Page 8 of Death at the Deep Dive

Ronny was silent. She had been Ellery’s agent for a long time.

Ellery chewed his lip, weighing the pros and cons, thinking about the things he could do with that money. He said at last, reluctantly, “I’ll have to think about it. I’ve got stuff happening now. I’ve got a-a different life.”

“Of course,” Ronny said quickly. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful life on Skull Island. Take your time. We all want you to make the right decision.”

“I don’t like feeling that Brandon’s still manipulating me.”

Ronny considered, said, “Well, I can’t speak to that, but maybe it’s not quite how you imagine. Brandon didn’t know he was going to be murdered, poor guy. Maybe this was his way of reaching out to you. For whatever reason.”

From beyond the grave.

Okay, well, maybe a little dramatic. Ronny was right. When Brandon had made that deal, he’d had no idea his days were numbered. And Ellery couldn’t complain about the offer Black Palace had made him.

“Maybe. I’ll think it over and get back to you within a day or so.”

“No rush,” Ronny said. “Take your time and think it through. Just remember: offers like this don’t come around every day.”

Ellery didn’t think he’d been on the phone more than a minute or two, but when he opened his office door, he was startled to find a small crowd gathered around the sales desk. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

Stanley Starling, a regular customer and member of the Silver Sleuths book club, was insisting, “It was 1960. I remember very clearly.”

Mr. Starling was a spry, slight man in his seventies. With his tufted hair and habit of popping out startling pronouncements, he reminded Ellery of a geriatric jack-in-the-box.

“I’m fairly sure it was ’63, dear,” Nora replied.

“It should be easy enough to verify.” That was Kingston, a small, dapper man of about seventy. Kingston was by nature a peacemaker.

Hermione Nelson—another member of the Silver Sleuths (Ellery began to get an uneasy feeling about this mini flash mob)—chimed in, “I believe he’s correct, dear, because the old mansion on Spring Street burned down in 1960.”

With strained patience, Nora replied, “You’re perfectly correct, dear. Ballard Hall did burn down in the spring of 1960. However, I’m quite sure we should be looking at the summer of 1963.”

Ellery interrupted, “Looking at the summer of 1963 for what?”

Nora, Kingston, Mr. Starling, and Mrs. Nelson all jumped as guiltily as if he’d caught them with their hands in the cash register.

“Oh, we’re just discussing the feasibility of putting together a diving exhibit for the Historical Society’s new museum.” The bright smile Nora offered wouldn’t have fooled a baby.

“Riiiight,” Ellery said. “And is this diving exhibit going to feature anyone I—”

He broke off as the front door swung open with an impatient jangle of the brass bell.

Déjà vu.

A large and muscular red-haired man dressed in jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt with a diver’s blue silhouette and the immortal words of wisdomThe Deeper You Go The Better It Feels, gazed at the assembly and rasped, “Ellery Page? My gram wants to see you.”

Ellery said cautiously, “Do I know your gram?”

“She knows you. That’s the point.”

Hm. Was this the demographic Ronny was referring to? Naturally, Ellery kept the thought to himself. Tackle Shandy had a reputation for a number of things, but sense of humor wasn’t one of them.

In any case, Watson, perhaps remembering earlier encounters, took instant offense and charged forward.

Arf! Arf! Arf!

Tackle’s lip curled. “Somebody better grab that hamster before it gets stepped on.”

Kingston and Mr. Starling rushed to rescue Watson, narrowly missing taking each other as they both dived for the pup—and who said Tackle Shandy had no sense of humor? Because he did laugh at that, and his boominghar-har-harlaugh was as cartoony bad-guy as everything else about him. In fact, if it wasn’t for that little prison-record thing, Ellery would have dismissed Tackle’s schtick as bad acting. (Theotherkind of bad acting. The kind Ellery was familiar with.)

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