A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard (24 page)

He gave a snort. “If I find out anything else, it'll be by accident. I don't have time to do this pro bono work for the likes of you. Unlike some people I could name, I've got a real job.”

“Don't make me laugh,” I said. “You're a journalist.”

We rang off, and I went outside.

Joshua was still under his umbrella, taking in the sights: birds around the feeders, a branch moving in the wind, shadows dappling the lawn. His was a prettier world than mine. I wondered if he'd trade, but decided not to ask. He'd grow into mine soon enough; better if I tried to get into his.

I went back to weeding flowers. Out of the experiences I'd had before and after Ingalls's death, some sort of shape was beginning to form from the fragments of information I was getting. But parts of it were missing, and I couldn't make it out. Perhaps I had overlooked the parts. Or perhaps I'd not yet encountered them.

I weeded the hanging pots, and the flower boxes on the fence, and got to work on the ground beds. How long had it been since I'd first met Ingalls, on the beach in Gay Head? Only ten days. I thought about what I'd heard and seen since then, trying to remember everything. What did I know? Not a lot.

Then thoughts of Zee began to mix with those of Ingalls. Where was her plane now? What was she thinking about? What would she find waiting for her in California?

I remembered the Zen master who said to his confused student, “If you are confused, be confused. Do not be confused by confusion. Be totally confused!”

But I was not a Zen master, or even a good student, so I willed myself away from my confusion and tried to become only a weeder of flowers whose son was watching him as he weeded under a soft summer sky. But Zee and
Ingalls continued to intrude upon the oneness I was trying to make of Joshua, the flowers and weeds, the sky, and myself, and I was still confused by confusion.

I was washing the supper dishes when Zee called from her Los Angeles hotel.

It had been a perfect flight, and she was tired but fine. Drew and Emily had met her at the airport. She was having dinner with them and tomorrow was getting a tour of a studio before getting ready for her screen test. L.A. was a huge place that went on for miles in every direction. There was supposedly a sign high in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado that said “Los Angeles City Limits"! How was Joshua? How was I? She missed us both, but would be home soon. She'd call again tomorrow. She loved us both.

I played with Joshua for a while, alternately watched and ignored by Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, who didn't seem to mind having been nudged out of their position as primary family pets by the newcomer who now occupied so much of their humans' attention.

When I thought the time was right, I walked with Joshua in my arms and softly sang “Wynken, Blynken and Nod” until his eyes were heavy, then I put him to bed. He fussed a bit, then quieted down. When I peeked the first time, he caught me in the act, having only faked being asleep. But the second time, he was off in the wooden shoe, sailing down that river of crystal light into the sea of dew.

The mountain would not come to Mohammed, so Mohammed went to the mountain. Since Joe Begay had not called me, I called him.

“I told you this would take some time,” he said. “I don't have much yet. Just some dates and destinations from back in the seventies, when Larry was in Malaysia and Thailand and thereabouts.”

“Quinn says his father was over there after World War Two, on banking business, and that when his kid was first in that trade, he took him over there to show him the way around.”

“That'd be Carlson Bank and Trust. Pretty big outfit, but straight arrow, as far as I know.”

“A lot of drugs come out of that area,” I said. “A big international banking outfit might have a finger in that pie.”

“I think I'd have heard about it if it did,” said Begay casually, “but I'll double-check.”

I wondered but didn't ask why he would have heard about it.

“I'd like to have you concentrate on Ingalls's foreign travel,” I said. “I've asked Quinn to let that go and focus on his private life at home. That way, each of you only has to look at one thing, and afterward maybe I can put the two together, if there's anything to put together.”

Begay heard something in my voice that I hadn't known was there.

“You think there is something, don't you?”

When he said that, I knew he was right. I did think that. It was almost a relief to realize it.

“Yes,” I said. “I don't know what it is, but the past is prologue.”

“What would we do without the Bard?” said Begay. “I'll talk to you later.”

He rang off, and I got myself a Sam Adams and took it out to the balcony, where I sat under the darkening sky and watched the lights glimmer from the far side of the sound. Above me, the Milky Way was a white road across the sky. As I looked up at it, more of old Bill's wisdom gave form to my thoughts: the fault lay not in our stars, but in ourselves. I drank some beer. It was cold and good, just like the night sky.

“It really is a tinsel town,” said Zee two nights later. She was three thousand miles away, but sounded like she was just next door, where I wished she really was. “Everything's shine and glitter on one side and strictly business on the other. The people out here talk the talk and walk the walk, but when they go home, they mostly only think about the money. It's great! I'm having a terrific time!”

“How's the screen test coming along?”

“I've been made up, dressed up, dressed down, and I've read from a script. They've taken stills and movies and even tried to make me act. Everybody says nice things, but I'll tell you the truth: I don't think I've got what it takes. When I move around in front of all those people and cameras, I feel like I'm made out of wood. And when I try to read what they give me, I sound like an illiterate!” She laughed, and I felt happy. “I'm having fun, but I don't think we should sell the farm and move out here so I can have a career on the silver screen. I have met a couple of people who want to be my agent, though. Everything that moves out here has an agent, of course. But Emily—that's Drew's wife—gave me the right advice: I should enjoy everything, have a good time, and not take any of it seriously, especially what people say to me, because it's Hollywood, and everything is images. So that's what I've been doing.”

“Good. Have you met any stars yet?”

“They pointed some out to me, in the commissary, but I haven't seen any close up. Or at least I don't think I
have. I'm afraid that I'm really not very good at recognizing them, to tell you the truth. Maybe we should go to more movies or watch more TV after I get back, so I won't be such a hick.”

Zee, the hick. “I'd think that all the glitter and glitz would make it hard for a star to keep both feet on the ground,” I said.

“Stars aren't supposed to be on the ground,” said Zee, faking primness. “They're supposed to be in the sky! That's why they call them stars! But really, Emily tells me that a lot of them are just ordinary people, even though a lot of others aren't.”

“Isn't Kevin Turner her brother? Have you met him yet?”

“No, but I'm going to this weekend. Drew and Emily are throwing a party and Kevin is supposed to come. Right now, he's on the road, promoting his latest movie, which I guess is another swashbuckler. Did you notice that I call him Kevin, even though I've never met him? That's because I'm in Hollywood, and out here we're all on a first-name basis with everybody!”

“And what does Emily say about him? Is he ordinary people, or the other kind?”

“Well, Emily is plain folks, but as a matter of fact she doesn't have a lot to say about Kevin. So I guess I'll just have to wait and see. Now tell me about you and Joshua. I can hardly wait to get home!”

So I told her about Josh and me going fishing on East Beach and getting a Spanish mackerel at the Jetties, and about the two of us taking the dinghy and fishing in vain for bonito off the Oak Bluffs dock, and about the trouble I was having with, of all things, our zucchinis, which seemed to be defying the laws of nature by dying instead of overrunning the earth as they usually did, and about everything except the Ingalls business, which she forgot to ask about before she rang off.

Three more days, and she'd be home!

The next morning, Joshua and I were at the A & P when the doors opened. A few minutes later, as we were piloting our carriage past the deli section, we ran into Manny and Helen Fonseca, who, like us, were shopping in the early morning.

“What's the latest gossip?” I asked.

“Well, I guess Moonbeam is still hiding out,” said Manny. “Connie must really be mad at him this time.”

“It's happened before,” I said.

“Yeah, but usually somebody sees him somewhere. I hear they found his pickup in the St. Augustine's parking lot up in Vineyard Haven. Some people park there when they take the ferry to Woods Hole, so maybe he went over to America till she calms down.”

“What'd he do this time?”

Manny shrugged. “Don't ask me. They're both strange birds. How's Zee?”

“Zee is in California,” I said, and told them what she was doing out there and when she'd be back.

“She's certainly pretty enough to be a movie star,” said Helen. “Wouldn't it be something if she got to be one! You could live in a Hollywood mansion instead of up there in the woods.”

“How about me?” I said. “Do you think I'm star material?”

She laughed. “Sure, J.W., sure you are!”

“When she gets back,” Manny said, “you have her give me a call so we can do some more practice. October ain't far away.”

“I'll do that,” I said.

Josh and I were putting our groceries in the Land Cruiser when I saw Barbara Singleton get out of her car and walk toward the store. She didn't seem to see me, and I felt a little tingle.

I drove home and got my lock picks, then, with Joshua still in his car seat, headed up-island, wondering how long Barbara would be gone and whether Connie Berube still felt that she was in charge of security at Lawrence Ingalls's house.

It seemed to me that if Barbara had just wanted to do some grocery shopping, she'd have done it at the Up-Island Market, which was a lot nearer home. But she hadn't done that. Instead, she'd gone all the way to Edgartown. Which probably meant she had some other business at that end of the island, and wouldn't be home until she'd taken care of it. And since it was still early, and a lot of places wouldn't be open until eight or nine o'clock, she might not come home until mid- to late morning.

Which meant no one was in Ingalls's house and that no one would be for an hour or maybe two.

That left Connie the watchdog. How would she respond to seeing me heading up to the house? Especially since she'd no doubt seen Barbara leaving it earlier in the day, and knew nobody was home.

I turned off North Road and followed the winding drive-way. Passing Moonbeam's place, I noted that the old back-hoe had been moved a bit and that the sewer trench had more new dirt in it. Maybe the job would finally get done someday. Maybe not.

The eldest boy, Jason junior, watched me pass, his lovely, pale, empty face turning on his slender neck as I went by. Two smaller children, as white and delicate as their older brother, stopped playing in the patch of mud that they squatted in, and watched as well. I didn't see Connie.

I parked in front of Ingalls's house, got Joshua into the sling I used to carry him on my chest, and went up to the front door. I knocked and listened and knocked and listened some more, then went around to the back of the house and raised my voice.

“Anybody home?”

No answer.

I walked over to the path that led down to the beach, and called again.

Still no answer. And no one in sight, either. I went back to the rear door, opened its lock, and went inside the
house. I was getting pretty good with locks. Maybe I had a potential vocation in crime.

I went to the desk in the study and picked the simple locks on the drawers. I didn't know what I expected to find, but I didn't find it. Apparently, Lawrence Ingalls was just a guy who liked things locked. There are people like that; they lock their houses, lock their cars, lock their desks, lock everything. I've never understood them, being the kind of person who almost never locks anything but my gun cabinet. And even then, the key is on top of the cabinet, where anybody can find it. Besides, I am of the school that maintains that locks only keep out honest people, a theory supported by the fact that I was now pawing through the papers in the drawers of Lawrence Ingalls's desk.

And the papers were just papers: files having to do with the work of the DEP, a file with a record of the money paid to Connie Berube for housekeeping duties, another one with a record of money (a pretty generous amount, I thought) paid to Jason Berube, Sr., for keeping up the grounds, files of past and future income tax materials, files containing those guarantees and forms that come with equipment you buy: your radio, your washing machine, your computer, all of which come with folders and papers that list model numbers, and tell you what to do if you have problems, where to call, and who to write.

I never keep those papers, but Lawrence Ingalls kept them all in neat files in the locked drawers of his desk. There was nothing there to suggest a motive for his murder.

I locked the drawers again and went to the file cabinets. Again the locks opened easily, as such uncomplicated locks are inclined to do, and again I found myself looking at neat files of papers. Records of visits to doctors, all routine, as far as I could tell; records of credit card transactions; records of the costs of building the house; records of travel expenses; records of auto and truck purchases and repairs; records of Lawrence Ingalls's whole
life, it seemed. Hadn't he ever thrown a piece of paper away?