Free First Light by William G. Tapply, Philip R. Craig

noise, I would do a little work on the tree house. Then, when I could be fairly sure that the rest of the world was up and around, I could start earning the money Banner-man had given me.
    Joshua and Diana came in. “Pa.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCan we help you cook?”
    â€œSure. You can go out in the garden and see if we have any green beans left. Pick what you find and bring them in here. Then you can wash them and trim them so we can have them for supper.”
    I gave them a paper bag for a bean collector and they went out.
    By the time Zee had gotten up and gone to the weigh-in with what turned out to be a nonwinner fish, supper was in the fridge, and the kids still had all of their fingers, even though they’d each plied a paring knife to trim the beans. I didn’t like having them use knives when they were so young, but sooner or later they’d have to know how, so I sat with them and made sure they cut only the beans.
    After Zee got home, Joshua, Diana, and I worked on the tree house for an hour. We finished the floor and got a start on framing the main room.
    I liked the work because it brought back the excited feelings I’d had long ago when my sister and I helped my father build our tree house in Somerville. Joshua and Diana didn’t mind wearing safety belts attached to upper tree limbs as they handed me nails and tools, and we weren’t high enough for my acrophobia to kick in, so we made a good crew.
    At ten I called a halt to construction and headed for West Tisbury.
    One of the advantages of living in an insular place such as Martha’s Vineyard is that you meet and know people you like but might never meet or know if youlived on a bigger hunk of land. As you might guess, there’s an opposite side of this coin, since you also meet people you’d just as soon not.
    One person I was glad I knew was Gladys White, who lived with her husband, Tom, on Music Street. Tom and I had first met on Wasque Point years before, while both of us were waiting for the fish to arrive. Later I’d met Gladys at the farmers’ market, where she sold, and I bought, excellent egg rolls and Oriental soups that she’d learned to make from her missionary parents, who’d been stationed in the Far East.
    Gladys and Tom and their neighbors were no doubt happy that an earlier resident of their once rural pathway had purchased a piano and inspired a name change for the road. Music Street was certainly an improvement over Cow Turd Lane.
    Gladys had known Katherine Bannerman and had been interviewed by Thornberry Security. When I knocked on her door, she seemed pleased to see me. From behind her came the wonderful smells of cooking foods.
    â€œCome on into the kitchen, J.W. We can talk while I work.”
    She turned, and I followed her.
    â€œIt’s about Katherine Bannerman,” I said, and told her about the job I’d accepted from Bannerman and what I’d read in Thornberry’s file.
    â€œWell, I can’t add much to it,” said Gladys, stirring a large pot of what smelled like some kind of sweet-and-sour soup. “I told those people everything I know.”
    â€œMaybe you know something they didn’t ask about.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know. According to the report, you told them she was a very nice woman who made friends quickly and worked with you on a support network for battered women.”
    â€œThat’s right. She came here in June a year ago and contacted me not long afterward. I guess she read one of those information sheets we posted at Alley’s store. We talked and she volunteered to work. Seemed to enjoy it. A very sympathetic woman. People took to her right away.”
    â€œDo you think she may have been a battered wife herself?”
    Gladys gave me a sharp look. “She certainly never said anything about it.”
    â€œHow did Thornberry’s people happen to contact you?”
    Gladys added