A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard (22 page)

“Well,” he said, “I can tell you that he was a fine person. Generous with his time and talents, well liked by everyone here. He was very intelligent, strong willed, and on his toes at all times. He wasn't one of those people who fall all over you, if you know what I mean, but he was always friendly. A very fine man, and one we'll miss.”

“That's the sort of thing I'm after, Mr. Wilbur. Personal stuff like that. If I read you right, you're telling me that he was friendly, but not overfriendly. Is that right?”

Wilbur said he wasn't sure he wanted to say that Ingalls wasn't overfriendly. That phrase made Ingalls sound cold, and he wasn't cold at all. He was just not the exuberant type, if I understood what that meant.

“I think I can,” I said. “He was friendly, but he didn't hang on people. Is that what you mean? That he was more reserved than exuberant.”

“Yes, that's it. A very nice guy, but not the touchy-feely sort. Yes, that was Larry, What a loss.”

“I'm sure. Well, you've been very helpful. Is there anyone there who seemed especially close to him? You know, anyone I could talk to who knew him really well, who might have broken through that reserve of his, and who could help me make a real person out of him for my readers?”

“Well, obviously one such person would be Beth Harper. I understand that they were engaged to be married.”

“Great. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”

“I think she's left the island. She worked as Larry's assistant for some time, as you may know. Perhaps you can get in touch with her at the Boston office of the Department of Environmental Protection.”

“I'll do that.” I pretended to look through my notes. “Another name I was given is Dina Witherspoon, who is,
let me see now, your organization's vice president. Is she in?”

“She's more important than a vice president,” said Wilbur with a laugh. “She's our secretary! An organization can run without a president or a vice president, but it can't run without a secretary!”

I gave a knowing chuckle. “It's the same in every organization, including mine, Mr. Wilbur.”

“I'll punch you through to her, Mr. Quinn.”

“Thanks,” I said. “There's one thing more, Mr. Wilbur. I know it's unpleasant to talk about this, but do you know of any reason someone would have shot Lawrence Ingalls? Any reason at all?”

Wilber's voice was very controlled. “I have no idea at all, Mr. Quinn. But if I were investigating the crime, I'd be talking to some of the people who blamed Larry for closing down Norton's Point Beach. There was a lot of hatred there, as you may know.”

Indeed I did. “Any hater in particular?”

He assumed the high moral ground. “I'm sorry. I'm in no position to make a particular accusation. I have no proof of any kind.”

“How about something strictly off the record? A name I can check out, or a person I can talk to. Someone who might know more than others about what happened out there on the beach where they found Ingalls's body. Can you do that much?”

Wilbur was, of course, dying to tell. “Strictly off the record, then, there is one person you might want to investigate. A man named Jackson, who lives in Edgartown. He's a well-known rabble-rouser, and an enemy of everything Larry Ingalls stood for. He's also the man who claims he found Larry's body. You should investigate him, if you ask me!”

“Terrific. I really appreciate your help, Mr. Wilbur.”

“You're very welcome. I don't want Larry's killer getting away with it, so I'll be pleased if anything I've told
you will help find the person who did it. I'll switch you to Dina's desk now.”

Maybe Joshua's crankiness was really a blessing in disguise. If I'd gone to Marshall Lea headquarters with no way to hide my face and pass myself off as Quinn, I probably couldn't have gotten in to see either Wilbur or Witherspoon. The telephone was the right tool at the right time.

“This is Dina Witherspoon,” said a husky voice on the phone. Her words recreated her in my memory. Dina Witherspoon was a beautiful woman. Tall, brown-haired, rich, intelligent, and devoted to environmentalism, she had long been the object of admiring masculine eyes, including my own. Next to Zee, I could think of no island woman who was more attractive.

Attractive, that is, except for her almost religious devotion to her great cause. Her burning passion for it made her less lovely to me, since I am deeply suspicious of all overly devoted people.

“My name is Quinn,” I said. “I work for the
Boston Globe.
We're doing a story on Lawrence Ingalls. Your name came up as one who might give me some useful information about him. I'm trying to get some sense of him as a person. What sort of man he was, who might have wanted him dead, and why. I hope you can help me.”

Her sepia-colored voice filled my ear. “He was a wonderful man, Mr. Quinn, maybe even a great man. He worked all of his life to save the environment, to save the earth. He was an inspiration to all of us here at the foundation, and will be missed more than I can say. He's irreplaceable.”

“So Mr. Wilbur told me. What was he like as a person? Mr. Wilbur characterized him as friendly but a bit reserved. As a woman, how did you perceive him?”

“As a woman? As a woman, Mr. Quinn, I perceived him the same way any man would perceive him. I don't care for this 'as a woman' talk. It's sexist at best, and foolish at worst.”

Land mine. I jumped back. “You're absolutely right,” I said. “I apologize. But as one who worked closely with him, you must have developed a sense of his character. What was he like?”

“For one thing, Mr. Quinn, he never treated me or any of the other women here as anything but equals. He didn't put his hands on us or make sexist jokes or do any of that sort of thing. He didn't ask for dates, or stare at our legs or breasts. He was totally professional at all times. He was always friendly, but never tried to be intimate. He was a wonderful colleague. Bright, hardworking, dedicated. I never worked with a better person.”

Saint Lawrence.

I said, “I understand he was engaged to a woman named Beth Harper. She may be the person who knew him best. I'd like to talk with her. Do you know where she is?”

The smoky voice said Beth might be in Boston, back at work there.

“I'll try to get in touch with her there. One last thing, Miss Witherspoon—”

“Ms. Witherspoon, Mr. Quinn.”

Ye gods. “Ms. Witherspoon, then. Who were Ingalls's enemies? Everything I hear about the guy says he shouldn't have had any. But somebody killed him for some reason, and I could use some suggestions about where to start looking for that person and those reasons. Can you help me out at all? Just a name, maybe. Anything you can tell me, any direction you might point me.”

“If you want to find the murderer,” said Dina Wither-spoon, “look at the people who hated him.”

“At the ORV drivers who were mad because he closed off that section of South Beach?”

I could almost see her nod. “I imagine that most of them are just naive people who don't understand the importance of Larry's decision about that beach. But there are some crazies who are dangerous.”

“Strictly off the record,” I said. “Give me a name.” She gave me mine, just as Joshua woke up and began to cry.

What a day.

Joshua howled. I investigated. Aha! Diaper rash! Where had it come from? It hadn't been there before. I applied antidotes to Joshua's bottom and he seemed to feel better, even though he stayed whiny. In eighteen years I could send him away to college, but between now and then, he was in my hands for better or worse.

I took him outside and we checked the garden. New weeds had appeared. If we could figure a way to make weeds a cash crop, we'd be rich. I put Joshua in his foreman's chair under a parasol and went to work on my hands and knees. When I finished weeding the garden, I felt his brow. Not hot, not cold. Just right. We got into the Land Cruiser and drove to the Edgartown police station. There, I put him in the baby sling I used to carry him on my chest, and the two of us went in. The chief was in his office attacking a pile of papers stacked beside the computer on his desk.

“I should have invested in paper stock,” he growled. “I'd be retired by now. You remember when computers were first the rage? Some of the gurus said that since everything could be done with electronics, offices could save a fortune on typing paper. Ha! We use more paper now than we did before. And so does everybody else. And the price of paper is going up every day!”

“Ah, for the good old days, eh?”

He sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Forget the good old days. I lived through them, and I wouldn't want them back.”

I looked shocked. “What do you mean? You're always grousing about the traffic and the crowds being worse than ever. That sounds like nostalgia to me.”

“Yeah, well, I could do with less of this damned paper-work, and a lot less traffic, but aside from that you can have the good old days, as far as I'm concerned. What brings you out of the woods?”

“Any news about the Ingalls case?”

“If there was, I wouldn't tell you. People would think we were in cahoots.”

Zack Delwood already thought that.

I sat down. “By God, you're right. My reputation would be ruined.”

“If I had your reputation, I'd want it ruined. Then I could rebuild from scratch and maybe get it right this time.”

“Since you won't talk, I will,” I said. And I told him most of what I'd seen and heard since last we'd spoken. I didn't tell him about my encounter with Zack Delwood or the lies I'd told, but I did go over my conversation with the folks at the Marshall Lea Foundation.

“I'm surprised,” said the chief when I was through. “I'd have guessed that none of those people would give you the time of day. And here they treated you like an old friend. How do you figure that?”

“I attribute it to my sparkling personality.”

“Sure. Anyway, I don't see that you've learned anything useful. Ingalls's friends all told you what a swell guy he was. Where does that get you?”

“Maybe nowhere, but maybe somewhere, if Joe Begay and Quinn come up with anything.”

“If they do, let me know what it is.”

“I'll tell you at least as much as you've just told me. What do you make of Ingalls's taste for erotic art and books?”

The chief shrugged. “I don't make anything of it. It's not everybody's cup of tea, but there's nothing unusual
about it. In fact, it's pretty popular. And nothing new about it, either. If I remember right, there's whole walls of such stuff in the ruins of Pompeii. And the old-time Greeks painted sex scenes on their pottery, too. Or maybe Ingalls was just a collector, like some people collect salt shakers.”

I couldn't find anything wrong with his argument, so I asked him where Beth Harper was.

“I think she's up in Boston. Got out of town quick, just in case you changed your mind about not pressing charges against her, I imagine. She works for the DEP up there.”

“Did you get a statement from her?”

“You mean about when she tried to shoot you? Of course. But once you dropped the charges, and we knew she didn't shoot Ingalls, we let her go.”

“No, I mean about her relations with Ingalls.”

“We asked her, but she was no help. She couldn't imagine him having any enemies. The guy must have had a halo, from what people say.”

“I never saw it.”

“I haven't seen any in my whole life. The people I meet in my line of work don't wear them. For that matter, neither do I.”

Nor did I. “Find Moonbeam yet?”

He frowned. “No, but I want to.”

“And I want something to eat.”

Josh and I drove down through teeming Edgartown, and I wondered, not for the first time, why so many people were in town on such a fine day. Why weren't they at the beach, where any sensible person would be? Come to think of it, why weren't Josh and I out on the golden sands?

Parking places were scarce, but I found one on North Summer Street, and Joshua and I walked down to the Dock Street Coffee Shop for brunch. Joshua brought his own bottle, which nobody seemed to mind.

Over coffee and a Portuguese McMuffin, I listened to
the latest gossip. There wasn't much that was new, except that Moonbeam Berube hadn't been seen in a while. The most popular theory was that Moonbeam and his wife were on the outs again, and Moonbeam was probably sleeping in his truck until things settled down. It wasn't the first time that Connie had thrown him out of the house. The last time had been when he'd sold her milk cow while she was shopping at the up-island market. Moonbeam, who didn't see very far into the future, and who had no attachment to animal, vegetable, or mineral, would sell anything, including other people's stuff, without a qualm, if it got him enough money to buy whatever it was he wanted at the moment. It had taken days for Connie to get over her fury about the cow, and she had only taken Moonbeam back after he got her a milk goat to replace it. There was some speculation about how long he'd be persona non grata this time, and general agreement that it was a good thing it was summertime, because a man living in a pickup could get mighty cold in the winter.

Nobody theorized that Moonbeam might be a killer on the run. Neither did I.

To my left, Pete Scorsese finished his meal and came past me, headed for the door. He paused and tapped my shoulder lightly with his big fist. “I know you didn't shoot that Ingalls guy,” he said in a whisper that carried the length of the cafe. “But if you did, you made a lot of people happy.” He winked and went on out the door.

Terrific. I looked down the row of seats to my right. Bill Perry, one of many ORV drivers who had long held the view that the world would be a better place without any Lawrence Ingalls, was sitting down there. He leaned forward and looked back at me. Then he lifted his coffee cup in a sort of salute and smiled at me. I stood up, and a silence fell over the room.