Free The Shadow Box by John R. Maxim Page A

woodwork and the antique furnishings inside. You could do that in Edgartown without someone calling the cops.
The Taylor House stood high on North Water Street looking out over the harbor. An absolutely prime location. The architecture was Federal style, solid and square but softened by a graceful baluster along the roof, arched fan lights, and a columned portico entrance that had its own little balcony on top. It was three stories tall, painted white with black shutters, and it had a widow's walk on the roof. There was a small formal garden in front and a larger one in back. The front garden was all boxwoods and clipped yews, enclosed behind a delicate white fence at the edge of a red brick sidewalk.
    Captain Isaac Taylor was a nineteenth-century whaling ship captain who, having made his fortune, decided noth ing was too good for him. He brought carpenters and ship wrights all the way from Boston, had wallpaper shipped from France, fabrics from Italy, and furniture from En gland. Spend two or three years chasing whales, Fallon supposed, and you want something nice to come home to.
    Built in 1829, the house became an inn shortly after the turn of the century. It had six large rooms that were strictly for guests, a dining room, and a library, plus two smaller rooms for seasonal help. All the rest of it was private. The master suite took up most of the third floor.
    The wife of the present owner, one Polly Daggett, had been crippled in a hit-run accident during a visit to Boston. She would need long-term care and a hip replacement, said Millie Jacobs, which was why they had decided to sell.
    Fallon placed a call to Brendan Doyle, who agreed with Sheldon Greenberg. It sounded nuts. But Fallon had al ready put a binder on the house, using most of his cash and travelers checks, and Doyle, in the end, relented. He would liquidate some of Michael's securities and advance whatever else was needed until the will was probated. He would transfer sufficient funds to the Main State Bank of Edgartown and would have the title search done through a Boston law firm.
“Michael . . . you're sure you want to do this?”
“You know who used to stay there? Jimmy Cagney.”
“U m . . . relevance, Michael?”
He knew damned well what the relevance was. Brendan Doyle was a lifelong Cagney fan. Had his picture taken with Cagney once. It's hanging in his office. And Cagney did stay at the Taylor House before he bought a place of his own in Edgartown.
“You can have his room if you come up.”
Silence.
“Sit on the very same toilet.”
“Michael . . . why do I hear your heart thumping?”
“Because I'm psyched about this.”
    “And your voice is up an octave. I make note of these things, Michael, because this is the way you've sounded, all your life, when you've tried to put something over on your elders.”
“Like what?”
“Have you told me everything?”
Look who's asking. “Scout's honor.”
“You've left nothing out?”
“Come on up, Mr. Doyle. You've been in New York too long.”
Fallon did leave one teensy thing out.
The place was supposed to be haunted.
 
 
Chapter 10
Jimmy Cagney.
In Cagney's day, thought Doyle, gangsters knew how to get things done. If they needed answers they'd pull a snatch, hang the slob from a meat hook, and let him ripen for a day or two until he was ready to cooperate.
But Cagney, to be fair, didn't have to worry about wired phones, bugged restaurants, video cameras, and RICO stat utes. Three weeks after getting that police report, after lunching with Johnny and Fat Julie Giordano and handing them a copy with the names, addresses, and even mug shots of the two black muggers who tried Michael, be tween them they still had zilch.
Well . . . zilch isn't fair either.
    We now know some interesting facts. They are not, for starters, your ordinary street hoods. One of them isn't even black. The one with the dreadlocks is Jamaican but the one with the mustache who shaves his head is a Pakistani. Mohammed something