The Vanishing Expert Read online

  James Perkins was a thin man, who smiled easily, though in a cautious way. Although he was only in his mid-thirties, the lines around his eyes and his dark hair, which was beginning to thin, made him appear older than his years. His beard, which he kept neatly trimmed, framed kind eyes that seemed to be forever seeking the gaze of strangers and looking away at the same time. To all who encountered him in town that autumn he seemed a friendly and easy-going sort with not a great deal to say— qualities that go a long way with Down East Mainers.

  He arrived in Southwest Harbor at the end of September almost without notice, just as the final wave of tourists was sweeping through town to view the foliage. It is easy to overlook a new face during the summer and early fall. So many people come and go between the Memorial Day and Columbus Day weekends that they take on a faceless quality. But after the last of the tourists had left for the season, James Perkins just seemed to stay on, as if he’d been swept in with the tide and dropped there.

  He met Lilian Beecher, a cheerful gray-haired woman, at the real estate office on Main Street, and told her he was looking for an apartment or a room to rent. Upon discovering that he was a carpenter who would be working for Peter Langston, she steered him toward a home on Clark Point Road, which ran along the northern shore of the harbor.

  The home belonged to Ruth Kennedy, recently widowed. Her husband, Henry, had spent much of his time during his retirement converting the extra rooms on the second floor to an apartment that they could rent out during the summer, but he never managed to finish the project. Lilian decided that James Perkins was the perfect tenant for Ruth, and so, in exchange for dirt-cheap rent, he agreed to help Mrs. Kennedy finish the apartment that had occupied so much of her husband’s final months.

  It was a perfect arrangement. James Perkins, having a great deal of time to himself and very little money, was able to settle into the small apartment overlooking the harbor. And Mrs. Kennedy was able to take on a tenant immediately without the added expense and bother of completing the work her husband had begun.

  From the window in the kitchen, James could sit and watch the warm golden light of the morning sun washing over the harbor and the boats moored there, and he placed the small table and chairs that Ruth left for him, against the window so he could enjoy the view every morning over breakfast.

  Aside from that table, he had very little furniture. Ruth Kennedy, noticing how few possessions he’d brought with him, offered him an old sofa, a lamp, and a wobbly end table that she might otherwise have thrown away.

  “They’re not much,” Ruth said, almost apologetically. “But they’ll help fill some of the empty space.”

  James Perkins smiled warmly. “They’re perfect,” he told her.

  He purchased a queen-sized mattress at a yard sale a few blocks away, and after dragging it up the narrow stairs that ran up the side of the house, he placed it on the floor of the bedroom, awaiting a pedestal and headboard he hoped to build as soon as he had both the opportunity and the money.

  Ruth checked on him often, each time pointing out something in the apartment that her late husband had done, or had meant to do, before his untimely death. She noted the molding he replaced around the windows, and the cabinets he installed in the kitchen, always gazing at his handiwork with a melancholy expression, as if she couldn’t look at it without picturing her husband at work.

  James enjoyed her company. She was soft-spoken and sweet, and he could see that she enjoyed having another person in the house with her again. Whenever she mentioned Henry, her late husband, James would offer a kind smile and allow her to ramble for as long she pleased. Though he never encouraged her to speak of her husband, he was more than willing to indulge her if she wanted to talk about him. On a few occasions, when she caught herself rattling on about her husband, she apologized and tried to turn the subject to her new tenant, only to find him very protective of his privacy.

  Lilian Beecher, the realtor, had assured her that she’d done a thorough check on James Perkins, even calling the state prison in Thomaston, at Mrs. Kennedy’s request, to inquire if her new tenant had recently been released from there. Other than that, she’d done only a cursory check, confirming his previous residence and employment in Waterville, choosing instead to simply trust Peter Langston’s instincts. In time, Mrs. Kennedy decided that James Perkin’s secrecy— if that’s what it was— was only unusual because she herself was so remarkably open. She decided, as any true Yankee would, not to concern herself with it.

  Two days after he moved in, James Perkins went to work for Peter Langston. When Peter shook James’s hand for the first time, James was impressed with the sheer size of the man, the breadth and girth of him, and he watched with both amusement and anxiety as his own hand was engulfed in Peter’s heavily-callused mitt.

  Peter liked James immediately. If he had any qualms about hiring a man in his thirties that he’d never met, James’s easy manner and his eagerness to learn everything Peter could teach him quickly dispelled them. Peter showed him around his workshop. He pointed out the table saw, the radial arm saw, the planer and the drill press, and he noted that James seemed comfortable with all of them. Anything James Perkins didn’t know, he learned quickly. When Peter showed him the cabinet doors that he built by hand, and the banister spindles that he shaped on the lathe, James was impressed with Peter’s craftsmanship and his attention to detail. He was more certain than ever that he’d made the right decision in coming to Bar Harbor to work for Peter Langston, and he looked forward to putting in a day’s work.

  Even more important to James then was the idea of earning a good week’s pay, as he was quickly running out of money. Within two weeks, even if he budgeted carefully, he’d be broke, and though his rent was paid through November— Ruth Kennedy had required two months’ rent up front— he didn’t like living on such limited funds.

  James Perkins didn’t strike Peter as a man accustomed to living an impoverished life. Even though his clothes were well worn, they were always clean and neat, and he carried himself with a dignity that suggested that his current impoverished circumstances were new to him. He seemed a cheerful person, accepting of and even at ease with his poverty, and yet somehow it didn’t seem to quite suit him.

  In his first weeks working alongside Peter Langston, James was deliberate and careful in his work, hoping to impress Peter with his craftsmanship. But Peter had spent most of his life as a carpenter. He’d seen and done nearly everything, and he recognized early on that James Perkins was a man who, in many respects, was still learning his trade. He had a knack for it, Peter admitted, but not a gift, and although his work was clean, Peter was more impressed with James’s desire to please him and his willingness to work hard than he was with his innate skills as a carpenter. What James didn’t know, Peter could teach him.

  Peter observed him closely during those first weeks, not just to determine his skills as a carpenter, but also to try to learn more about the man who would be working alongside him. What he knew of James Perkins was only from the scraps of information James shared with him, and as they worked, Peter occasionally asked questions in what proved to be a futile attempt to learn more about his new employee.

  “How long were you in Waterville?” Peter asked him.

  James was always abrupt with his answers. “A few months.”

  Peter would pound another nail before proceeding. “What about before that?”

  “Here and there,” James said.

  “Doing what?” Peter asked him.

  James offered a sly smile, enjoying the game, and proceeded to work. “This and that,” he said.

  Peter realized that James was a man accustomed to privacy. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that James Perkins was protecting a secret.

  When he wasn’t guarding his privacy, James Perkins was friendly and warm, and quick with a story, though vague with details. Peter regularly invited him to a local bar for a quick beer after they finished work for the day,
hoping the alcohol would help to free up James’s tongue, but Peter learned very little. He knew only that James was from outside of Maine— though he’d already discerned that from the accent— and that he’d moved to Mount Desert Island in order to find a simpler, more peaceful life. It seemed to Peter a respectable pursuit, and as Mainers will, he decided to simply leave James to it, even though his curiosity often got the best of him.

  “Ever been married?” Peter asked him one night.

  They were sitting at the bar in a small pub on Cottage Street. Peter was nursing his second beer, fully expecting James to evade the question in his usual manner.

  “Just the one time,” James offered. He nonchalantly took a swallow from his beer, unaware of the magnitude of the moment for Peter. He turned and looked at Peter, who was gazing at him slack-jawed. “What?” James said. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Naw, I believe you alright,” Peter said, smiling. “It’s just that it’s the first time you answered a personal question.”

  James laughed. “That never stopped you from asking them.”

  Peter conceded the issue with a wink and raised his beer, but he persisted, not willing to let go of the subject now that he’d made this unexpected progress. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

  James shrugged and took another sip of his beer. “Just the usual,” he said. “It wasn’t working and it wasn’t going to work. It just took us nine years to figure that out.”

  “Nine years?” Peter asked.

  “Nine long years!” James said.

  “There must have been some good times.”

  James nodded. “We had our share like anybody, I guess.”

  “So why’d you split up?”

  James thought about the question, and he thoughtfully turned his empty beer bottle on the bar before him, moving it in small circles. “There’s never just one reason,” he said. “We tried for the last few years to make it work, but then you reach a point when it just dawns on you that you’re spending all this energy trying to force it to be right when it never will be. You realize that wanting it to work, even if both of you want it, just isn’t enough anymore.”

  A long silence fell over them, and James became aware of the music filtering out of the jukebox in the corner. He recognized the song from his college days. He remembered all the times he’d sat in bars just like this one, drinking beer and listening to that same song, and for a moment, it was as if all of the things that had happened to him since were just a long and confused dream.

  “So you just call it quits after nine years?” Peter asked.

  James’s expression turned sullen, and he offered a conciliatory tilt of his head. “Something like that,” he offered. He could see by Peter’s expression that he wanted to know more, but he put up his hand and pointed into the air, as if the music that swirled about them was hovering just over their heads and he was bringing to Peter’s attention. “This is a great song,” he said.

  Peter knew immediately that the conversation was over.

  3

  The Fatal Flaw

  On a Monday morning in late October, James met Peter Langston at the Berkhardt Gallery on Mount Desert Street in Bar Harbor. Jean Berkhardt, the gallery's owner, was one of Peter’s dearest friends. She was a pleasant woman in her early forties, and she had the kind of well-sculptured good looks that often suggested wealth. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, and she was dressed in blue jeans and a faded plaid flannel shirt, which offered only the vague suggestion of a slender figure. James’s first impression of her was that she was a woman without vanity. He was instantly charmed by her.

  For years, Jean had hoped to expand the gallery, but she refused to leave her location on Mount Desert Street, near the corner of Main Street. When the adjacent shop became available, she leased the space, and charmed the owner of the building into allowing her to remove a section of the wall that separated the two shops and to renovate the interior of both spaces. The renovation Jean Berkhardt had in mind would require the gallery to be closed for at least a week, possibly two, which was why she’d decided to wait until late October, when the flow of tourists had tapered off for the season. She would have preferred waiting until January or February, when the gallery was closed for the season, but worrying that the landlord might have a change of heart about allowing the construction, she decided it was best to get it done.

  Months earlier, she’d arranged for Peter Langston to do the job, and when he arrived on that Monday morning, she was pleased to see him, and eager for him to get started. She hadn’t met the man who came into the gallery with Peter He was older than the boys Peter usually employed, but she’d heard rumors that Peter had a new assistant even before Peter called her a week earlier to tell her about James. Since he was managing two projects that week, he told her, there would be times when James would be alone in the gallery; he wanted to make sure Jean would have no objections. If she had reservations, she never shared them with Peter, and as soon as she met James, she felt at ease with him. He was polite and friendly and seemed to smile easily, though in a shy way that she found endearing.

  Peter walked James through the gallery with Jean, describing what they’d be doing, not only that day, but throughout the week. He’d already reviewed the plans in detail with James over a pitcher of beer the previous Friday night, but this exercise was to ensure that everyone understood how the project would unfold. And since Jean was going to be in the shop that morning, Peter wanted to make sure she knew what to expect.

  “There’ll be a lot of dust,” Peter warned her. “You might not want to stick around.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “Unless I’m in the way.”

  James wanted to assure her that she wouldn’t be, but he remained silent.

  As they began unloading their tools from Peter’s truck, James found his gaze seeking out Jean Berkhardt with each trip he made into the gallery.

  Since most of the first day’s work involved removal of the wall and a section of the floor, Peter decided to leave the task to James while he visited the site of their next job. It was an arrangement Peter had expected and his reason for calling Jean the week before.

  “You’ll be okay here today,” Peter told James as he prepared to leave. He looked at Jean, as if seeking out her approval one last time.

  She peered at him over her reading glasses. “Half day today?”

  “Hey,” he said, pretending to be offended. “I’m the boss. I don’t do the dirty work.” He winked at James and then turned back to Jean. “James will finish up the demo work today. I’ve got to go pick up what we’ll need for tomorrow. I’ll be back later to see how things are going.”

  James was pleased for the opportunity to work on his own, and he was grateful for the prospect of getting to know a little more about Jean Berkhardt. As he worked, he occasionally glanced in Jean’s direction, usually finding her sipping her coffee while going over the gallery’s books or flipping through a magazine. Whenever she noticed him glancing in her direction, she smiled faintly. James sensed that she remained there only because she didn’t want to leave him alone in the gallery. He didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred that she stayed.

  Throughout the day, visitors dropped by— local merchants or friends that happened to be in town and noticed the activity inside— and Jean would greet them at the door and describe the work she was having done. Only a few were invited inside, since she didn’t want to interfere with James’s work, and she made certain to introduce him to any visitors who made it past the front door.

  At noon, Jean appeared from the back room with her coat. “I’m stepping out for some lunch,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a break and join me.”

  James smiled, pleased with the invitation. “I’ve got a sandwich,” he said. “Besides, I’m kind of a mess.” He was too embarrassed to tell her that he had very little money. He could afford to pa
y for lunch, but then he would be nearly broke until Peter paid him on Friday.

  Jean waved off the comment with a flip of her hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You’ll be fine. Everybody works around here.”

  They walked to the Seafarer Cafe on Cottage Street, where they talked over sandwiches and bowls of thick clam chowder. Jean was very open, speaking freely about herself, and James could see she was a woman without secrets. He wasn’t prepared to discuss his own life so openly.

  Jean was forty-two years old, and had been divorced for twelve years. Her ex-husband, Richard, had been a respected lawyer in the town, and they had what appeared to be the perfect marriage until he announced that he was leaving her for a young paralegal who worked for a firm in Boston.

  “I was thirty years old,” she said bitterly, “and the bastard traded me in for a younger model. Can you believe that?”

  James shook his head. Looking into Jean Berkhardt’s bright eyes and her lovely face he wondered how any man could find reason to leave her.

  “It just proves that you don’t have to be smart to be a lawyer,” James said.

  Jean smiled. She’d been devastated when Richard left her, and she was terrified of what the future held for her and their young daughter, Christina, who was eight at the time. As it turned out, Richard was generous in the settlement.

  “Guilt is a wonderful thing,” Jean said. “He gave me everything; the house, the car, most of our savings, and a pretty decent alimony so I could get a new start.” She offered a faint smile. “That’s how I opened the gallery. I don’t think he ever thought it would succeed the way it did. I’d been talking about it for years, but he never took it seriously, so after the divorce I set out to prove him wrong.” She sipped her coffee and her eyes brightened as she contemplated her companion. “Are you married, James?” she finally asked him.