Free Where There's Smoke by Mel McKinney Page A

spoke of delivery. Under no circumstances are you or your amigos to come near my farm in Kentucky. I have a place on Cape Cod that should be convenient for you, since the cigars are still up there. I will give you instructions and will arrange to be there for their delivery. Understood?”
    Raul smiled and nodded. “Perfectly, Señor Gessleman. Perfectly.”

THIRTEEN
    THE FREEZING ATLANTIC chill, partially rebuffed by his plaid mackinaw, found beachheads wherever Hiram Thorpe’s exposed skin surfaced. Under the padded earflap of his Maine woodsman cap, Hiram’s ears burned with the snap of early winter. Thinking of Luther snugged in front of the cast-iron stove back at the office didn’t help, and neither did the short Muniemaker Breva that refused to stay lit in the persistent drizzle.
    Hiram stamped the sludge off his rubber boots as well as he could and entered the motel office, pausing to look toward the darkening east. No doubt about it, a storm was on its way.
    Nestor Pinwood looked up from his copy of Yankee magazine.
    â€œHiram, close the damn door! Costs enough to keep this place heated without you let’n it all out.”
    Hiram complied, regretting he had to deal with the owner of the Gem o’ the Sea at all. The motel, miles
away from the tourist hubs because it was miles away from the sea, had ceased being a gem of anything years ago, if it ever had been one to begin with. The six weather-bleached bungalows, once a thirties “auto court,” were now nothing more than a sorry enclave of low-cost housing for the transients and casual workers who filled the demand for service labor during the summer season. Pinwood kept the place open year-round simply because he lived there and had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go.
    â€œHello, Nestor. Haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”
    The innkeeper eyed the constable with suspicion. “All right, I guess.”
    This would not be easy. It never was with Nestor. Past sessions with the crotchety New Englander had confirmed Nestor was starved for company but would never admit it. There was no other explanation for the way the simplest request for information turned into a cat-and-mouse game that could span hours. Hiram usually sent Luther, who relished the game, or resigned himself to indulging the old coot.
    Not today. Hiram’s instincts told him the break-ins at the Hyannisport mansion were the tip of an iceberg that could catapult a local constable into a national fool. He was determined not to let that happen. Best to be prepared, and the way to do that was to gather information. Quickly.
    â€œBeen busy, Nestor?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAny customers at all this month?”

    A cocked eyebrow. “Mebbe.” Hiram took that as a yes.
    â€œCouple of Spanish-looking guys? Mexican or possibly Cuban?”
    Pay dirt. Too late, Nestor erased the flash of surprise.
    â€œDon’t know’s I know what you mean. They all look alike to me.”
    â€œLet me help you, Nestor. One was named Pedro, tall with a thin mustache. About six foot. Another, shorter, about five feet, six inches, stocky and muscular. Called himself ‘Hor-hay.’ Left this area day before yesterday, probably in a hurry.”
    Hiram read the disappointment in Pinwood’s eyes. It should have taken at least an hour to reach this point. Then he burst the bubble of illusion that there would be any game at all.
    â€œLet’s just take a look at your register,” he said, reaching for the gray ledger he had pawed through several times before.
    â€œSo there were four of them,” Hiram said, after scanning the pages for October and November. “And they were here a few weeks. Found work, did they? The Kennedy estate?”
    Nestor Pinwood nodded, deflated.
    â€œThis Boston address—probably no good. Looks like they took two cottages. Anyone been in ’em since?”
    Nestor shook