“That’s not what he told us,” said Fiona. “That is, he didn’t tell us they were, um, romantically involved.”

“Well, I doubt they were, for her part anyhow,” said Mr. Pennypacker smugly.

“He said they never spoke to each other.”

“Well, there you have it. You see,” said Mr. Pennypacker, “shameless liar.”

Fiona began to wonder if St. Mary’s By the Sea attracted liars. Miss Webster, Al Farber, and now the four of them.

“What was the book called?” asked Fiona.

“Oh, I forget. She probably has a copy in her library. He certainly has a copy or two. Wastrel,” he said again, staring off over Fiona’s right shoulder looking grim. “Anyhow, that’s no doubt why she left him the fishing gear. He was on her boat for days at a time writing and she taught him to fish, I believe. Started out Mr. Fancy Pants Big-City Boy from New York, looking down his nose at all of us yokels and ends up wanting to fish like her—with her. I guess she scotched those plans. That woman always did exactly what she liked. And alone. For the most part. Well! That’s all for now. Bring me that paperwork. Here, I’ll walk you out.”

They went outside, where it was clouding up.

“How did you get here?” asked Mr. Pennypacker, looking at the sky.

“Biked,” said Fiona, pointing to the bicycle.

“Ah, Martha’s bike,” said Mr. Pennypacker.

“Martha’s bike?” said Fiona. “This belonged to my aunt?”

“Yes, of course, what did you think?” asked Mr. Pennypacker, looking surprised by the question. “Everything you find on that property was hers. She almost never took her car into town unless she had heavy things to haul back. She loved that old bike. Kept it in fighting trim too. You’d better hurry. Looks like rain to me.”

Fiona thanked him and headed to the grocery store for milk and butter, spluttering to herself, “Martha’s bike! Martha’s!”

Then she headed home, stopping to get eggs at an egg stand.

When she got back she found Marlin in the kitchen busily putting together another cake, flour splattered about and recipes she’d copied from the internet spread everywhere. Natasha and Charlie were sitting at the counter watching her.

Fiona told them everything.

“He wrote for the New York Times?” said Marlin. “Wow. Who would have thought?”

“Yes, and Mr. Pennypacker called him a waste troll,” said Fiona.

Charlie and Natasha laughed. “Waste troll, waste troll,” chanted Charlie.

“Don’t say that to his face,” warned Fiona. “We need him, remember.”

Natasha leapt up and went to the bookcases in the living room, where she searched the shelves, climbing on the little library ladder going up and down until she shouted, “FOUND IT!” She triumphantly pulled out a volume with Al Farber’s name on the spine. “It’s called Martha’s Boat.” She handed the book to Fiona to look at and while Marlin cooked, Fiona began to read it aloud to them.

At the end of the first chapter Marlin, who was mixing a coating for the pork chops she was baking, said, “Wow, what happened to him after he wrote this? He was a good writer. You’d never expect him to end up in a trailer with baked bean cans everywhere. The person who wrote this doesn’t sound like Al. Maybe it’s a different Al Farber.”