A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard (16 page)

“Where's your money laid down?”

“Only my bookie knows.”

I looked at my watch. “You have time to do some reading about real pirates on the Vineyard?”

He brightened. “Yes. That might be useful.”

So I took him down to the Vineyard Museum, one of the island's treasures, and we went into the library.

The library of the Martha's Vineyard Museum includes a lot of island treasure stories. I brought books to Drew Mondry, and he began to read.

In the August 14, 1811, edition of the
Baltimore Whig,
there is a memorandum from the Port of Philadelphia that includes the following report by Captain Dagget of the brig
Fox:

About the 20th of July last, was found in the surf, on the south side of Martha's Vineyard, by an inhabitant, an open boat, the tracks of three men and the appearance of something they had been dragging after them, was traced over the sand till it was lost on the upland, the same day, in the vicinity of the place, three men apparently foreigners, applied to a boatman, to put them on the main, he carried them to New-Bedford, the men said they had been cast away—they had a large sum of money with them. On the 2nd inst. near where the boat was found, the leg of a man was discovered sticking out of the sand: the jury of inquest being called, he was dug out and found to be a man with his throat cut, and a knife lying by him; had been dead too long to ascertain whether old or young; had on a pair of canvas trowsers and short bluejacket.

Twelve years later, on January 18, 1823, Miss Hannah Smith made this entry in her journal:

We are informed today that the people of Edgartown have been exploring and digging Chilmark beach in quest
of gold, which they suppose was buried there eleven years ago by four pirates that landed there and murdered one of their crew.

One of the pirates had lately been convicted when on his deathbed in New York, and confessed the treacherous act. He confessed that they hove their captain and mate overboard, robbed the vessel of all gold and silver, scuttled and sank her, and escaped in the boat which they left on Chilmark beach.

He confessed, likewise, that after knocking the man down three times they cut his throat because he stood out in a violent manner and would not join them in their wickedness, and declared that he would not have anything to do with their money.

Likewise that when they landed they thought themselves on Long Island and they were about to make their escape to New York with their booty swung across a pole on their shoulders. But the fog clearing up, they found their mistake, buried their booty on the beach, and hired George West to carry them immediately to New Bedford, for fear they might be detected. Captain West said at the time that on their passage the pirates fell a-quarreling about their passage money, and he dare not speak nor stir for fear they would throw him overboard, for they had the appearance of murder in their visage.

A third report about these particular pirates and their buried hoard has it that one day, years after Captain West had ferried his scary passengers to New Bedford, two strangers arrived on foot at a house on Squibnocket Beach and asked to stay there for a few days, explaining that they were naturalists interested in marine curiosities. Oddly, these naturalists preferred to make their studies at night, and two or three days later hired a wagon in Holmes Hole, which they did not return until the next day, after which they departed the island, never to be seen again. Local residents later found a hole some twelve feet
across in a marsh, and concluded that it lay on what might have been a bearing range for buried treasure.

So the bad guys (a couple of them, at least) apparently escaped with the loot. Not for the first time, or the last, as any cop can tell you.

“I like it,” said Mondry. “Maybe we can bury somebody with the treasure in our film.”

I brought him more books telling stories of other Vineyard treasures: the tale of the kettle in the sandbank beside North Road, where a single gold coin remained after the kettle disappeared; the tale of the lady who buried her money and valuables near Beck's Pond to save them from the British during the Revolutionary War, but who could never find the cache again; and the tale of the old pirate who, on his deathbed, told of a trove buried “where two brooks empty into Vineyard Sound,” but which later searchers could never find.

We read about the three treasure hunters who dug at midnight by a large rock near Tarpaulin Cove. They had just struck a buried chest with their shovels when the earth opened and nearly swallowed one unfortunate chap, who was barely saved by his friends. Uncanny noises were heard, and the three fled, never to return.

Other rocks figured prominently in other Vineyard treasure stories. There was the mysterious Money Rock north of Indian Hill, and a flat rock on the old Mayhew Luce farm, beneath which, it was said, pirates were fond of hiding their loot. And of course there was Moonbeam's tale of the Blue Rock of Chappaquiddick, where the farmer witnessed murder on the beach.

Good stuff, all of it. Admittedly, Joshua went to sleep while Mondry and I were reading, but what does a kid know about the important things in life?

“Great,” said Mondry, pushing away the last tale and looking around at the book-filled shelves of Vineyard history and lore. “This is some kind of place. If we need to do any research about the island, I know the place to come.”

True. Libraries are the real treasures in most towns, full of riches and people who'll help you find them. Some librarians look very severe, but I suspect that most of them are born romantics, who really believe that there is no frigate like a book to take us lands away, nor any coursers like a page of prancing poetry.

We left the library and I walked Mondry past the great lighthouse lens and through the other museum buildings.

“Dynamite,” said astute Drew. The more I was with him, the less I found to dislike. Rats.

We got back in the Range Rover, where he ruined my gentle mood. “Well,” he said, “about all I have left to do here before I head back to L.A. is take your wife out, and try to talk her into working on this film. I don't think I've ever seen anyone who photographs better.”

I felt that green feeling.

“How do you know she photographs well?”
I
knew she did, because I had lots of pictures of her, but how did Mondry know?

Because he had pictures of her, too. Ones he'd taken when we'd all gone scouting the island together. While he'd been photographing the locations that interested him, he'd also taken snaps of Zee and Joshua and even me. He showed them to me now.

Zee glowed at us from the photos, most of which she clearly never knew were being taken. She was smiling at Joshua, pointing to something she thought Mondry should note, grinning at me, talking with Toni Begay, looking out over the Gay Head cliffs.

Being Zee.

“Your wife is a fine person,” said Mondry. “But she's also a very great beauty. And her personality jumps out of these photos. I really think she's got what it takes to be in films.”

“You can make your case to her,” I said. “Then she can decide.”

“I know you've said you don't mind. I hope that's really true.”

“It's true,” I lied.

“Good.” He looked again at the photos. “God, she is really something. You must be really proud of her.”

Pride has always perplexed me. I felt it when looking at Zee or Joshua, but never knew why, since what I saw in them had nothing to do with any accomplishment of mine. And I distrusted the feeling when it came from anything I was or did; those times, it struck me as nonsensical. But then, most of the deadly sins are just forms of silliness and stupidity. I should know, being intimate with all of them, including, especially right now, jealousy and covetousness.

“She's something, all right,” I said. I looked down at my son. “You think so, too, don't you, Josh?”

Josh agreed, even though he didn't wake up to say so.

At our house, Mondry shook my hand, thanked me for everything, and asked me to tell Zee that he'd call her about seven.

I said I'd do that, and he said he'd send me a check for my work. Then he smiled at Joshua, and drove away, and I went into the house to fix supper.

That evening, right on schedule, he did call and Zee said, sure, she'd meet him for lunch tomorrow before he caught an afternoon plane to Boston on his first hop back to California.

“You really don't mind my doing this?” she asked when she hung up.

Everybody was asking me that. “Not a bit. I could probably get used to being married to a movie star with an income in the millions.” I put an arm around her waist and pulled her to me. She wrapped her arms around my neck.

“I have an idea,” she said, smiling.

But just then Joshua woke up and began to babble and
whine. Zee shook her head, unwound herself from me, and headed for his room. “You know,” she said over her shoulder, “it's a wonder people ever get a chance to have another kid after they've had the first one. There's no more privacy!”

It was a familiar observation, and she was right; but somehow a lot of parents managed to avoid single-child families. I suspected we might, too.

The next day's
Vineyard Gazette
had the latest dope on the killing. The
Gazette
is properly famous for its idiosyncratic prose style and its total focus on the Vineyard and nothing else. If half the world were destroyed by a giant meteor, the
Gazette
would report the fact only if some islander happened to be involved. Normally the
Gazette
underplays tales of violence and evil island doings, preferring to extol the positive aspects of Vineyard living, but this edition made much of Ingalls's death because he had been in the center of the Norton's Point wrangle, because the
Gazette
was unabashedly pro-environmentalist in both its editorial policies and its story selections, and because murders were, in fact, a rarity on the island.

The front-page story included my role as discoverer of Ingalls's body, and was based on police reports, as near as I could tell. I was described as a well-known island fisherman. Later, I was also identified as an outspoken critic of the DEP's decision to close Norton's Point.

I learned that an autopsy had revealed that Ingalls had died as a result of a single gunshot wound to the chest, that the gun had been fired from fairly close range, and that the weapon, not yet found by the police, was probably a .38 or a nine-millimeter.

I suspected that my old police .38 and Zee's little Beretta 84F and her new .45 would soon bring the police to my door with a warrant that would allow them to take the guns away for test firing. That was all right with me, since I was sure none of them was the murder weapon.

I read on and learned about Ingalls's aristocratic North
Shore background, his Ivy League education, his interest in the East, his commitment to the environment, and, finally, the fact that due to his love of the Vineyard, he was going to be buried on the island. The funeral was scheduled for Monday. His parents, who had been traveling in Europe, were already on the island, staying in Ingalls's house in Chilmark. Other relatives, friends, and business associates were gathering from various parts of the United States. I didn't think that many people would show up at my funeral.

The police were busy with their investigation and were asking for assistance from anyone who had information that might help solve the crime.

I put down the paper and took Joshua out into the yard. I sat him under an umbrella so the sun wouldn't eat him, then spent an hour in the garden pulling weeds while I thought things over. Weeding is good for that. Your hands do one kind of work and your brain can do another. In this case, my hands were doing the better job of the two.

Out beyond Sengekontacket Pond, the August People were abundant. Cars lined the road on the barrier beach, and on their far side were bright umbrellas in the sand. There were brighter kites in the air, and colorful Wind-surfer sails moved back and forth on the blue water just beyond the beach. Overhead, the pale blue summer arched high above wheeling gulls, and the hot summer sun beat down.

I wondered how many of the people over there knew or cared about the death of Lawrence Ingalls. More than are usually aware of the deaths of strangers, I guessed, for a killing in Eden is worthy of a comfortable chat with your neighbor on the next beach towel. I wondered if any of them had put me on their suspect lists and if, indeed, there were any other names on those lists.

The sun climbed higher and Joshua's umbrella shadow moved off him. I cleaned myself off in the outdoor shower
and took Joshua in for lunch. Somewhere Zee and Drew Mondry would soon be getting together for a lunch of their own. Tarzan and Jane. Val and a black-haired Aleta.

What lovely woman would say no to an offer to appear in a motion picture? And was there any reason for Zee to do so? I could think of none at all.

After lunch, while I was mowing the grass, an Edgar-town cruiser came down the driveway. The chief got out. I was sweating and was glad to take a break. I shut off the mower, picked up Joshua from under his umbrella, and walked over to the car.

“I've been expecting you,” I said.

“I figured you might be. I didn't bother getting a warrant. I gonna need one?”

“No, you don't need one. Come on in.”

He followed me into the house. In the kitchen, I passed Joshua to him. “Hold this guy,” I said.

The chief was a grandpa, and used to kids. He and Joshua eyed each other.

“I'll say one thing for you, laddie,” said the chief. “You don't look a thing like your dad.”

I got Zee's Beretta, her .45, and my Smith & Wesson out of the gun cabinet and brought them back to the kitchen.

“These what you want?”

“That's them. You got any other handguns I don't know about?” “Nope.”