A Fatal Vineyard Season (2 page)

If large families were a sign of expertise in child rearing, the Crandels were masters of the game. I'd gotten the housekeeping job for them through John Skye, because I took care of his island house and boat while he and Mattie and the twins were up in Weststock, where during the winter he professed about things medieval in the college there. He and Stanley Crandel went way back, to when both of them had been undergraduates, and when Crandel had mentioned a need for a guy to take care of his house, John had given him my name.

Stanley Crandel liked to claim that he was descended from John Saunders, the onetime Virginia slave who, in 1787, was, according to some, the first Methodist to preach on Martha's Vineyard. Stanley had a picture on his wall that was supposed to be of John, right beside a good
photograph of a waterspout that had appeared out in Nantucket Sound in the late 1800s. Stanley's walls also held photographs of many, many Crandels and other family members in various poses, mostly taken in Oak Bluffs. The oldest of these pictures showed formally garbed Crandels looking a bit stiff in their very proper clothes, but the newer ones became increasingly informal. From beginning to end, they offered a pretty good pictorial history of twentieth-century Oak Bluffs society, especially that having to do with the lives and times of the well-to-do black bourgeoisie, who had been a major part of the town's public life for over a hundred years.

There were pictures of Crandels and kin at the Tabernacle during religious services (presumably Methodist?), Crandels eating ice cream at the beach, Crandels in boats, fishing or rowing or sailing, Crandels under the ancient oaks that gave the town its name, Crandels having picnics, young Crandels playing baseball while older Crandels watched, Crandels of all ages playing tennis, Crandels getting married, Crandel babies being displayed by their proud parents, and so forth. There were so many pictures that I wondered, when first I saw them, if maybe the Crandels were heavily invested in photography stock.

They were a good-looking bunch, for the most part, and came in various shades of light and dark, as is often the case when bloodlines are mixed, as most are. One consistent element in their faces was a look of intelligence. And if intelligence is linked to success and success can be defined in terms of wealth and professional repute, the Crandels had their share of it, since their numbers included doctors, lawyers, professors, a general or two, a young actress, and other such folk.

Of course not all Crandels and Crandel kin were totally virtuous and successful. There were, no doubt, failures of various kinds, and there was at least one famous, or infamous, criminal: Cousin Henry Bayles, the scandal of the
otherwise very respectable Philadelphia Bayleses, who had worked his way to the top of his hometown's black mob before leaving the city just in front of angry gangster rivals and taking up quiet retirement in a small house in Oak Bluffs, well across town from the big Crandel mansion. Cousin Henry and his wife were actually in one of the photographs of a Crandel lawn party, but they were far in the background. As far as I could tell, Cousin Henry and the Stanley Crandels didn't do any significant socializing.

I had been working for the Crandels for five years when the first killing involving them occurred. Actually, the Crandels were only indirectly linked to the death, but since they weren't the sort of people who were mixed up in such things, a lot of people were surprised and shocked by the news, or so they said. In any case, the circumstances of that death and the other later ones were the subject of considerable conversation by both Crandels and non-Crandels.

Of course killings take place in the best of families, although admittedly they happen more often among the dumb, the illiterate, the drunks and drug users, the down-and-outers, life's losers, the people “known,” as they say, to the police, to the courts, to the social services people, and to the emergency wards. It is sad but true that people who live on the rough edges of society are those most susceptible to violence. Most of it is done by them and to them, and they can't seem to help themselves. Jesus said the poor will always be among us; so, too, will life's losers.

But not all killings involve them. Some involve people like the Crandels. And me.

When I'd opened the Crandel house the previous spring, I'd doubted if an ancient faucet in a little bathroom off the Crandel kitchen would last the summer and had so told Betsy Crandel, the matriarch of the clan, when she'd called me in May to tell me when they'd be getting down to the island.

Ever cozy with a dollar, which might partially explain
why the Crandels had so many of them, she had said they'd see how long it would last. And, in fact, it had lasted all summer. But in early September, a couple of weeks before the Derby was scheduled to begin, I got another call from Betsy Crandel.

She told me that the faucet was definitely on its last legs and had to be replaced, that she and Stanley were going to Switzerland for the rest of the fall and wouldn't be back on the Vineyard until spring, but that their niece Julia and her friend Ivy Holiday would be arriving in a week or so and would be using the house for a while, after which I could close it up for the winter.

Ivy Holiday, eh? That was interesting. Julia Crandel, I recalled, was the current actress in the family.

“I'll order another faucet,” I said, “but it'll take a few days to get here.”

“That's fine, J.W.,” said Betsy. “When it comes in, you just install it. I'll tell the girls you're coming, so they'll be expecting you. How was your summer?”

“We've been trying to learn how to be parents to two kids instead of just one, and so far we're finding out that it's a lot different.”

“That's wonderful! There is nothing like a family!”

Women are quite capable of discussing and watching children for hours at a time. Betsy was no exception, so I changed the subject before she got going on the joys and tribulations of her decades of parenting.

“I think Zee met Ivy Holiday when she was out in California. Isn't Ivy the one who caused such a stir at the Academy Awards ceremony?”

“Oh, you saw that, did you? Some people were scandalized!” Betsy herself sounded more amused than scandalized.

Actually, I hadn't seen the show, but it had been greatly commented upon in the papers for the next several days, and Zee had followed the stories with interest.

“I read about it,” I said.

“Taking off her blouse like that,” said Betsy with a laugh. “My, my! She's certainly political!”

The scandal was that Ivy Holiday, who had just handed out the Best Supporting Actress award, had then taken control of the microphone to rage against the exploitation of women as sex objects in films and, to make her argument more dramatic, had shed her upper garments in front of a TV audience of millions before walking bare breasted off the stage, chin held high.

A lot of humor and pious talk about moral standards had resulted from Ivy's performance, but not much had changed with regard to moviemakers treating women as sex objects. My own response had been mild interest in the question of just how Ivy's bared bosom was intended to serve as a repudiation of the exploitation of women in films. But then I never did have much of a grasp of symbolism.

Anyway, Ivy was now coming to the Vineyard. Zee would be pleased to hear it. She and Ivy had met and apparently hit it off well during Zee's brief visit to Hollywood as an actress.

The precise extent of Zee's own time on the silver screen was supposed to be soon revealed to us because
Island of Emeralds,
the movie that had been partially filmed on the Vineyard, and in which Zee had a whole line of dialogue, was going to have its premiere, or one of them, at least, on the island. Since Zee was the movie's most notable local extra, and I was her husband, we had been invited to the opening, at which time we would discover how much of Zee's face was now on the cutting-room floor.

Which gave me a thought. “Is Ivy here for the big premiere?” I asked.

There was a short pause before Betsy answered, “I don't know if she'll be down that long. I think she just wanted to get away from L.A. for a while. She and Julia have gotten pretty close over the past few months, so Julia invited her here for a vacation.”

Julia, I knew, had already been an actress in New York,
but had gone west in hopes of making it in the movies. She was certainly pretty enough, as her photographs attested, and if that plus the Crandel brains was what it took to get her onto the screen, she was a shoo-in. However, I had read that brains had little to do with a successful film career, and that looks weren't everything, either. Apparently it was some sort of special something that made you a star, and beauty and brains played second fiddle to that, whatever it was.

And whatever it was, some people thought Zee had it. Which was why she had been spotted by the moviemakers on the Vineyard and had been talked into taking her one-line role in
Island of Emeralds.

Life is like that sometimes: them that wants, don't get, and them that don't, do.

“How's Julia's career coming along?” I asked.

“I guess she's gotten some advertising jobs on TV. Her mother says that she was a dancing mop who cleaned a kitchen like magic, or something like that. And that she keeps standing in the meat lines or whatever they call those things where people try out for roles. She's not the type to give up easily, but she's pretty tight-lipped about her life out there. I wish I was going to be here when she arrives. I'd sit her down and get all of the dope straight from her. Then I could tell her mother what she's been up to. Some daughters tell everyone else before they tell their mothers. Julia's one of them.” Betsy laughed.

“I'll tell Zee that Ivy's coming down,” I said. “Maybe the two of them can get together.”

“That would be nice for both of them. See you in the spring. Have a good winter.”

Betsy rang off and presumably headed for Switzerland.

The faucet got to Martha's Vineyard the same day that Ivy Holiday and Julia Crandel did, so it happened that I was in the little bathroom off the Crandel kitchen when they arrived at the house. I heard a feminine voice from the living room, calling, “Hello? Hello? Is anybody there? Is that you, Mr. Jackson? Hello?”

There was an odd note in the voice, I thought. It was Julia's voice, I was sure, because my name had been used, and Betsy Crandel had said she'd tell Julia that I might come by to install the faucet. But what accounted for that note of . . . what? . . . fear? . . . caution at least . . . in her voice, as though she thought someone else besides me might be there?

“I'm in here,” I called. “I'm putting in this faucet.”

Cautious footsteps came across the wide pine-board floors of the living room toward the kitchen. At the kitchen door, the voice came again: “Hello? Mr. Jackson?”

I deliberately dropped a wrench on the floor before standing and going to the bathroom door. I looked across the kitchen at the two young women and put a smile on my face. It wasn't hard. They were real beauties, still dressed in the California mode.

“Hi.” I pointed a finger. “You're Julia. You look like a Crandel.” I reaimed the finger. “And that makes you Ivy. Welcome to the Vineyard. I'm J. W. Jackson.”

“Oh,” said Julia, her hand near her throat. “It is you, Mr. Jackson. Aunt Betsy said you might be doing some work
here.” She let her hand fall and put on a smile. “It's so nice to meet you.”

“Call me J.W.” I poked a thumb over my shoulder. “I should be here about another fifteen minutes, then the place is all yours. I just opened some of the upstairs bedroom windows to let in some air.”

“Thank you.” She paused. “Are you all alone here?”

“All alone. Nobody else has been here since Stan and Betsy left for the winter.”

The two of them looked at each other. “Well, then,” said Julia, “I guess we'll bring in our things.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson,” said Ivy Holiday. Her eyes flicked over me, and she flashed a quick Hollywood smile.

“Call me J.W. Nice to meet the two of you, too.”

I went back to the faucet and finished installing it. When I came out into the kitchen, I could hear the women in the living room. I went there and found them with their luggage. “All done,” I said. “Enjoy yourselves.”

They exchanged quick glances. “Wait a moment,” said Julia. “I know this is going to seem silly, but would you mind showing us around the house? Ivy's never been here, and it's been a long time since I was. Would you mind?”

I put my toolbox by the front door. “No, I don't mind at all.”

I had been through all of the house many times during the previous five years, and I made sure that I showed them every room. And every closet, all of which I opened. And the attic. And the basement. And the three-car garage. I showed them the locked doors and windows on the lower floor, and the windows I'd opened upstairs that morning.

When we were back in the living room, Julia seemed happier.

“Thank you very much,” she said.

“I'm in the book,” I said. “If you need anything, just give me a call.”

“Thank you.”

I looked at Ivy. “My wife may be calling you.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Your wife?”

“Zee Jackson. You met in Hollywood last year, when she was out there shooting a scene in
Island of Emeralds.
She heard you were coming to the island and said she'd like to get together with you. She's going to the mainland tomorrow, but maybe you can fit each other into your schedules.”

Ivy's dark brows lifted. “Ah, Zee. You're her husband. Well, I must admit that it never crossed my mind that the Zee Jackson I met out there would be married to the J. W. Jackson I just met today.” She put out her hand and took mine. “How do you do?”