“I’ve told you before, young man,” she breathed in a sultry voice. “Never to call on me this time of day. You know very well that my husband is still home.”

She held the pose a second longer, then let out a cackle, grabbed me by the back of the neck, and pulling me close, gave me a smack across the lips.

“Hey, Fran,” I said as I pulled back a step and unconsciously lifted a hand to wipe the lipstick from my face.

“Don’t you dare wipe that off,” she ordered, pointing a finger in my face. “I want Bob to see it and know he’s not the only man in my life.” She laughed.

I sheepishly lowered my hand. “Okay, Fran. How you doing?”

“I’m doing fine, honey. But I know you came to see Bob and not me. You’ll find him out back in his workshop.” She pointed with her cup. “Probably out there looking at girly magazines—why, I don’t know, when he has all this inside.” She lifted a leg and pulled up the hem of her robe, exposing a thigh and giving me a lascivious grin.

“Fran, too much of anything—even that—isn’t good for a man,” I returned with a grin of my own. “And cover that leg, before I forget your old man is at home, and I do something I shouldn’t.”

“Nothing but promises.” She sighed. “It’s the story of my life. See you this week at the club?”

“You bet, Fran.”

“All right, lover. I guess I can wait ’til then—but just barely. And bring that policewoman with you. I’d like to give her a sniff and make sure she’s not trying to beat my time.”

Fran pushed out her lips in an exaggerated pout and then gently closed the door. I shook my head and walked away, but as I did, I heard her throaty laugh from inside.

Bob’s shop sat at the back of the yard, almost at the edge of the marsh. It was built of rough-sided sawmill lumber and roofed with tin. A dirt-floored porch ran the length of the near side. The building had been constructed entirely of scavenged materials. Twenty feet away a boardwalk ran thirty yards out to a small dock that sat perched over a tidal creek. It, too, was built of wood that had been recovered from a thousand different locations and patiently hauled, piece by piece, to become a part of Bob Martin’s backyard domain.

I stepped under the roof of the porch and lifted my hand to rap on the door when Bob’s voice called out from within, “Come on in, Kenny Boy—the door’s open.”