
"Wrong nails, wrong spacing, no blocking between the studs." She traced the plate down to the floor with two fingers. "Whoever did it wasn't counting on anybody opening this wall again."
"Reckon that means something."
"It means somebody was in a hurry to shut it."
By nine on Thursday the fog had burned off the water between Tern Island and Port Blossom, and the island smelled of low tide and fresh sawdust. Ben drank coffee from a thermos he'd filled at the Chart & Compass.
"Where'd you get that?" he asked, nodding at the can in her hand.
"Hannaford in Rockland. Dollar eighty-nine."
"Grace says that stuff tastes like rust and toothpaste."
"She isn't wrong."
They worked the south wall until the sun was high and the tide had turned.
"Your chalk line's drifted," Ben said.
Nora reset it and filled a coffee can with cut nails. "Hand me that lumber receipt. I need something to draw on."
"What are you drawing?"
"Window casings. Six over six, if the trim I pulled off means anything."
"Long as you get them square."
At noon Ben stopped sanding and looked past her shoulder.
"Boat coming out."
It was a white launch with the town's colors on the bow, running flat and fast across the channel. Nora wiped her hands on her jeans.
"Is that the harbormaster?"
"It's the town launch. Nobody rides that unless they want to be seen coming."
Wendell Pike came up the path in a windbreaker with the town seal on the chest, a clipboard sealed in plastic against the spray. He had the look of a man delivering somebody else's letter.
"Nora Vance?"
"That's me."
"Wendell Pike. Town code enforcement." He held the sleeve out at arm's length. "I'm supposed to serve this on you in person, so that's what I'm doing."
Nora slid the order out and read it twice. STOP WORK ORDER. Section 14-B, Historical Resource Overlay. Permit discrepancy pending review. The last line said the order protected significant historic resources on Tern Island.
"What discrepancy?"
"It doesn't say."
"Who filed the complaint?"
"A resident."
Wendell moved the clipboard from one arm to the other. Nora turned the page over. Blank.
"Which resident?"
"That isn't on the copy I have."
"Who signs these?"
"The code office."
"Whose name is at the bottom?"
"Mine. I typed it." He looked at the water. "I type what Planning sends me."
"Can I keep working?"
"Housekeeping. Nothing structural."
"She's got a tarp on the north roof and weather coming Friday," Ben said. He had come up beside her without her hearing him.
"I saw the tarp."
"How long is a review?"
"A week. Two, maybe."
"And if I appeal?"
"You can file one."
"Who hears it?"
"I don't have that answer." He looked at his boots. "Call Town Hall. Ask for the file."
Ben walked him down to the float. The launch turned in the channel, and the wake slapped the cobbles flat.
"You want company in town?" Ben said, coming back up the path.
"Not this time."
"Then I'll put the tarp on before the weather turns."
"Thank you."
Town Hall at two smelled of toner and floor wax. A summer regatta banner hung above the counter, and the woman behind it was stamping mooring renewals.
"I'd like the file on the Salt-Spray Cottage," Nora said.
"The stop-work? That's Planning."
"Planning's down the hall."
"Planning's out on an inspection."
"I'll wait."
She waited. A cart of file boxes rolled past her twice, and a man with a lanyard came out of Planning, saw her, and went back in.
Dot came out with a folder and set it on the counter the way you'd set down something wet.
"I'd like to see the written findings this order is based on."
"What findings?"
"Section 14-B requires written findings from the Historical Preservation Commission. It's printed on the form."
Dot flipped through the folder, her lips moving. "The commission hasn't met since April."
"Then what's attached to this order?"
"Nothing's attached."
"Can I see the complaint that started it?"
"I'm not supposed to show you anything without a request in writing."
"I'd still like to see the complaint."
Dot glanced down the hallway and turned the folder around. Stapled inside the back cover was one page. Complaint, concerned resident. No name. No date in the box where a date belonged. The description, in block letters: work in progress would disturb the cottage's historical protections. Behind it sat a yellow routing slip with two words in blue ink and no signature. Hold — M.T.
"Who's M.T.?" Nora said.
Dot reached for the folder. "You didn't see that."
"I did, though."
"I can't talk about the mayor's business."
"Then don't," said a voice behind her, smooth as a radio host.
Marcus Thorne came down the hall in a navy jacket, tanned and easy, one hand already out.
"Nora Vance. My friend."
"Mayor."
"I heard somebody tied you up over on the island." He shook his head. "Fourteen-B's a steep hill. I hate it for you."
"Odd that you heard."
"Small town." He smiled. "The offer stands, you know. Shoreline trail, public access, long-term vision. The town would take that headache off your hands tomorrow."
"You'd be buying an island nobody's allowed to touch."
"That's the town's problem." He shrugged, like a man with nothing on the line. "Not yours."
"The commission hasn't met since April."
Thorne's smile stayed where it was, and his eyes did arithmetic. "You've been doing homework."
"I read specifications for a living."
"Then you know a stop-work order isn't personal."
"Nothing about this is personal, Mayor. That's what makes it interesting."
She handed the folder back to Dot, who had found something urgent in the mooring renewals.
"Set up a request in writing if you want the whole file," Dot said.
"I'll do that today."
"It's a week. Maybe two."
"Then I'll start counting."
Outside, the wind had swung northeast and the flag snapped at its halyard. Nora stood on the sidewalk and worked the problem the way she would work a failing beam.
A complaint is paper. Somebody with a stamp had turned one unsigned page into an order, and that somebody had written two letters on a routing slip and tucked it in the back of the file.
Silas had supplied the words. Historical protections was his phrase, and she'd heard it from him on the cottage threshold the afternoon he told her the town was coming for her property. Silas didn't carry a stamp.
Only one man in Port Blossom had offered to buy Tern Island. Only one had called it the town's long-term vision in a voice like a handshake. He hadn't needed to threaten her. He had made the paperwork arrive.
The fastest way to take an island was to make it too expensive to keep.
She wrote three lines on the back of an envelope: the whole file, in writing, under the state's freedom of access law. Every name on the commission. And the name behind M.T.
Three names on a page. One of them would tell her whether Port Blossom was protecting an old cottage or clearing a path for Marcus Thorne.
Comments
Loading the conversation…