The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [98]
“You might ask in the store,” the man told him. “Post office can’t really give out addresses.”
Simon went inside and repeated his question to the person behind the counter.
“You a friend of his?”
“We have a mutual friend.”
“Heard he used to be something in Washington.”
“Long time ago.” Simon nodded.
“He and his wife bought the 1745 Isaac Martin House about eighteen months ago. They just finished renovating it. Sure looks good,” said a fellow who sat sipping his morning coffee at a round table along with two other gents.
“Rebuilt the garage and everything.” One of his companions nodded. “He’s been real active with the local birders.”
“I heard him tell Angus Simpson that he saw a Henslow’s sparrow down near the marsh,” a woman reading a newspaper commented without looking up from the page.
“That right?” The coffee drinker turned in his seat. “Which side of the marsh?”
“Would you happen to know the address?” Simon asked, trying not to appear impatient among the locals, who clearly were in no hurry.
“It’s the 1745 Isaac Martin House,” the first man responded.
“But what’s the address?”
“That is the address,” the man behind the counter told him. “All of the homes in Green Lake have historical designations, the whole village being on the National Register of Historic Districts. We just refer to the buildings by their names.”
“How do you know which house is which?” Simon asked. “How do you tell them apart?”
“The houses all have signs on them,” someone said.
“You want the 1745 Isaac Martin House, you want to go straight out here to the left, out toward the river. It’ll be on the left side of the road; the siding’s painted yellow and it has a big front porch,” the woman with the newspaper told Simon.
Simon thanked them for their help, then paused on his way out to purchase a cup of the fragrant coffee and a copy of the local paper.
As promised, the 1745 Isaac Martin House, not three minutes from the country store, was clearly marked with a sign that hung next to the front door. Two rocking chairs graced the front porch. On one of them, a woman sat taking in the morning, a thick book in her hands and a fat cat on her lap.
“Good morning!” Simon called to her as he got out of his car. “I was looking for Mr. Stinson.”
“You missed him by an hour.” The woman smiled and slid an errant strand of pure white hair back behind her ear. “Are you from the birding magazine?”
“No, actually, I’m a friend of an old friend of his. Are you Mrs. Stinson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m working along with Dr. Philip Norton on a book about former President Hayward. He suggested I look up your husband, since Mr. Stinson was the party chairman when Hayward ran for office both times. We thought maybe your husband might have some remembrances or some little anecdotes to share about the former President.”
“Oh, my, I’m sure he’d like to be included in that.” Mrs. Stinson smiled. “He’s just down to the marsh, straight on through that path. . . .” She pointed across the street. “But for heaven’s sake, go quietly. He’s been watching a pair of yellow-throated warblers build a nest down there for the past week, and there will be hell to pay if they’re scared off.”
“He’ll never hear me coming.” Simon held a finger up to his lips.
“Well, try not to give him a heart attack, either.” The woman grinned.
“I’ll do my best to strike a balance,” Simon told her as he headed off in the direction Mrs. Stinson had indicated.
Simon trod softly on the path that cut through the tall grass, trying to avoid that bull-in-the-china-shop approach that would undoubtedly alienate Stinson before Simon could get within ten feet.
He smelled the marsh before he saw it. The salty scent borne on a spring breeze engulfed him. A mid-westerner, Simon never quite became accustomed to the smell of the coastal wetlands, salt marshes and mud flats, brackish water and animal matter left too long in the sun.
Up ahead, a man stood motionless at the edge of the marsh, field glasses held to his face. Simon tried to make just enough noise to alert the man that someone