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folly or a sucker-farm that had sprung up in
their midst and then, in the manner of such things, collapsed. The
money had been nice, but too many years had passed for Lynnhaven to
feel anything more than indifference to the dim memory buried in
the tumbledown estate high on the edge of town.
    Lynnhaven was neither gloomy nor unpleasant.
Some people even thought that its slightly shabby, slightly
run-down appearance made it quaint and pretty. But the town didn't
have a good beach or much of anything else to draw tourists. Those
who did pass through Lynnhaven usually continued on their way after
cruising the few central streets.
    Blair's Market still sold bottles of
Lynnhaven Water, but they moved very slowly. The mineral content,
which included sulpher in strength, may have been good for one's
health, but it left something to be desired in the flavor
department. Chief among the other stores in town were a couple of
boat and tackle shops, a vintage Western Auto, Mae's Candy, which
specialized in undistinguished saltwater taffy, and Marine
Antiques, which was open whatever odd hours suited its proprietor,
Monroe Tillotson.
    Two of the town's larger and more elegant
homes had been converted to boarding houses, providing inexpensive
accommodation for some of Lynnhaven's solitary folk-widows and
widowers, spinsters and bachelors, people without relatives or
money enough to live anywhere else. They survived on Social
Security and miscellaneous jobs. Everyone knew Miss Merrion, for
instance, who had a room at Laurel House. She sold magazine
subscriptions and stuffed envelopes for a company a thousand miles
away in Minneapolis.
    If there was nothing particularly attractive
about Lynnhaven, neither was it the worst place in the world to
live. If you liked seafood it was possible to eat very cheaply
there. The boats went out every morning and came back every
evening, and bargains could be had when they unloaded. Moreover,
Lynnhaven was a completely safe town. For more than forty years the
police force of two had had little to do other than keep their one
squad car polished and the drunks in line. Miss Merrion and others
like her could walk home alone after bingo on the darkest night
without fear of being bothered. Even the town dogs were well
behaved.
    Lynnhaven had to do without
some things, inevitably. It had neither a local newspaper nor a
library, and the Rialto movie house had been turned into a
warehouse years ago. In fact, the last film shown there had
been Abbott and Costello Meet
Frankenstein , in 1948. The nearest A &
P was ten miles away and the only church in Lynnhaven was Saint
Paul's, which retained a small but reliable congregation of
Lutherans. The fire department was strictly volunteer and was put
to the test only a few times a year, dealing with things like a
grease fire in the kitchen or a small electrical blaze caused by
old wiring. If a real fire had ever started, especially on Polidori
Street where the buildings stood one to another, half the town
could have been wiped out in very little time. But nothing so
dramatic ever happened in Lynnhaven.
    There were those who would say that the last
time the town ever got worked up about anything was during World
War II. A group of local men, who for one reason or another had not
been called into the war effort, formed themselves into a kind of
unofficial home guard, armed with guns, clubs and fishing spears.
They patrolled the shore and kept watch day and night. It would be
just too bad for any German sub they got their hands on. But not
even the Nazis bothered to visit Lynnhaven.
    Presidents took office and departed without
having much impact on the townspeople. Few registered, and of those
fewer still got around to voting. Politics, like crime, was
something that took place elsewhere. You could keep track of it on
television if you were interested. In spite of, or perhaps because
of its proximity to Washington, Lynnhaven could not boast a single
nuclear fallout shelter.