Free Firebird by Jack McDevitt Page A

to lie outright. Exactly. Just provide some context. That was the term he normally used. Context.
    So okay. I decided to skip the beach for the moment. I put on a pair of shorts and a white pullover with an anchor emblazoned on the vest pocket, and wandered out among the tourists.
    Virginia Island was home to about four hundred houses. Hotels and lodges, shops, and souvenir stores lined the shore walk. There was a convention center, a stable, a pier that provided all kinds of entertainment, a petting zoo for kids, and an aquarium. And, of course, the beaches.
    I looked for somebody who didn't appear to be a tourist and settled on an elderly couple sitting at a table under a tree. I bought a sandwich and some chocolate cookies and sat down on a nearby bench. It was easy enough to catch the woman's eye and begin a conversation. Within a few minutes, I had joined them and was commenting on how beautiful the area was, while we all munched on the cookies. They'd been on Virginia Island for the better part of seventy years and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. But when I commented that this had been the home of Christopher Robin, they looked at each other and shrugged. “If you say so,” the woman said.
    A little farther on, a guy in shorts was working on his boat. “The island can be a wild place this time of year,” he told me. “Parties every night. Kids running loose. Don't know where their parents are. I wouldn't let mine just wander around.” His name was Wes Corvin. He was well past the century mark, all smiles, with an appearance of absolute contentment. It was obvious his plans in life didn't extend far beyond floating around on the ocean.
    When my opportunity came, I commented that it was fascinating to be here, that I'd done a paper in school on Christopher Robin, and there I was on Virginia Island.
    “I remember seeing him when I first moved here,” Corvin said. “He used to walk around up by the cove. He'd be up there in the evenings, sometimes with his wife, sometimes alone. I can remember that he'd just be standing there, leaning over the rail, staring out to sea. I never really talked to him. Maybe said hello or something. He didn't seem to pay much attention to what was going on around him. Every time I saw him, he was looking at the ocean, or the sky, or something far away. You know what I mean?”
    “But you knew who he was?”
    “Hell, I still don't know who he was. I knew he was supposed to be a famous scientist. But that's all.”
    In Ruby's Walk-In, I drank lemon soda with two women, one tall and distant, one heavyset and almost painfully good-natured. They shook their heads sadly while telling me that Robin had been cheating on Elizabeth, that she'd found out, and that when he'd arrived home that night, she'd been waiting for him. “Everybody here knows what really happened,” the tall one said. “They just don't like to talk about it.”
    “You're saying she murdered him?”
    “I'm not sure how she managed it. Since there was no witness, I can't really say.”
    “But you think she killed him and dropped him into the ocean.”
    “Yes. She might have had a gun. She might have simply told him there was something strange happening in the sky and got him to walk out to the overhang. Maybe she had an accomplice, somebody to help her drag the body out. She had a lot of money, so she could have paid somebody.”
    “They never found the body,” said her affable friend. She seemed proud of the fact.
    That evening, I took a taxi out to the house they'd owned, which rested on a summit overlooking the sea. It was completely alone at the southern tip of the island. No other property, no other house, was even visible.
    A FOR SALE image blinked on as I approached, and a code that would allow a prospective buyer to contact the agent.
    It looked more imposing than it had in the photos. It was not as large as most of the island homes, but it had a quiet ambience: single-story, small windows with dark