Vineyard Stalker (19 page)

Just in case Fred and Angie decided to change their minds and to wreak vengeance upon me before seeking medical aid, I tried to sleep lightly and got up when the eastern sky was beginning to brighten, to go out and reconnoiter the premises. I saw nothing suspicious. At five thirty I drove to Vineyard Haven and swung by the parking lots on Water Street. There, sure enough, was the white Mercedes, waiting to join the stand-by line. I didn't wave as I drove by.

At home, I was finishing stacking the breakfast dishes when the phone rang. It was Quinn, calling from Boston.

“What are you doing up this early?” I asked. “Did somebody throw you out of her apartment because of performance failure?”

“The fourth estate never sleeps,” said Quinn. “I finally had a chat with Sonny Whelen. I told him I was snooping around for a story about how hoodlums these days compared with the boys in yesteryears, and mentioned Fred and Angie. He said all he knew about crime was what he got from the papers or TV, or the gossip he heard when he was having lunch, but that he'd been told of two guys named Fred McMahan and Angelo Vinci, who are trying to revolutionize robbery by using stun guns instead of real ones, when possible, to minimize the risk of being accused of murder if they ever got caught. Sonny said he thought that was quaint.”

“Sonny actually said ‘quaint'?”

“Yeah. He also said that he'd heard that they were specializing as muscle for out-of-town jobs. Their idea, he'd heard, was that as long as they worked someplace else they could always come back to Charlestown where nobody, including the cops, would be mad at them. He thought they got the idea from some movie.”

“Did he think it was a good one?”

“You know Sonny. He always says he doesn't know anything about crime.”

“Did he happen to say how the boys got customers?”

“Said somebody'd told him that they just spread the word in bars, then waited.”

“They get a lot of work?”

“Sonny said he didn't know anything about that, but that he'd heard they advertised in Cambridge and Boston and places like that instead of in Charlestown where somebody might think they were nosing in on territory that was already taken.”

“Did honest-citizen Sonny say how he happened to know about Charlestown being already taken?”

“He said he watches a lot of crime shows on television. Besides, in Charlestown everybody knows about crime.”

I wasn't sure that all Charlestownians knew about crime, but it was true that the city had the reputation of housing more than its share of gangsters and of having a particular tradition of up-and-coming young criminals proving their mettle by robbing armored cars as a rite of passage. Sonny Whelen was long past being personally involved in such heists, but there was little doubt in the minds of the local cops that he derived benefit from them and most of the other underworld activities in town.

“Does Sonny have any paternal interest in Fred and Angie?”

“Not that I detected.”

“Did he mention any bars where Fred and Angie might have left word of their availability for work?”

“No, but after I left him I nosed around myself and their names came up in some of the snitzier watering holes in Boston. I guess Fred and Angie figure that the rich want to strong-arm other people just as much as the poor do, so why not go where the money is.”

“You hear of any jobs they got?”

“No, but I imagine if I hung around some of those bars long enough I'd hear somebody brag about how he got shed of his wife or his lawyer or somebody else who'd been giving him grief. It's hard for people to keep their mouths shut about their triumphs.”

True. Many a crime has been solved because the perp talked about it to a snitch.

“Well, keep your ears up,” I said. “If you hear anything more, let me know.”

“You owe me a fishing trip,” he said.

“Come down any time.”

“And the inside scoop on this murder. Melissa Carson was rich and her fiancé was a Cabot. It's big news up here.”

“You know as much as I do about that.”

“Did Fred and Angie do it?”

“Not that I know of. They say no.”

“Oh, did you talk with them?”

“Very briefly. They were headed off-island.”

“Done with their work there, eh?”

“More like they had more important business on the mainland.”

“What kind of business?”

“Medical problem of some sort.”

“What sort?”

“My impression was that it had to do with minor surgery.”

“Who's their doctor?”

“They didn't say.”

“Why didn't they have it done there on the island?”

“I guess they preferred their own physician.”

After I rang off, I went over what I knew and didn't know with Oliver Underwood and Velcro, who yawned as they listened and had no wise advice for me.

The house had that empty feeling that emphasizes the small sounds, creaks, and taps that you never hear when the place has its people in it. I wondered what Zee and the kids were up to, and checked the calendar for the umpteenth time to see when they were coming home. I could hardly wait. There was no doubt about it; my bachelor days were far behind me and I was now a very married man.

I started thinking about the supper I'd prepare for my family's return. Peas, of course, because that's what the garden was abundantly producing at the moment. Too bad I didn't have tomatoes, zucchini, lettuce, and other stuff for a garden salad or grilled veggies. I could buy all that, of course. What else? I had flounder in the freezer. I'd thaw that and cook it in a casserole with a roux flavored with a slosh of marsala or sherry and a little Parmesan and maybe some dill, then serve it over rice. Straight vanilla ice cream for dessert for Joshua and Diana, ice cream with strawberries and orange liqueur for the big people, followed by coffee and cognac. Yes.

I took the flounder out of the freezer and put it in the fridge for a slow thaw, then cleaned house and opened windows to the east wind that was blowing the humidity away.

When that was done, it was late enough to make visits, so I put the weapons I'd confiscated from Fred and Angie into a paper bag, got into the truck, put my own .38 under the seat, and drove to Babs Carson's house in West Tisbury. Robert Chadwick opened the door and frowned at me. I wondered if he'd gone home the previous night.

“I need to talk with Babs,” I said.

“Can't you wait another day, at least? She's still pretty much in shock.”

“I just have a few questions. Maybe you can answer them.”

He glanced behind him, then stepped out and pulled the door shut. “I'll try.”

“Melissa was killed either by somebody who accidentally encountered her or by somebody who knew where she was that night. My money's on someone who knew. Do you know if she told anybody about her plan to visit Roland Nunes? Her mother and I knew, and so did Alfred Cabot. Did anyone else know?”

He looked uneasy. “I don't know. Can't these questions wait?”

“I'd like to know who killed Melissa, and why.”

“So would I. The police have asked all of your questions. Leave Babs alone.”

The door behind him opened and Babs Carson looked out. “Who is it, Rob? Oh, Mr. Jackson. Come in.”

Her face had aged. I followed her into the sitting room where we'd first talked. She walked like a very old woman.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”

“Have you heard the Medical Examiner's report?”

“Yes. My daughter's neck was broken.” She looked away and then brought her tired eyes back to me. “She didn't deserve to die that way.”

“No. Tell me, did she make or receive any phone calls after I left the other day?”

Babs frowned. “I don't think so. I wish I could help you. Do you have any idea who might have killed her?”

“I don't know. I don't think the killer met her by accident. Can you give me the names of Melissa's husbands, and of her boyfriends and their wives and girlfriends?”

“I don't know all the boyfriends' names. I gave the ones I know to the police. Only one or two live here on the island.”

“Can you give me the names of the local people?”

“I don't think any of them would have done a thing like this.”

“I'm sure you're right, but I'd like to have the names.”

“All right.” She walked to a desk, scribbled on a piece of paper, and handed the paper to me. The names were unfamiliar to me. Two men and a woman.

“Did she have any enemies that you know of?” I asked.

“No. She was passionate and impetuous, but she wasn't the sort of person to have an enemy who…” She broke off and I could see her face work to reshape itself into an emotionless mask.

“I think you should go now,” said Chadwick. “You can talk some more later, if need be.”

“I'm sorry to have intruded,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”

I went out and left the two of them to stitch up the torn fabric of their lives. I drove to the state police station in Oak Bluffs, where I found Dom Agganis on the phone. I stepped out of the office and waited until he was through talking, then followed his voice back into the room.

“I won't be here long,” he said.

“I don't need much of your time,” I said. “I thought you should know that a couple of Charlestown guys named Fred McMahan and Angelo Vinci left the island this morning and probably won't be coming back. They left this stuff behind.” I gave him the paper bag.

He looked inside at the guns and stun gun and grunted. “They must have been in a hurry.”

“They're driving a white Mercedes sedan.” I gave him the license number. “The front seats are probably bloody. I think they had some kind of a hunting accident.”

“Where are they going? Home to Charlestown?”

“I couldn't say. Somewhere to a friendly physician who'll pick out some birdshot from their lower parts.”

Dom smiled. “You ever hear the joke about the haber-dasher who got robbed and ran after the thief yelling to the cops, ‘Shoot him in the pants! The coat and vest are mine!'”

“No, I don't think I ever did.”

“Well, now you have. Are you the shotgunner?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I heard from the Edgartown police that somebody was shooting around your place last night.”

“I reported the shots. They sounded like gun shots but maybe they were just fire crackers.”

“I suppose your shotguns are nice and clean.”

“I keep all of my guns nice and clean.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I don't suppose these were the guys who vandalized Nunes's place.”

“I understand that they are, although I don't know if you can prove it. You can check those photos I took and maybe you can ID at least one of them.”

“Did they kill the Carson woman?”

“I understand that they deny it.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I do, but I haven't taken them off the usual list of suspects. I hear they got their orders by phone and their money delivered to their hotel room, so they don't know who hired them to vandalize Nunes's place. Of course, they may be lying about that. Maybe you can trace the phone calls or the poison in the cat food. If you do, I'd like to know what you learn.”

“I'll bet you would. Anything else?”

“Just these names.” I took the list out of my pocket and gave it to him. “These men are island guys Melissa dated, and the woman is one of their girlfriends. Maybe one of them held a grudge.”

“You should be a cop,” said Dom, looking at the list. “You're a natural snoop. But in this case, as usual, we're ahead of you. Olive is out talking with one of these guys right now and I'm going to be talking to the other one as soon as I can get rid of you.”

That left the woman to me. “Let me know what you learn,” I said.

“Don't hold your breath,” said Dom, getting up and grabbing his hat. “I'll walk you out.”

The woman's name was Cynthia Dias, and she lived in Oak Bluffs in a small, winterized house in the warren of narrow dirt streets on East Chop. Daniel Boone, when asked if he'd ever been lost, reputedly said, “No, but I've been confused for a few days, sometimes.” Like Dan'l, I've been confused more than once on East Chop, but so far have always been able to find my way home.

Cynthia Dias was hanging clothes on a line when I pulled up, and I immediately felt approval for her because I, too, have one of those solar driers and I think more people should use them. I like the way the sunshine makes dry sheets and clothes smell, and the way wind-blown washings look, so I'm irked whenever I learn of one of the increasingly popular zoning laws that ban clotheslines because they supposedly lower property values and violate the aesthetic principles of the neighbors. Such rulings were not operational on East Chop. At least not yet.

Cynthia Dias wore no wedding ring. She was a woman in her thirties, tiny, slender, dark-haired, wearing glasses on the end of her pretty nose. Behind those glasses intelligent blue eyes looked at me as I walked into the backyard. A slim hand took a clothespin from her mouth and snapped it over the corner of a pillowcase.

“Cynthia Dias?”

She took other clothespins from a pocket in her apron and hung up a matching pillowcase, then smiled at me. “Yes.”

“My name's Jackson. I'm working on a criminal case that you may have heard of: the death of a woman named Melissa Carson. Her neck was broken. I'd like to ask you some questions.”

At the mention of Melissa's name, Cynthia Dias's smile went away. “I read about it in the paper. I can't imagine how I can be of any help to you.” She turned away and went back to hanging up clothes and bedclothes.

“Did you know Miss Carson?”

“I met her once or twice.”

“She dated a man named Carl Morgan. Before that, you and Carl Morgan spent a lot of time together.”

“So?”

“How did you feel when Carl left you for her?”

She looked at me with annoyed eyes. “How do you think I felt? I felt betrayed! Have you ever been abandoned by someone you loved, Mr. Jackson?”

“My first wife divorced me.”

She pulled a sheet from her basket and tossed it over the line. “Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you beg her to stay?”

“No.”

“Did another man steal her away?”

“She married again soon after she left me.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“I got over it.”

“I mean, how did you feel about the man?”

“I couldn't fault him for his choice of women.”

“Well, that's not how I felt about Melissa Carson. I thought she was a witch. She stole Carl away and then tossed him back as soon as she was through with him.”

“Did you catch him when she threw him?”

She hung a T-shirt. “We didn't see each other again. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

“So much for Carl. What about Melissa?”

“What about her?”

“Somebody killed her. Was it you?”

She stopped and gave me a look of disbelief. “What? Is that why you're here? To find out if I killed Melissa Carson? Good God! She was a slut, but she wasn't worth killing!” She spread her slender arms. “Besides, look at me? Melissa Carson was no giant, but she was bigger and taller than I am. You say her neck was broken? Can you see me breaking her neck? Hell, she'd have broken mine if I'd tried!”

“What about Carl? How did he feel when she dumped him?”

“He felt like the idiot he is. He was just the toy of the day, and now he knows it.”

“Was he angry?”

“At her? No. He's a lamb, not a wolf. He was too red-faced to be angry at anybody but himself.”

“Maybe you should take him back, then.”

She shrugged, then gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe when winter comes and my house gets cold.”

I liked her for that. Life is too short for long grudges. “Let me give you a hand with the rest of that wash,” I said.

“No, I can handle it myself.”

“I like hanging clothes. I do it at home.”

She tipped her head to one side. “All right. There's not much left to do.”

We hung her wash and admired our work.

“One last question,” I said, as I paused outside of her back door. “Who'd Melissa drop Carl for?”

“A guy named Cabot. Owns a hotel in the village, they say. I wouldn't know because I never stay in hotels on Martha's Vineyard. They say he has money. Maybe that's what she saw in him.”

“She had her own money,” I said.

Cynthia Dias shrugged. “Who knows what women want?”

“Freud wondered the same thing. I've heard three answers.”

She was standing on her back porch and I was on the ground. Her eyes were even with mine. “All right, I'll bite. What are they?”

“Men can't resist beauty and women can't resist money.”

“I've heard that one.”

“The next one is that women want what they want when they want it.”

“Who doesn't? What's the third answer?”

“Shoes.”

She laughed. “I'll go along with that. Maybe Cabot owns a shoe store.”

“He owns a lot of things,” I said.

“Did he own Melissa Carson?”

“I don't think Melissa Carson was anybody's possession.”

“Love's, maybe.”

I hadn't heard that idea expressed that way for some time. “Did you like that novel?”

“My father and mother were lawyers. I found the book on a shelf in their library. I thought it was fine. Would you like to come in for coffee?”

I thanked her but said I really had to go. I felt the pull of her eyes on my back as I walked around the corner of the house, but I kept going to the truck, thinking that Carl might get a second chance.

I found my way off East Chop, drove through the traffic and street-crossing pedestrians to Ocean Park, where I turned right, then went this way and that through narrow streets until I finally fetched the Noepe Hotel. I drove around to the back and parked in their lot. The white Mercedes wasn't there, but the forest-green Hummer was in its private parking place and the Chevy pickup that I'd seen the first time I'd gone there was at the far end of the lot. I went in through the back door and on to the front desk. The same clerk was there.

“Remember me? I was here a couple of days ago.”

“I remember you.”

“I was looking for Fred McMahan. I left him a note. Did he get it?”

She smiled. “I couldn't say.”

“Is he still here?”

She smiled some more. “As you'll recall, we don't discuss our guests.”

“In that case, I'll just go up and see him.”

“Is he expecting you?”

Her question told me that Fred hadn't bothered to check out when he and Angie left. I showed her the card I'd kept. “I have his key.”

She touched her phone. “I should call and ask.”

“I doubt if he'll answer, but go ahead.”

She punched buttons and listened to the phone ring before hanging up. “He doesn't seem to be in.”

“Sometimes Fred sleeps late. He doesn't like phones waking him up so he puts plugs in his ears.” I grinned my version of a Burt Lancaster grin. “I'll get him up. Can't have him burning daylight like this.”

I went up the stairs and down the hall to Fred's room. There was a
DO NOT DISTURB
card hanging from the door-knob. Smart Fred had given himself a few extra hours to make his getaway.

I went into the room and spent some time searching the place in case pain had made Fred and Angie careless enough to leave behind some clue identifying their employer, but all I found were bloodstains. I went out into the hall and looked for the chambermaid. I found her on the third floor. She was Brazilian, as were many of the people doing basic work on the island, and her English was almost as bad as my Portuguese. Still, we finally understood one another well enough for me to learn that the master suite on the second floor belonged to Senhor Cabot, and for her to learn that I had made a troublesome discovery in Senhor McMahan's room.

While she went to Fred's room, I went down to the lobby, put an anxious look on my face, and told the desk clerk that I'd found Fred's room empty and what looked like bloodstains on the bed and a chair, and that I'd sent the chambermaid to investigate. The clerk paled.

“I think you should call 911,” I said. “Maybe something's happened.”

“Oh, dear,” said the clerk, who clearly wasn't used to signs of violence in the Noepe. “I'd better ask Mr. Cabot what to do!”

“Of course,” I said. “He'll know.”

She picked up her phone, punched numbers, and looked at me with wide, unfocused eyes. Then she held the phone with both hands and spoke rapidly. “Mr. Cabot, I'm sorry to bother you, but…but Mr. McMahan isn't in his room and there's a report of what looks like bloodstains on the furniture. The man who found them is here now and the maid is in the room. Oh no, here she comes down the stairs! Yes, yes. I'll stay right here. Should I call the police? All right, I'll wait until you see the room. I'm terribly sorry…” She stared at the buzzing phone, then hung up as the chambermaid, who had been gesturing and talking and looking back up the stairway ever since she'd come into view, continued her exciting if incomprehensible tale of what she'd seen.

The desk clerk pulled herself together and quieted the maid and the three of us waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was the ring of the clerk's phone. She picked it up and said, “Yes, sir?” Then, after a moment, said it again, rang off, and dialed 911. Her report to the emergency number was short and to the point. She was admirably recomposed, I thought.

While we waited for the police, a tall, broad-shouldered man came down the stairs. He was wearing slacks and a blue, short-sleeved dress shirt, and looked like one of those male models you see in slick magazines: leonine, perfectly quaffed, eagle-eyed, and totally in control of things. Not at all my idea of a blah man, as described by Babs, but maybe I didn't know blah when I saw it. Maybe blah was one of those concepts understood only by women, like hunkiness, which Zee sometimes saw in men who looked completely normal to me.

“I'm Alfred Cabot,” he said, coming directly to me. “Are you the man who told the maid about the room?”

His eyes were level with mine and they were hard to read. I nodded.

“What's your name?”

“Jeff Jackson. My friends call me J.W.”

“How did you get into the room?” His tone was the sort that belonged to someone who was used to getting answers to his questions.

I put the key card in his hand.

“Where'd you get this?”

“From Fred McMahan. I guess he didn't need it anymore.”

Cabot studied me. “What do you mean?”

“The last time I saw him he was planning to leave the island. He was gone when I went up to see him just now.”

“Why did he give you this key?”

“Business.”

He frowned, and anger flickered across his face; then he said, “I don't know the man, but apparently you do. What do you think happened up there in his room?”

“I'm not an expert on forensics,” I said, “but it looks like somebody did some bleeding.”

“Why did McMahan give you this key?”

“You asked me that before.”

“I'm asking again and this time I want a better answer.”

“We'd been involved in a business transaction,” I said. “We agreed that I should have access to his room.”

His voice was low but demanding. “What sort of business transaction?”

“It had to do with real estate.”

He stared at me. “Here on the island?”

I ignored the question. “I went up to see if Fred had changed his mind about leaving, but apparently he's pulled up stakes. Say, do you think that really is blood up there? You don't suppose something happened to Fred, do you? Gosh, things have come to a sorry state when a businessman can get hurt just for doing business.”

“Business can be rough,” said Cabot, looking at me with hot eyes. “You should be careful who you deal with.”

In the distance I heard sirens growing louder.