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will begin my search by interviewing people in those galleries. The art world is simultaneously vast and small. People know other people, and knowledge and gossip pass rapidly from mouth to ear. Perhaps I will hear a name associated with the eagles. If I do, you can help me find the person. Or perhaps you can make explorations other than mine.”
    It was like casting for fish in unknown waters. You didn’t know if there was anything to catch or, if there was, how to catch it. But as the surf casters say, “If you don’t throw, you don’t know.”
    Zee’s voice came again: “I think you should do it, Jeff.”
    I thought of the current that had danced between her and Mahsimba and wondered if my answer had anything to do with that.
    “All right,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Excellent,” said Mahsimba.
    Zee cast her eyes around the group and smiled. “To seal the bargain you all have to come to our place for dinner tomorrow. Mahsimba, is there anything you don’t eat?”
    He smiled. “I am omnivorous, Mrs. Jackson.”
    Her tongue touched her lips. “Call me Zee,” she said. “Just Zee.”

7
    Since my bluefish wasn’t big enough to serve to the crowd that was coming, I stuck the fillets in the freezer and spent the rest of the morning preparing the makings for paella, which, along with French bread and salad, was going to be supper.
    Paella is easy to cook, but it takes some time to get the ingredients ready. In this case, I was going to make paella à la Valenciana, using a recipe I’d gotten from a Spanish cookbook written in broken English that I’d found at a yard sale. Long ago some Spanish woman had, according to the introduction, written it for expatriate Englishwomen living in Spain. How it got to Martha’s Vineyard was yet another island mystery that I was never going to solve.
    When I finished my paella preparations, I used another recipe in the book and made a flan for dessert. My mouth was already watering. Then I got into the truck and drove toward Edgartown to talk with Al Butters about his years in Africa.
    As I went, I thought about the previous evening, when Mahsimba, at Zee’s urging, had told stories about his experiences in Africa and elsewhere. How he had explored the ruins of Great Zimbabwe; how, when he had worked as a safari guide, he had taken tourists on game walks through the bush, carrying a .458-caliber “walking stick” just in case they ran into some aggressive animal; how a pride of lions could lie down in grass and disappear so completely that you could walk between a dozen cats and never know they were there; how you could usually get an advancing elephant to retreat by stepping forward, holding up your hand, and saying loudly but firmly, “Stop!”; how naive he’d been when he first went to study in Pretoria, and how later he had rowed at Oxford while studying African history.
    He was a modest and charming teller of tales, jesting at himself and making light of the perils he had faced and the discoveries he’d made at university. Zee had been enthralled. So had I, for that matter, for he had spoken of places I’d never been and of adventures I’d never imagined. Zee had never seemed more buoyant or bright-eyed as she listened to him and sat beside him at the supper table, talking. Once I’d caught Mattie looking at the two of them. Then she’d glanced at me and met my eyes and looked back at her plate.
    We’d left for home with Zee reminding them all that they were coming to our house for supper the next day.
    Now the preparations for that supper were complete, and I could begin my efforts to help track down the stone eagles.
    My ignorance of the island’s art scene was going to be a major disadvantage, but the death of Matthew Duarte was too coincidental with Mahsimba’s arrival for me to dismiss the likelihood of a connection between those events. And if, in fact, there was a link between them, a person or persons yet unknown clearly had a