"That's ol' Rooster." The woman parked the shotgun against the doorjamb. "Barks come sunup every damn mornin, that's how come I call him that."

Sheila bent to pet the dog.

"Don't pet him!"

She drew back her hand from the sleeping dog as though it might bite her.

"Not 'less you want your fingers to stink like coon shit. Mutt's been rollin 'round in it all week. No idea from where." She grabbed an old credit card imprinter from the oak dinner table. Pushed aside some Barrows Bay Islander biweeklies, a jar full of pennies and a dirty hand towel, and set it down.

Martin and Sheila turned to each other, realizing in the same moment she hadn't rescued her purse from the car. And that this woman seeing his credit card would out him as Ruby Savage's son.

"Is it okay if we do cash?"

"Don't take cash. Can't trust you'll bring the dang thing back if I do."

Martin turned to Sheila. "You know what? Maybe we should just call the office in the morning and reschedule."

She nodded. "That's a good idea."

The woman eyed them suspiciously. "Yous two want a boat or not? You was pretty damn hot to trot a second ago."

He moved for the door. "We'll take a raincheck on the boat. Sorry about that." He took out his wallet, pulled a damp twenty out of the billfold and held it out to her. "For your time."

She took it. Scowling at it, she rubbed it between her fingers. "It's wet." If her eyes narrowed any further, she wouldn't be able to see.

"Ran it through the wash this morning." His lie felt feeble.

She tucked the bill down the collar of her shirt, into her bra. On the radio, Johnny Cash gave way to Dolly Parton's "9 to 5."

The woman's face suddenly fell slack, her hand settled on her breast like she meant to feel herself up. She was staring at the fire. Its flames flickered in her cloudy eyes. He was sure they'd been clear and green before. Probably her only attractive feature.

Sheila gave him a wary look.

When the old woman came back her eyes were pallid slits. "Hold on a minute. I know you."

"I don't think so," Sheila said.

"Oh yeah, I do. You're the writer. Ruby Savage's boy. I see it very clearly now."

Her voice had changed. Lost its hardness and much of its country cadence.

"I don't know who Rudy Savage is," he said, backing toward the door.

"Oh yes. You do." She grabbed an iron poker from the rack and started swinging it back and forth like she was conducting Dolly's band as she backed them to the door. "You know Ruby. You know her more than anyone. Seen things you shouldn't have seen."

He reached for the door. "Put the poker down."

Her eyes flashed. She presented her nicotine-stained teeth in a vicious grin. "What? This?"

She swung at him. Martin stepped back, reaching for the door. She struck out quickly. He pulled his hand back as the poker clanged against the door handle.