In-Laws and Outlaws (10 page)

Yeah, look at me.

My insistence on a separate life for myself was beginning to look more and more like a child's running away from an overwhelming home life. I'd been a little frog in the big Decker pond, and I couldn't stand that. But I'd never really gotten away. As Annette had rather acidly pointed out, I'd had Stuart's money to see me through what otherwise would have been very lean years in the New York theater. And it was Stuart's money that had bought my house in Chicago.

On a sideboard running along the wall behind Rob's desk was a group of framed photos of Bobby. None of Michelle; that would have been an affectation, I supposed, since she occupied the office suite right next to Rob's. There were six pictures in the group, the first of Bobby as a toddler, then one of him at the age when I knew him—around eight, maybe younger. Then Bobby dressed up as Paul Revere for a school pageant, Bobby on a sailboat, Bobby in what must have been his first tuxedo. The last picture showed the composed and confident face of a youngster who looked older than his eighteen years: Bobby the man.

At the end of the sideboard stood one recent picture of Joel, larger than any of the others. The survivor.

The thought struck me that I wouldn't have known about any of this if I hadn't been reading the obituary notice of a longtime favorite movie star, followed by that startling announcement of
Death elsewhere
. Raymond's obituary had pried me out of my self-woven cocoon and plunged me into a world where people murdered each other. If I hadn't bought a paper that day, I'd still be in my museum, effectively insulated against the kind of anguish the family was suffering and would go on suffering. But now … now I was right in the middle of it.

This was not death elsewhere. This was death right here.

7

Dr. Tom Henry was the first to leave Boston for Martha's Vineyard. Then Elinor Ferguson called and said she and Oscar had just arrived there from Washington. Then the Kurlands went down—Michelle, Rob, and Joel. Only Connie and I were left.

At first Connie seemed relieved to be out from under the family's somewhat smothering concern; she even laughed once or twice. But that didn't last long. In less than a day she began to grow fidgety and started talking about getting away for a while. I suggested Hawaii. Too humid, she said. Montego Bay? Too crowded. Well, then, what about Europe? During tourist season? she asked, aghast. Getting desperate, I suggested she try some place she'd never been before. Valparaiso? Zanzibar? Katmandu? Her eyes moistened and she told me she didn't want to be surrounded by strangers.

Then one morning she announced it was time to go to the Vineyard. The repairs on the house were finished; we could move in any time. I couldn't help but think going there would be a mistake; staying in the house where Raymond had burned to death couldn't be easy for her. But Connie had been too dependent on the Deckers for too long to do without them now; the family's daily phone calls from the island urging her to join them merely helped convince her to do something she already wanted to do in the first place.

We started packing. It turned out to be a bigger chore than it should have been; Connie was having trouble making decisions—what to take, what to leave behind. Once I found her in tears, unable to decide between the brown-lensed sunglasses she held in one hand and a yellow pair in the other. She sat droop-shouldered on an armless upholstered chair in her room, her dark hair falling over her eyes; Connie would be fifty in another three years, but at times she was as helpless as a child. But even someone stronger would have had trouble coping with all Connie had been through, so I told her to go take it easy and I'd do her packing for her. I began to understand why everyone always did things for Connie: it was the only way to get anything done. I packed both pairs of sunglasses.

Connie extracted a promise from me that I would stay with her instead of in Stuart's and my house. I told her we could both stay in my house if she felt uncomfortable going back to the place where Raymond had died. But Connie surprised me; she said she was going to have to face it sooner or later, and it might as well be sooner. I understood, in a way; the Vineyard was a source of mixed feelings for me as well, ones I'd never come close to resolving. If Connie could face up to the ordeal, then so could I.

Just smelling the salty tang of the sea on the crossing was enough to get me excited about being back; the air was bracing and all those other words invented to describe sea air. It felt like years since I'd taken such really deep breaths. I'd been citybound too long; and while I knew I'd start yearning for exhaust fumes and noise and crowded sidewalks before too much more time had passed, the island was what I needed right then. Martha's Vineyard was a retreat from the world, it was security surrounded by water, it was a celebrity hideaway, it was easy living.

Connie and I had brought the Jaguar over on the Woods Hole ferry, which churned into the slip at Vineyard Haven where deckhands waited to open the big metal doors. The streets of Vineyard Haven were full of daytrippers on their rented mopeds and college students there for the summer to work as waitresses, bus boys, and tour guides. Across the harbor I could see West Chop; I headed the Jag in that direction when Connie said she didn't want to drive. The short drive was enjoyable; the island was so seductive, so removed from late twentieth-century hassle and push. Arriving at Martha's Vineyard was like leaving the rest of America behind; the habitués referred to the surrounding water as the moat. The island had no traffic lights, no billboards … and no murders.

No murders, until Raymond. What an appalling way to be remembered, as the only homicide victim on Martha's Vineyard. This would be the first summer the clan had convened here without Raymond … and without Bobby, and Ike, and Lynn. I deliberately put the murders out of my mind. We were here to escape.

Summer was a time for roughing it. The family's idea of roughing it was to leave the help behind in Boston. Oh, someone would clean the houses and stock them with supplies before any of the family arrived, and someone would clean up after everybody had gone home. But in between those two times, the Deckers were strictly on their own—cooking, picking up after themselves, enduring other similar hardships. Spending a few weeks each year without someone to do their grunge work for them was as close to the simple life as any Decker ever got. I used to fantasize about dropping them all into the middle of the Gobi Desert or maybe somewhere in the Australian outback, and then sitting back and watching how they fared. I abandoned the fantasy once I realized they'd probably come out owning the place.

I unlocked the gate in the stone wall that separated the Deckers from the rest of the world and drove us through; no electronic gizmo had ever been installed. Connie was understandably nervous about going into the house where Raymond had met such a gruesome death—and to tell the truth, so was I, a little. We both sat in the car and looked at the place for a couple of minutes. It was a lovely old white frame house, roomy and comfortable, with the original Victorian gingerbread still attached to the bottoms of the various overhangs. It had been the earliest Decker summer home; the other houses had been built as they were needed. Starting with Raymond's grandfather, the head of the Decker clan had always seen to it that the original house was meticulously maintained and even enlarged over the years. There was nothing ominous about the place.

“It's just a house,” I finally muttered. “Come on.” Connie reluctantly followed me out of the car.

The place appeared isolated, but it wasn't. Just over a small rise to the left was the Kurlands' house, and a grove of cedar trees to the right hid the Fergusons' place. Beyond the Fergusons' was the house Tom Henry had shared with Annette and Ike and where he was now staying alone. And beyond that was Stuart's and my house. All five houses were enclosed within one continuous stone wall. On the other side of the Kurlands there was room for more houses; Joel would be building his own there one day, but the space tacitly reserved for Bobby, Lynn, and Ike would go unused this generation.

But the five houses that did stand there occupied a stretch of some of the most desirable waterfront property on the island. Each house had its own pier in back; the kids had used them as markers in swimming contests way back when. It was where young Lynn Ferguson had started developing the athletic skills that ultimately led her to an Olympics elimination meet in New York … and to a hotel room she was never to leave.

Morbid thoughts. I took Connie's key from her and unlocked the door. The house smelled sweet and fresh, as if it had been aired only five minutes earlier. It was only when we went toward the back that we caught the lingering odor of smoke that the new coats of paint hadn't quite been able to soak up. From where I was standing I could see two smoke alarms, one in the hallway ceiling and one inside the kitchen. Raymond had evidently been sleeping in the downstairs guest room for some reason, and it was there the fire had started. Had
been
started. The room was easy to get to from outside. Anyone could have walked along the beach and come up from the back. The killer would have arrived by boat; stone walls couldn't do anything about that.

Connie hesitated in the doorway, unwilling to go into the guest room. “His ankle must have been hurting him,” she murmured to herself. “He didn't say a word to me about it.”

I asked her what she was talking about.

Connie roused herself, as if only then remembering I was there. “Raymond broke his ankle while we were living in Norway,” she explained. “It was about a month before … before Theo.” She took a deep breath. “It was a bad break—Raymond was still on crutches when, when Theo was taken. Do you know they don't call them crutches anymore? He was using two of those aluminum cane things, you know what I mean?”

I said I knew.

“Anyway, Raymond's ankle never was right after that. It would hurt him so badly at times, he wouldn't want to climb stairs. He'd always sleep in a downstairs room when that happened.”

“Didn't he have any painkillers?”

“He said they made him dopey the next day. He'd take them if it got too bad.”

Poor man; physical agony on top of everything else. “What a pity he was down here alone. If one of the others had been on the island to see the flames—”

“Oh, they were all here,” Connie said. “It was Annette who called the fire department. I was the only one who hadn't come yet.”

That surprised me; I'd assumed all along that Raymond was the only one of the family on the island at the time of his death. I thought back, trying to remember; I couldn't recall anyone's actually
saying
Raymond had been here alone. But no one had mentioned being here when Raymond had died, either. Odd.

There was something that didn't sound quite right about all that, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Connie and I went out onto a rear deck that had been added since I was last there; we both leaned on the railing and stared out at the sea. At the Kurlands' pier to the left, a small sailboat rode easily in the water, its sails furled. There was a breeze blowing in off the water, carrying that wonderful tangy salt odor with it. It was peaceful there, and pleasant; the weather wasn't too hot yet. June was the nicest time of year, I thought.

June … that was what was wrong. It was still May when Raymond had died. “Connie—what was everyone doing down here in May? You
never
come to the Vineyard that early in the year. Or do you now?”

She shook her head. “No, we didn't get here until the end of July last year. Raymond was, I don't know, jittery, all last month. Really on edge. He said he needed a break and came down early.”

“But what about the others?”

“That was the strangest thing. They all followed him within a few days. Nobody had said a word about going early, and then—bang! Everybody's in this big hurry to get to the Vineyard. Me, I can't just pack up and go that fast.”

“You said everybody was here. You mean Michelle and Annette and their families. Not the Fergusons, surely.”

“Oh yes—Aunt Elinor and Uncle Oscar were here too. Some committee Uncle Oscar chairs was still in session, but he left it to come here. He went back to Washington the very next day after Raymond died.” Connie's voice was a mixture of indignation and hurt. “But they were all here.”

“It sounds to me like some sort of family powwow.”

“No, it couldn't have been. No one told me. I guess everybody just got the fidgets at the same time and wanted to get away for a few days.”

That meant little; Connie was rarely included in the big decision-making. But something had been going on the weekend Raymond died, that was certain. And Connie had been kept out of it, that was equally certain. “Annette and Tom both were here? They hadn't separated yet?”

“They were both here. I think that weekend was when they decided to get a divorce. I'm not sure.”

Some weekend. A family conference important enough to pull Oscar Ferguson away from pressing Congressional duties; Annette and Tom's deciding to go their separate ways; the murder of the head of the clan. I was going to have to get someone to tell me what that conference was about. If anyone would.

After a while we went upstairs to unpack and change. My room was at the back of the house, almost directly over the new deck where Connie and I had been standing, so I had an unobstructed view of the sea. The bedroom had a fireplace—a sure sign of the house's age, that plus the wide planks in the floor. I took out the picture of the four kids Connie had given me and put it on the mantel.

When I went downstairs, Connie was making us some tea. She asked me to call everyone and announce our arrival; the numbers were all programmed into the kitchen phone. The Kurlands weren't home; I left a message on their machine. Elinor Ferguson immediately invited us to dinner, an invitation I accepted after consulting Connie. Tom Henry merely said he was glad I'd decided to come.