She’d rented a U-Haul van to pick it up. A cord of wood, just over the Verrazano, which was the impressive-looking bridge over the whitecapped bay that you could see off the Belt Parkway on the way home from JFK. That was about all she knew. Wendy wasn’t big on driving. She’d quit altogether in England because they drove on the wrong side of the road and the roads were narrow and fast. The only time she’d tried, she’d sideswiped an entire hedge and made permanent fingernail gouges in the car door trying to find the gearshift.

The U-Haul place was a much longer walk than she’d expected, up Union Street, across the Gowanus Canal, up and up to Fourth Avenue and then over to Fourth Street. She could have taken a car service, but the staff at Enjoy! were encouraged to walk.

The U-Haul van was basic and raw and empty in back, modern and full of gizmos in front. A screen barked at her when she backed up, showing her a picture of what was behind her and the dangers therein. The GPS never shut up. The E-ZPass allowed her to zip through tolls. Wendy drove in a dutiful daze, following the GPS instructions.

She’d get the wood and maybe even some fireworks, she thought as she crossed the Verrazano Bridge.

The view was vast, with water everywhere. She rolled down the windows so she could taste the salty air, the blue sky, the brown beaches. Oh, Staten Island, here comes Wendy Clarke of Enjoy! magazine. Mrs. Roy Clarke. Mother of Shy, Chloe, and Anna Clarke. Seagulls hovered in the misty air, their beaks open in silent yawp. Below the bridge, the deep water tossed and sucked. Wendy’s tongue tingled with the rankness of it. Her nostrils flared.

Yes, fireworks. There had to be someplace that sold them. Staten Island had everything.

Elizabeth had been arrested for serving and selling alcohol without a license, a misdemeanor criminal offense with up to one year of prison time. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Monte was a real bar serving liquor to the public and that bars had certain rules. She’d received notices with threats of fines when she’d taken over the site months ago, but she’d thrown the notices away without even opening them. The police had ransacked the bar and confiscated the liquor. The odor of dead fish in the basement and “evidence of foul play” down there made them even more suspicious. They put a dead bolt on Monte’s door and sealed it with yellow police tape.

Tupper tried to be helpful.

“It’s art,” he protested. “She’s an artist.” He supplied the authorities with video footage from the Macaw—proof that her unusual behavior was all in the name of the work.