Nantucket Grand (8 page)

Chapter Nine

The Holdout: Andrew Thayer

My last interview was with Andrew Thayer himself. He was distraught, barely able to talk until I gave him two fingers of whiskey from my Lagavulin stash. It was against regulations, but that's one of the perks of being the chief.

“I can't believe this,” he said, for the tenth time in five minutes. “I just can't believe this. It makes no sense.”

“Maybe, maybe not, That's what we're here to find out. Was the property insured?”

“Of course it was insured! But I'd have nothing to gain from that! It's all done through the Thayer Trust. Any insurance settlements or litigation awards get donated to the Maria Mitchell Association. Edna was on the board for years. She helped with fundraising for the Loines Observatory and helped them buy the new telescope. No one could coax a thousand-dollar check from a hedge fund manager like Edna. She used to say—‘that's like getting steak bone from a Boston terrier.'”

“I see, so do you—?”

“I loved that house! That was my mother's house! Her grandfather built it with his own hands. That was our whole family history, right there. Not just the house but the photographs and diaries, the letters and clippings and…yacht club party invitations. My grandfather was a member when it was still only a rinky-dink offshoot of the New York Yacht Club. We go back…that house—it was the…It was us, it was who we were.”

“So you don't think anyone in the family might have set the fire?”

“God, no!”

“Someone who knew you were against selling the property?”

“Absolutely not!”

“You're sure?”

He took a big swallow and set the glass down, reaching over to place it on the blotter, not my desk. His life might be falling apart but he wasn't going to leave a wet circle on a piece of fine cherry wood.

“Chief Kennis, my siblings may be awful but they're not horrible.”

“I'm not sure I see the distinction.”

“A horrible person burns down houses! That's the distinction.”

I nodded. “And an awful one?”

“Larry went in there with his own key and took every lightship basket before Mom's body was cold. He was late for the funeral—that was why! He claimed she wanted him to have them and there's nothing in the will, so…but it wasn't right. Ransacking the place like that. Do you know what my sister, Joyce, said? She swore, I won't quote her, I don't use language like that. She was furious she let him get there first! That was all. He beat her to the punch! The idea of actually sharing…of sitting down together and talking things out…not in my family. It's every man for himself with the Thayer clan. Or woman. Especially woman. My sister is a devious, meanspirited harpy. But she's no arsonist. She's afraid of fire. Always fretting that the chimneys are going catch and burn the house down.”

“Could that have happened?”

He shook his head. “Not out there. No one has built a fire in that cottage for a decade. The flue was closed up in '07. Largely due to Joyce's badgering.”

I spun around once in my chair, and caught the edge of the desk to set myself facing him again. “Have you heard any rumors about the house?”

“Rumors?”

“For instance, that it was being used as a sort of studio for making films.”

“What sort of films?”

“You tell me.”

“I have no idea.”

“Pornographic films?”

“That's ludicrous.”

“How many people had keys?”

“Just the family. And the caretaker—Billy Delavane. He's family now.”

“You never noticed anything odd out there? Film equipment? Lights?”

He cocked his head in thought. “Well, Chick Crosby has been storing some equipment at the place. He's making a documentary about bird migrations or something. Saves him hauling everything out to the moors and he's a good friend of Larry's. I don't see anything sinister there.”

“No.”

“Are you sure it was even arson at all?”

“They suspect a propellant was used. We don't have the lab work back yet.”

“This is awful. Just awful. I simply can't believe it.”

That was number eleven. I decided to get him out of my office before he tried for a record-breaking twelve. But he hit it at the door: “This is just so…unbelievable. I can't believe it. I just can't.”

I gave him the benefit of the doubt on the variation in usage and silently awarded him a very small trophy for his thirteen repetitions. I'm not overly superstitious, but in retrospect that seemed like bad luck.

Once Andrew was gone, I called a meeting with Haden Krakauer, Kyle Donnelly, and Charlie Boyce. I hated to delegate but there was too much for one person to do, and according to the Selectmen, I wasn't supposed to do anything but push papers, attend administrative meetings, and talk to the newspaper when we had a blizzard. That would have been a nice, easy sinecure, but I get bored too easily, and my staff was still learning on the job.

You learn police work by doing it, so I gave them their marching orders.

I wanted every house within a mile of the Thayer cottage canvassed. I wanted statements from anyone who might have heard or seen anything. It was still shotgun deer-hunting season, so I wanted every license pulled and every hunter who'd bagged a deer that day interviewed, whether they lived on-island or not, and most of them didn't. That would mean getting the cooperation of various other local jurisdictions and I left that to Haden. If any of those hunters were anywhere near the Pout Ponds, they might have heard or seen something. I wanted them debriefed before their memories faded.

Next on the list: copies of the State Police arson report and the ballistics report on the bullet I dug out of the moors. Those documents needed to be analyzed, point by point.

Then there were the family members—both Macy's family and Thayer's. Unfortunately, statistically, despite Andrew's protestations, they were the most likely perpetrators. The random act of destruction and the wraith-like hit man were staples of crime fiction, but as rare in real life as Bigfoot.

I also set my detectives poking into the victims' business dealings, social activities, friends, romantic involvements, social media—everything they could dig up without a court order or a search warrant.

My first mission: I wanted another visit with Andrew Thayer, to see him in his own space. Our interview felt incomplete. Lonnie Fraker called me as I was on my way out the door, with news on the propellant—it was jet fuel. That made no sense to me, but Thayer might know something. He might own a jet, or know someone who did.

I drove over to Andrew's house on Union Street. As a day trader who had left his big firm to work alone, he spent most days in his attic office working three computers, the NASDAC, and NYSE, and the NIKKEI simultaneously. He was also short-selling commodities futures this afternoon, and apologized for being distracted.

“Multi-tasking is my specialty.”

I glanced at the three Apple desktop monitors as he sat down in front of the middle one, and sipped from his mug of coffee.

“Good thing,” I said.

“Crap. I have to do this. Hold on.” He typed furiously for a few seconds, then spun his ergonomic desk chair around to face me. “I quit because I was working too hard. Now I'm working harder than ever.”

“But you get to keep all the money.”

He nodded. “And no office politics. Unless you count Buster. And he's very demanding.” Andrew was referring to his black Lab, who had followed us up the stairs and was pawing Andrew's knee at every break in the petting. “Great dog. If there was a Nantucket flag, the black Lab would be on it. Maybe not this black Lab—” The dog cocked his head, sensing the change in tone. “Just kidding, buddy.” The dog's tail thumped on the floor. I gave him a pat myself, while Andrew attacked the computer keyboard. “So how can I help you, Chief?”

I didn't know what I was looking for, or exactly why I had needed an immediate follow-up to his interrogation at the cop shop. I had no specific questions—just a general one: who was this guy?

I glanced around the cramped office: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a canvas-covered wing chair with a floor lamp, and one of Jane Stiles' Madeline Clark mysteries on the end table next to it. An oval hooked rug on the wide-board floor held a scatter of newspapers and magazines and a plate that had obviously been licked clean by Buster. It struck me as odd: the downstairs was scrupulously neat, with the exception of the kitchen table, which had the look of a very temporary glitch in the clean machine. I would have guessed the office was Thayer's sanctuary from the housekeeping tyranny of a more exigent wife or girlfriend. Having done my homework, I knew Thayer was divorced.

Suddenly the trip seemed worthwhile. “I'd like to talk to your girlfriend when she gets home.”

He flinched. “Girlfriend?”

“When does she get off work?”

“I don't have a girlfriend. Currently.”

“Fine—roommate, then. I just need to double check some things with her—or him.”

“What are you talking about? I live alone.”

I sighed. “No you don't.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, there were two coffee mugs on the kitchen table when I came in.”

“I leave dishes for the maid.”

“One of them had coffee in it.”

“I'm absent-minded.”

“Coffee with milk.” I nodded toward the mug on his desk. “You drink it black.”

He stared at me. “You noticed that?”

“It's my job description. Noticing stuff.”

“We walked past the kitchen door. The table was visible for two seconds! We didn't even go in.”

“I'm a snoop.”

“This is ridiculous.”

I pushed on. “As we were walking upstairs I could have sworn I heard the back door open and close. And a minute or so later, I heard a car start. It's probably just a coincidence, but your house backs onto the town parking lot. So the timing is good.”

“That's crazy.”

“Who is she?”

“She's no one.”

I smiled. “So, it is a she.”

“What does this have to do with my house burning down?”

“You tell me.”

He took a breath and let it out slowly, jammed his eyes shut and opened them as the carbon dioxide vented. “Okay. There is someone staying with me. Temporarily. But she's not an—an arsonist. There's no—it's not possible. I don't want her caught up with any more—with any trouble. She needs a break.”

“Who is she?”

“Just a friend.”

“A high school friend? A new friend?”

“She used to come here in the summer. She's had a shitty life, and it's—oh, I know what you're thinking—poor little rich girl. Nantucket summer chick couldn't find the right lipstick at Murray's. Well, sorry, but rich people have problems too. Just not money problems. There's lots of problems besides money problems. You'd know that if you ever had any money.”

“Father issues?”

He coughed out a humorless laugh. “Stepfather.”

“What happened?”

“Just about everything. I'd rather not talk about it and it's not my place anyway. I'm on the sidelines here. Trying to help. And she has nothing to do with—” He cut himself off.

“With what?”

“With anything. With anything bad. She's a victim, not a—what do you call it? What's the word? A perpetrator. She couldn't steal a penny candy from a dime store.”

“Maybe I could help her.”

“The police? Are you kidding? The police don't help people. They make trouble. They think everyone's a criminal because that's all they see. Sorry, but it's true. I dated a girl when I was in college, her father was on the Highway Patrol. He acted like I-95 was a fucking Mad Max movie. No, no, no. The last thing she wants is to get tangled up with the police. I mention the police and she's gone.”

“Don't mention the police. Just let me talk to her.”

“Is there some law? Do I have to do this?”

“No. Not right now. But eventually, under oath, you'd be required to—”

“Under oath? Wait—what? There's going to be a trial?”

“I certainly hope so. That's usually what happens, after we arrest someone.”

“Right, sure. Yeah, of course. A trial. But I mean—how do you know it wasn't just an accident? It wouldn't have to be from the fireplace—a chimney fire, like we said before. It could have been anything—a cigarette, kids smoking a joint. That place was a tinderbox.”

“The State Police investigators recovered traces of a propellant. Someone started the fire with jet fuel. Do you know anyone with access to a jet?”

He stared at me. “A jet?”

“That's what the report says. The fire was started with jet fuel.”

“The jet set. Right. I don't have that kind of money and neither does anyone I know. I hate those assholes anyway. I heard one of them say he has a separate plane for his dog.”

“It wouldn't have to be an owner, Mr. Thayer. A pilot, someone on the ground crew, maintenance people, fuel delivery guys, airport security…”

He sniffed. “I don't exactly hang out with those people, either. I guess that makes me middle-class. At least in this world. Where ten thousand dollars is a ‘Nantucket grand.'”

“Do you think you might have pissed any of them off?”

“Jet maintenance mechanics?”

I blew out a breath. “Working people. Tradesmen. House cleaners, gardeners. The support system that keeps this island running.”

“And required this island to build a police station roughly the size of Buckingham Palace.”

“Excuse me?”

“We let the riffraff in and we have to protect ourselves from them—that's the attitude. That's the dirty little secret. Think about it. When I was growing up, we had five police officers on this island, which worked for everyone because we also had
no crime
. But we also weren't the premier gateway destination for illegal immigrants. Don't get me wrong, Chief. I like change. I like a more diverse population. I like hearing Portugese and Lithuanian and Spanish and whatever else in the grocery store. Jamaican patois, Belarusian. This place was turning into an inbred nightmare. I voted against the police station at Town Meeting, but facts are facts. Even well-off people feel poor living here, cheek by jowl with billionaires. Get a crowd of actual poor people angry enough, rouse them up—you've got a rabble. People lose their heads when that shit goes down. Their actual heads. Ask Marie Antoinette. You thought ‘Let them eat cake' was bad? Try ‘Let them eat Cumberland Farms donuts.' That's really adding insult to injury.”