Vineyard Stalker (23 page)

I got up. “You're sure?” I asked.

“I'm sure.” He frowned. “Don't interfere, J.W. Thanks for your help, but we can take it from here. Can I trust you on this?

“Is Benedict XVI Catholic?”

I went out and drove to Radio Shack in Vineyard Haven. There I bought a small tape recorder and mike.

Since the Noepe Hotel was closer, I drove there first, but saw no Hummer in the parking lot, so turned west and drove to Aquinnah.

When I got to Cabot's driveway, I was confronted once again by the guard at the electric gate. I gave him my name and said I'd like to talk to Alfred Cabot.

“You got an appointment?” He looked down at a clipboard he had in his hand. “What's your name, again?”

“J.W. Jackson.”

“Sorry. There's no such name here. Say, weren't you here a couple of days ago?”

“That was me.”

“Well, the boss didn't want to talk with you then, either.”

“That was then, this is now. Tell Mr. Cabot it's about Fred McMahan.”

The guard frowned at my old Toyota. It probably wasn't the sort of vehicle driven by acquaintances of Alfred Cabot. “What did you say your name was?”

“J.W. Jackson. Just tell your boss I'm here and that I want to talk with him about a guy named Fred McMahan.”

The guard gave me a final frown and walked to the gatehouse. After a while the electric gate swung open and the guard walked back. “Go right up the driveway. Somebody will meet you at the house.”

I drove up the narrow road, feeling like I was in one of those old black-and-white movies where some stranger drives through the trees up to some huge mansion while ominous or cheerful music plays, letting the audience know more than the stranger knows. Life would a lot simpler if we had background music we could hear, but such is not the case. More evidence that intelligent design is unlikely.

I came to the house, parked beside Cabot's forest-green Hummer, and got out. There was a man waiting for me. I recognized him as being the one who had driven the ATV up to the fence surrounding Cabot's land. He looked very fit in his summer clothes. His shirt was outside his pants, and there was a pistol-sized lump under it, on his hip.

“You're Mr. Jackson? Please come in.” His eyes flowed over me, checking for a similar lump, I guessed. Seeing none, he turned and led me into the house. We walked down a hall and into a central atrium topped two stories up with sliding glass panels and filled with exotic looking plants, including several varieties of orchids. The air was hot and moist. Was Nero Wolfe in residence?

Alfred Cabot was. He was on the far side of the room, watering a blue flower I didn't recognize. I'd never have guessed that Alfred Cabot was the sort of person who'd have an atrium full of flowers, but life is full of surprises. Often when I think I'm finally pretty much in touch with reality I discover that I still have a ways to go.

Seeing me, Cabot put down his watering can and came toward me. Beside me, the man asked, “Shall I stay, sir?”

Cabot waved a dismissive hand, and said, “No, that will be all, Elmer.”

Elmer went away and Cabot pointed to a side door. “My office is in there. We can talk without being interrupted.” Without waiting for my response, he led me into the office and shut the door behind us. He waved me into a comfortable leather chair and took another for himself. He gestured at a humidor. “Cigar, Mr. Jackson?”

“No thanks,” I said, looking around. The office was large and luxurious. Leather and carved wood were the materials of choice. The chairs were leather, the books on the bookshelves were leather-bound, and a couple of the small tables were covered with carved leather. The desk was large and heavy, and a credenza behind the desk held electronic devices. Among those I recognized were a computer, a fax machine, a scanner, and a printer, the accoutrements of modern business.

Cabot followed my gaze. “I can do most of my work from right here,” he said. “It's very convenient, but I like city living, so this office is only used when I'm staying here on holiday. What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”

“I came to talk to you about Fred McMahan and Angie Vinci,” I said, hoping that my tape recorder was working as it should.

“I can't imagine what I can tell you,” he said smoothly. “I recall that you told me you had business dealings with them, but I don't even know them.”

“Yes, you told me that. And you told the police the same thing. But the mention of McMahan's name got me in here to see you. Do you know what McMahan and Vinci were doing here on the Vineyard?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you do. They were vandalizing Roland Nunes's property. I was hired to find out who was doing the vandalizing, and I managed to catch them in the act. Later, I followed them to your hotel and had a chat with them.”

His face was without expression. “What did you learn?”

“Enough to put together a scenario. Would you like to hear it?”

He glanced at a wristwatch that had probably cost him more than $9.99, then said, “I have some time. I can't imagine what your story has to do with me, but go ahead. I'll tell you if I get bored.”

“All right,” I said. “McMahan and Vinci are small-time hoods who hire themselves out to whoever will pay them to do illegal jobs. They advertise by word of mouth in some of the more expensive watering holes in Boston, the idea being to go where the money is. They were hired to come down here and give Roland Nunes enough grief to persuade him to sell his place. His land was cheap thirty years ago, when he first moved there, but it's worth a fortune now. A lot of people would like to have it, and his cousin Sally Oliver, who is in charge of the trust that owns it, would love to sell it. The problem is that he has a covenant that says the land can't be sold unless he agrees to move off it.

“So McMahan and Vinci came down here and took a room in your hotel and got to work. They did some damage, but Nunes is stubborn, and then Nunes's sister, Carole Cohen, decided to stop the crooks, so she hired me to catch them in the act and get photographs. I did that, and even though they'd gotten themselves rigged out in black suits and blackface, it didn't take long to ID them. Are you with me so far?”

“So far,” said Cabot, “but so what?”

“As I said, I followed McMahan and Vinci back to their hotel room. I took their pistols and stun gun away from them and we had a talk. They were both hurting from shotgun pellets in their posteriors and weren't interested in going on with the job they'd been hired to do. They caught the first boat they could back to America and went home. The police are looking for them now and will probably find them. McMahan may be a tough nut for them to crack, but I don't think they'll have much trouble getting Angie to talk. He'll tell them everything he knows.”

Cabot tapped a finger on the arm of his chair.

“And what might that be?”

“That you were the guy who hired them. You found out about the work they do in one of the bars you frequent near your office in Boston and hired them to run Nunes off his land.”

Cabot leaned forward in his chair and gave me a look that was meant to cow. “That's slander. I never heard of them until yesterday. If you try to spread such lies, I'll have you in court so fast it will make your head spin.”

“I won't be the one telling the tale,” I said. “Angie will.”

“A criminal's word against mine.”

“There's more. You lied to the police about not knowing McMahan. You've been seen entering McMahan's room at the Noepe.”

“Another lie!” His eyes flashed. “Was it that maid? If it was, she'll rue the day she was born!”

“It wasn't the maid,” I lied. “The point is that the police may soon have plenty of reason to arrest you for hiring McMahan and Vinci. They may not know your motive yet, but it won't take them long to figure out that your girlfriend, Sally Oliver, is behind the whole affair. She wants to sell Nunes's land, and you have the money to buy it if she can get him to leave. It's a good deal for you, because even though you'll pay a lot for the land, your girlfriend will actually get half of the money you paid, so it'll still be more or less in the family. You'll make even more when you sell it to the next castle builder.”

He looked at me with disdain, but I thought I saw worry behind the contempt. “My lawyers will make mincemeat out of the District Attorney.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “In any case, the vandalizing scheme is pretty insignificant compared to homicide. The DA is interested in the murder of Melissa Carson, and you're right on top of his suspect list. The cops already know about your involvement with Sally Oliver so you're an excellent suspect.”

“Murder? I'm no murderer! That's nonsense! I loved Melissa!”

“Where were you when she was killed?”

“I was right here.”

“Can you prove it? Jealousy is a classic motive for murder. Melissa Carson was romancing Roland Nunes. If she married him instead of you, he'd have plenty of money to build a better place on his land, and he might even produce an heir, so it's possible that the land couldn't be sold for at least another generation. She was killed as she was leaving his house.” I gestured at his hands. “Her neck was broken, and you're a big, powerful man.” I raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think that your man Elmer will risk a perjury charge by testifying under oath that you were here when Melissa died? Because I don't think you were here. I think you were there, with Sally Oliver, in her Mini Cooper, parked in the lane across the road, waiting for Melissa.”

His eyes flared. Was fear the fuel? “You know a lot of liars! I was here. I don't have to prove I was!”

I leaned back in my chair. “Don't get worked up,” I said. “Personally, I don't care where you were. I came here looking for work.”

His hands were claws. “Work? What are you talking about?”

“Two things,” I said. “First, I can finish the job McMahan started. Nunes and his sister trust me, but I don't owe them a thing and I don't care what happens to the land. I took her job because I needed the money. I think you might give me more to burn down his house and his outbuildings. The other thing I can do is give you an alibi for the night Melissa Carson was killed. The DA might not believe Elmer, but I'm not a friend or employee of yours, so if I testify that we were up here together that night, they'll believe me.”

He studied me. “This is blackmail.”

“I'm not threatening you,” I said. “I'm looking for work. If you get caught, I get caught; we'll be in it together.”

He put his fingers together. “You're proposing that I hire you to commit a crime. I can have you arrested.”

I sat for a moment, then stood up. “There's a phone on your desk. Make your call to the cops. I'll let myself out.”

I was halfway to the door when he said, “Don't be hasty, Mr. Jackson. Come back and sit down.”

I went back to my chair.

“I'm going to make some inquiries about you,” said Cabot. “Presuming that I find you to be a reliable person, what do you think your services are worth?”

I named a figure that was large to me.

He didn't seem to think it was worth a second thought. “You'll want that in cash, of course.”

I nodded. “For both our sakes. Fifties and smaller. All old.”

“When do you plan to do the work?”

“The sooner the better. Tomorrow morning, after Nunes goes to work. I think it was a mistake to try to do it at night while he was home. I can be in and out of there in a few minutes and no one will see me. I'll come in by the old path from the far woods. There won't be any walkers there that early.”

“It will take me a while to collect your money in old bills.”

“I'm in no rush. We have to trust one another.”

His smile was ironic but real. “Yes. Trust is important among businessmen.” He paused. “We must decide why you were here with me the night of Melissa's murder. As you say, we're not friends. What was your business?”

“I was trying to learn whether you knew McMahan and Vinci. You denied it. I was here for half an hour or so before you threw me out. Where was the guard at the gate that night? Where was Elmer? Why didn't they see me?”

Cabot thought for a moment, then said, “The guard doesn't work evenings, and it was Elmer's night off. I opened the gate from here, when you called on the speaker that's mounted on the gate post.”

“Elmer will agree that it was his night off?”

“He'll be telling the truth. It actually was his night off. I think he went to a movie. I'll check and see what was playing that night.” He was looking at me with interest. “You're not what you seem, are you? You look like an ordinary man with ordinary feelings, but you're not. You don't give a damn about anything, do you?”

“I give a damn about money,” I said. “Not as much as you do, of course.”

He nodded. “If this business works out, I might have more employment for you in the future.”

“Somebody's going to have to take the fall for Melissa Carson's killing,” I said. “Have you given that any thought?”

“Some.”

“I think your girlfriend Sally Oliver would make a good patsy. She had plenty of motive and she was at the scene.”