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been told that the free world was taking a walk on the dark side。 What did people expect？
I had a couple of hours to kill before the car was due to collect me； so I took a walk over the wooden bridge to the lighthouse and then strolled into Edgartown。 In daylight it seemed even emptier than it had the previous night。 Squirrels chased undisturbed along the sidewalks and scampered up into the trees。 I must have passed two dozen of those picturesque nineteenth…century whaling captains’ houses； and it didn’t look as if one was occupied。 The widow’s walks on the fronts and sides were deserted。 No black…shawled women stared mournfully out to sea； waiting for their menfolk to come home—presumably because the menfolk were all on Wall Street。 The restaurants were closed； the little boutiques and galleries stripped bare of stock。 I had wanted to buy a windproof jacket but there was no place open。 The windows were filled with dust and the husks of insects。 “Thanks for a great season！！！” read the cards。 “See you in the spring！”
It was the same in the harbor。 The primary colors of the port were gray and white—gray sea； white sky； gray shingle roofs； white clapboard walls； bare white flagpoles； jetties weathered blue…gray and green…gray； on which perched matching gray…and…white gulls。 It was as if Martha Stewart had color coordinated the whole place； Man and Nature。 Even the sun； now hovering discreetly over Chappaquiddick； had the good taste to shine pale white。
I put my hand up to shield my eyes and squinted at the distant strand of beach with its isolated holiday houses。 That was where Senator Edward Kennedy’s career had taken its disastrous wrong turn。 According to my book； the whole of Martha’s Vineyard had been a summer playground for the Kennedys； who liked to sail over for the day from Hyannisport。 There was a story of how Jack； when he was president； had wanted to moor his boat at the private jetty of the Edgartown Yacht Club but had decided to sail away when he saw the massed ranks of the members； Republicans to a man； lined up with their arms folded； watching him； daring him to land。 It was the summer before he was shot。
The few yachts moored now were shrouded for winter。 The only movement was a solitary fishing boat with an outboard motor heading for the lobster traps。 I sat for a while on a bench and waited to see if anything would happen。 Gulls swooped and cried。 On a nearby yacht the wind rattled the cables against a metal mast。 There was hammering in the distance as property was renovated for the summer。 An old guy walked a dog。 Apart from that； nothing occurred in almost an hour that could possibly have distracted an author from his work。 It was a nonwriter’s idea of a writer’s paradise。 I could see why McAra might have gone insane。
FOUR
The ghost will also be under pressure from the publishers to dig up something controversial that they can use to sell serial rights and to generate publicity at the time of publication。
Ghostwritin g
IT WAS MY OLDfriend the deaf taxi driver who picked me up from the hotel later that morning。 Because I’d been booked into a hotel in Edgartown； I’d naturally assumed that Rhinehart’s property must be somewhere in the port itself。 There were some big houses overlooking the harbor； with gardens sloping down to private moorings； that looked to me to be ideal billionaire real estate—which shows how ignorant I was about what serious wealth can buy。 Instead； we drove out of town for about ten minutes； following signs to West Tisbury； into flat； thickly wooded country； and then； before I’d even noticed a gap in the trees； swung left down an unmade； sandy track。
Until that moment I was unfamiliar with scrub oak。 Maybe it looks good in full leaf。 But in winter I doubt if nature has a more depressing vista to offer in its entire flora department than mile after mile of those twisted； dwarfish； ash…colored trees。 A few curled brown leaves were the only evidence they might once have been alive。 We rocked and bounced down a narrow forest road for almost three miles and the only creature we saw was a run…over skunk； until at last we came to a closed gate； and there materialized from this petrified wilderness a man carrying a clipboard and wearing the unmistakable dark Crombie overcoat and polished black oxfords of a British plainclothes copper。
I wound down my window and handed him my passport。 His big； sullen face was brick colored in the cold； his ears terra…cotta： not a policeman happy with his lot。 He looked as if he’d been assigned to guard one of the Queen’s granddaughters in the Caribbean for a fortnight； only to find himself diverted here at the last minute。 He scowled as he checked my name against the list on his clipboard； wiped a big drop of clear moisture from the end of his nose； and walked around inspecting the taxi。 I could hear surf performing its continuous； rolling somersault on a beach somewhere。 He returned and gave me back my passport； and said—or at least I thought he said： he muttered it under his breath—“Welcome to the madhouse。”
I felt a sudden twist of nerves； which I hope I concealed； because the first appearance of a ghost is important。 I try never to show anxiety。 I strive always to look professional。 It’s dress code： chameleon。 Whatever I think the client is likely to be wearing； I endeavor to wear the same。 For a footballer； I might put on a pair of trainers； for a pop singer； a leather jacket。 For my first…ever meeting with a former prime minister； I had decided against a suit—too formal： I would have looked like his lawyer or accountant—and selected instead a pale blue shirt； a conservative striped tie； a sports jacket； and gray trousers。 My hair was neatly brushed； my teeth cleaned and flossed； my deodorant rolled on。 I was as ready as I would ever be。The madhouse？ Did he really say that？ I looked back at the policeman； but he had moved out of sight。
The gate swung clear； the track curved； and a few moments later I had my first glimpse of the Rhinehart compound： four wooden cube…shaped buildings—a garage； a storeroom； and two cottages for the staff—and up ahead the house itself。 It was only two stories high but as wide as a stately home； with a long； low roof and a pair of big square brick chimneys of the sort you might see in a crematorium。 The rest of the building was made entirely of wood； but although it was new it had already weathered to a silvery…gray； like garden furniture left out for a year。 The windows on this side were as tall and thin as gun slits； and what with these； and the grayness； and the blockhouses farther back； and the encircling forest； and the sentry at the gate； it all somehow resembled a holiday home designed by Albert Speer； the Wolf’s Lair came to mind。
Even before we drew up； the front door opened and another police guard—white shirt； black tie； zippered gray jacket—welcomed me unsmilingly into the hall。 He quickly searched my shoulder bag while I glanced around。 I’d met plenty of rich people in the course of my work； but I don’t think I’d ever been inside a billionaire’s house before。 There were rows of African masks on the