Free The Shadow Box by John R. Maxim

York police were no longer interested in finding him. No warrant, no nothing. They had been un able to match a name to his description and had gone on to other matters. The racial issue, advanced by city hall, had been mere political rhetoric that had barely survived the press conference. Al Sharpton won't be marching on Edgartown either.
What made him more attractive to the locals was that he told Millie, the real estate lady, that he was ready to look at those houses and maybe some local businesses. A restaurant, perhaps. A hardware store. Maybe he'd breed and raise pinkletinks.
Steady, Michael.
    But he had definitely decided to settle here. Live in Edgartown year-round. Great place to raise a family some day. The trick was to find something that would keep him occupied for more than just the summer.
She asked him for a price range. He said that price would be no problem.
    Millie Jacobs was married to Dr. Emil Jacobs who was the first-string local dentist. Fallon learned, in short order, that the only gossip mill that is more efficient than a real estate office or a dentist's office is a combination of the two. Within days, everyone in Edgartown knew that Mi chael had recovered from his broken heart, had a pot of money in the bank, was a serious buyer, and was definitely on the lookout for a wholesome, sincere, Martha's Vine yard sort of woman.
    Kevin, the bartender, confided that Millie's Nantucket niece was a bowser. His own niece, however, had won a Miss Lobsterfest pageant; came with a ready-made family, two cute little girls from the prick she divorced; and was still a size seven. The grocer had a piece of land that had a water view. Millie said forget it. It's where the gallows used to stand and it's nowhere near the sewer. The barber had a jeep for sale. Four-wheel drive. Can't live on this island without one, he said.
    “That Kraut car of yours is nice for saying I got mine, but it ain't worth a damn after a half-inch of snow. Any way, out here we buy American.”
“ Michael . . . ”
“ Wait a second. ”
    That was another thing. He was feeling less of a need for his telepathic therapy sessions with Dr. Sheldon Greenberg. The price was right—hours of them for the cost of one book—but as long as it was all in his head, he would just as soon talk to Uncle Jake. Besides, the Greenberg thing showed signs of getting strange. The other day he asked Greenberg what he thought of the idea. Buy ing property here. Settling here. Greenberg answered that he was “ on the fifteenth hole at Sea Pines, two strokes down, playing a ten-dollar Nassau. Don't bother me now. ”
Fallon took that- to mean he was getting better.
    He also learned something about real estate people. Other, that is, than that telling one a secret is cheaper than placing an ad. He learned that the minute you suggest that you're ready to buy, and they think they have your price range, guaranteed, a house will come on the market at an unbelievable steal of a price. But you must act now. Wait a day and it's gone.
    One such house did appear. Millie called it a miracle. The hand of God and the luck of the Irish combined.
“This isn't just a house,” she said in hushed tones. “This is the Taylor House.”
“Michael . . . think long and hard.”
“Are you kidding? It's gorgeous.”
“It's an inn, Michael. You're not an innkeeper.”
    “All the help said they'd stay. The place even makes money. Millie says it's been fully booked for years.”
“ All the same . . . ”
“ And people who come to inns are nicer, by and large, than people who go to hotels. They'll cut me some slack while I'm learning. ”
“Quoth Millie Jacobs?”
“Doc . . . you never did anything crazy?”
“ Sure. But I was sane at the time. ”
“ Now you're being a shit. ”
“ Good luck, Michael .”
The Taylor House wasn't just any inn, either. Fallon, on his walks, had stopped to admire it many times. Espe cially at night. He would stand and look in the windows at the carved