A Vineyard Killing (12 page)

I sat in the Land Cruiser and turned on the engine in hopes that the bad heater would at least take the chill away while I ran things through my head. Some day I was going to have to try to fix that heater.

It was possible, I thought, that someone totally unknown to the police or to me had shot Paul Fox by mistake when aiming for Donald. If that was the case, an angry victim of a Saberfox real estate takeover was a good bet as the would-be assassin. Sooner or later such an amateur gunman, filled with guilt or pride, would probably tell some family member or friend, and eventually the police would get a tip and make an arrest.

But how would such a person have known that Donald would be having lunch at the deli that day? Besides, we are much more likely to be killed by people we know than by strangers.

I thought about Albert Kirkland. It was possible that his death and the shooting of Paul Fox were unrelated, but whether that was so or not, Kirkland, a onetime Olympic pentathlon hopeful, had gotten himself stabbed by someone sitting in the passenger seat. Which probably meant it was somebody he'd let into his car.

Bonzo had seen Kirkland sitting in the passenger's seat of a Range Rover and talking with someone a day or two before Paul Fox had been shot. No one at the Fireside had ever seen Kirkland in the bar, but he was in the parking lot both that day and later when he'd been killed.

Someone had driven Kirkland there the first time, the same someone who was with him when Bonzo saw Kirkland in the Range Rover. The second time, Kirkland had been the driver and his killer had either been the passenger or had met him there.

Why the Fireside parking lot?

Because the killer wasn't sufficiently familiar with the island to know a more private place, but did know that the Fireside had few customers this time of year and that even if he and Kirkland were seen talking in the car, no thought would be given to the meeting? Ergo, he'd been to the Fireside in the past.

But he'd been wrong about being ignored. Kirkland's suit and tie had caught Bonzo's attention, and because of that, he'd remembered the meeting and the Range Rover.

I drove home and looked through the Saberfox brochure that Paul Fox had given me the day before. It was a professional document, printed on thick paper and filled with first-class graphics and photos of successful-looking Saberfox executives and employees, all in suits and ties. There was a brief biography of Donald Fox and a history of Saberfox's establishment and its successes. There were quotations from satisfied customers, charts, and photos of expensive-looking properties. Very classy.

I turned the pages until I located what I was looking for: photos of the Saberfox people I knew. All of them were there, including the late, lamented Albert Kirkland, who was staring intently at the camera and trying to smile.

I turned down the corners of the appropriate pages, an abhorrent act according to my grade school teachers, who had grown up when books were considered too valuable to harm, but one that didn't bother me at all in this case, and checked the time. Somewhere the sun was over the yardarm, and even on Martha's Vineyard the Fireside would be open for business. A late-morning beer would taste good on this chilly day, and I could combine that pleasure with business. I drove to Oak Bluffs.

Max was polishing glasses behind the bar. There were already a couple of early drinkers in a far booth. From the scraps of conversation I could hear, they were discussing the unpromising prospects of the current Red Sox season. The Sox had not won a World Series since 1918 and seemed to the drinkers unlikely to win one this year. The general manager seemed to be their scapegoat. It was a view I shared. Getting rid of Clemens was the stupidest thing the none-too-bright Sox management had done since the team had traded Ruth to the Yankees.

It's not easy being a Red Sox fan.

“What'll it be?” asked Max as I slid onto a stool.

I got a Sam Adams and showed him the pictures. “Any of these guys ever come in here?”

“A lot of people come in here,” said Max.

“It might have something to do with the killing in your parking lot.”

“It's not my parking lot,” said Max. “I just work here.” But he was now interested. “Let's have a look.”

I turned the brochure so it faced him and pointed at the photos that interested me. Finally he tapped a picture.

“I don't recognize anybody else, but this guy was in here a while back.” Max read the print below the photo. “‘President Donald Fox and Special Assistant Bradford Hillborough.' Hillborough. That's him. Now I got a name to go with his face.” Max raised his eyes to mine and leaned forward. His voice was small. “What's he got to do with that killing?”

I made my voice small, too. “I'm not sure yet, but I think maybe you should tell the cops he was in here, if you haven't told them already.”

“Yeah?” Max wasn't sure.

“It might be good to have the cops owe you one.”

“Yeah!” This time Max seemed more enthusiastic. Every bar can stand a little sympathy from the cops.

“You're sure this Hillborough guy is the only one of these people who's been in here?”

“Yeah. Maybe if one of them came in without a tie, I might have missed him, but not otherwise.”

I found the page with small pictures of Peter Wall and Chris Reston standing in a group of other lesser lights. “You're sure about these two?”

Max squinted. “I'm sure. Never seen them in here.” He flicked his eyes toward the Red Sox critics in the booth.

We were very conspiratorial. I nodded to Max, finished my beer, left the bar, and drove to the State Police station over on Temahigan Avenue. I was in luck. Dom Agannis and Olive Otero had just gotten back from their trip to the county jail.

Olive met me with a look of pain. “You again. What do you want this time?”

“Remember that you're a servant of the people, Olive. If I ever buy myself a ring, I expect you to kneel and kiss it.”

“Before that'll happen, you can kiss this,” said Olive, turning around and pointing a chubby finger at her broad behind.

“All right, you two,” said Dom, almost smiling. “What brings you here, J.W.? It hasn't been long since you alibied a promising murder suspect. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean you, I mean ‘somebody' alibied him.”

“You get a call from Max, down at the Fireside?”

“No. Why would Max call me?”

“To tell you that Brad Hillborough was in the bar at least once.”

“So what? You've been in there a thousand times.”

“You're a hard man to help, Dom. Brad is the only Saberfox guy who's ever been in there, according to Max.”

“I'll have a talk with Max. And with Bonzo, too. He sees a good deal. You got any other tidbits to feed us?”

“If not,” said Olive, “you can be on your way.”

“Tit for tat,” I said. “Who owned the gun you found up at Rick Black's place?”

“None of your business,” said Olive.

“We don't know yet,” said Dom. “We think it was purchased from one of those little gun-and-fireworks places in Georgia where nothing gets written down. It's an old Walther P-38. Not my idea of a good assassination weapon at the distance between the shooter and Paul Fox, but I guess you use what you have at hand.”

If you need a weapon and the only one available is a brick, you use a brick. More people have been murdered with blunt instruments than with guns or, alas for certain writers of crime fiction, with rare poisons found only in certain parts of the upper-Amazon basin.

“Any prints on the gun?” I asked.

“Wiped clean. Maybe you—sorry—maybe your somebody did the wiping.”

“No. I'll bet you five bucks that Rick Black has never been to Georgia,” I said.

“I know what you're thinking,” said Dom. “You're thinking that—”

“I doubt if he's thinking at all,” interrupted Olive.

“But if he is, it can't be more complicated than that Saberfox headquarters is in Savannah, Georgia.”

I gave her an admiring glance. “Gee, Olive, I've been underestimating you all these years. I didn't think you even knew Boston was in Massachusetts.”

Olive stepped toward me but was stopped by Dom's beefy arm. “If you're right about all this, J.W., it means that somebody in Saberfox tried to kill his boss.”

“Or his boss's brother.”

“Or his boss's brother or maybe both of them.” Dom nodded at Olive. “That was an early thought of ours, so we tried to find out about who inherits if Donald Fox dies. And who inherits if Paul Fox dies, too. I think it's some elderly third cousin or some such thing.”

Olive forgot about me and stepped toward her desk. “I've got it on the computer. As I recall, the cousin is a lady about a hundred years old who isn't the type to hire a killer.” She sat down and started tapping keys.

“Even if it turns out that this cousin tried to kill a Fox or two, was she the one who succeeded in killing Albert Kirkland?” I asked unnecessarily. “Why would cousin so-and-so do that? Kirkland wasn't in line to inherit Saberfox.”

“Maybe Kirkland knew more than he was supposed to,” said Dom. “Maybe he was going to spill the beans. That's a pretty common reason for getting yourself killed.”

“What beans were those?” I asked.

“I wish we could ask him,” said Dom. “Do you know how to use a Ouija board?”

Alas, I did not, but I had something almost as good: the Edgartown library. I got into my truck and drove there.

Libraries are some of the glories of the world. They are full of information, they have comfortable places to sit and read, and they are managed by people who know what they're doing and are actually pleased to help you. Almost every town has one, and I've yet to enter one that wasn't worth a visit. Edgartown's is on North Water Street, and it's a gem.

“Well, hello, J.W.,” said Nancy McWiggin, who was working at the desk as I walked in the door. “Do you need any help, or are you up to it on your own?”

“I'm after information about the modern pentathlon. It's an Olympic sport, I'm told.”

“I don't want to be discouraging,” said Nancy, “but aren't you a little past the time when you were Olympic material?”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I'm still approaching my prime, just like you.”

Nancy patted her graying hair. “Maybe you're right.” She smiled. “If you need help, sing out.”

“I will.”

But I didn't need help because I now knew how to find books using the computers that have become standard equipment in libraries as everywhere else except in my house. As the new century was beginning, I was at least entering the one that had just ended.

You learn a lot when you do research, much of it having little to do with your interests, but some of it having a charm of its own. I learned, for instance, that the tug-of-war had been an Olympic sport in the early 1900s and that in 1912, Olympic awards had been given in architecture, literature, music, painting, sculpture, and Icelandic wrestling, the last event being won, I was not surprised to note, by an Icelander. Who else would know anything about it?

I wondered how Icelandic wrestling had become an Olympic sport. Apparently some Icelander had swung a lot of weight, perhaps in the form of putting kronur into the pockets of some members of the Olympic Committee. It is an old technique but a good one that is still used nowadays, as illustrated by the selection of Salt Lake City for the 2002 games.

More to the point, I read that both the original Greek form of the pentathlon and the modern military version of it had made an appearance in those same, 1912 games.

The original Greek form had the competitors run the two-hundred-meter length of the ancient Greek stadium, throw the discus and javelin, and perform the high jump, after which the two best competitors in the four events wrestled for the championship. This original pentathlon was abandoned after 1928, leaving only the modern or military pentathlon as an Olympic event. Why, I never learned. Too many pentathlons perhaps spoiled the Olympic broth.

In any case, the modern military pentathlon survived the 1928 purge and has been an Olympic sport ever since. In theory it requires participants to contest one another in the tasks facing a mounted courier under battle conditions. These tasks include riding a horse (drawn by lot) over a five-thousand-meter obstacle course, competing with each of your rivals in épée, pistol shooting at a silhouette target, swimming three hundred meters, and running four thousand meters over an unfamiliar cross-country course.

The competition takes three days. Each country enters three competitors and the best team score wins.

Reading this, I decided that Nancy McWiggin might be right about my Olympic days, or at least my pentathlon days, being behind me, since, among other things, I was very bad at riding a horse, only a mediocre pistol shot, a flop with épée, and pretty undependable as a runner. I could swim three hundred meters without stopping, but it seemed likely that more skill than that was needed to be an Olympic competitor.

Rats.

Maybe I'd do better in the women's pentathlon. I read about it. It became an Olympic sport in 1964 and consisted of the shot put, the two-hundred-meter dash, the high jump, the broad jump, and the eighty-meter hurdles.

None of those activities was my specialty.

Rats again.

I left my books on the table, where librarians prefer patrons to leave them, so the librarians can put them back where they belong instead of on wrong shelves where they might be lost for years, and left.

“Find what you were looking for, J.W.?” asked Nancy.

“Indeed,” I said. I didn't tell her that she'd been right about my Olympic prospects.

As I drove home I thought about what I'd learned. Some of it seemed helpful.

I'd had a busy morning but had missed lunch. I corrected that with a bowl of kale soup and a couple of slices of homemade white bread slathered with butter accompanied by another bottle of Sam Adams from my private stock. As I chewed and swallowed I thought some more.

After cleaning up my lunch utensils and stacking them in the rack beside the sink, I phoned Paul Fox. Nobody home. I phoned Donald Fox's office. I got Dana Hvide, the first line of his defense against would-be intruders into his inner sanctum. I told her I wanted to talk with Paul. She told me he wasn't there. I asked where I could find him. She said he was out with Donald on business. I asked her to have him call me when he got in. She said she'd give him the message. I thought she really would, since if she didn't and Paul found out about it he might be sore and complain to Donald, etc., etc.

Since I could do nothing else until I got some more information, I investigated the pantry and fridge to see what was available for supper. There was plenty, and I opted for black bean chili and corn bread. One of the good things about chili is that you can make it ahead and heat up as much as you want to use, then freeze the rest until a later meal. I was fortunate in having children who ate big people's food without hesitation (except for eggs with soft yolks and whites, which both Joshua and Diana considered abominations, just as I myself had held them to be, long ago when I, too, had been little and unenlightened).

By the time the chili was done and I had put together a cherry tart for dessert, much of the afternoon was gone and Paul Fox had not returned my call. Crime solving would go a lot faster if people would stop making the crime solvers wait hours or days for information. Ask any detective.

He called at six, just as my family was sitting down at the supper table. I told him I wanted to talk with him about Saberfox's proclivity to employing ex-athletes, fencers in particular, and about Albert Kirkland in particular. I also told him I was sitting down to supper and asked if we could meet later in the evening. He said we could.

“Have you ever been to the Fireside?” I asked.

“Isn't that where Al got killed?”

“He got killed in the parking lot, not in the bar. Any objections to going there?”

He hesitated, then said, “No, I guess not.”

“I'll pick you up at eight and we'll have a beer while we chat.”

When I sat down at the table, Zee asked, “What was that all about?”

I told her I was going to have a talk with Paul Fox about the people who worked for Saberfox.

She frowned. “This isn't going to be dangerous, is it?”

“Not a chance. We're going to have a beer and talk and then we'll both go home. I'm through with doing dangerous things.”

She chewed and swallowed and had a sip of the house red, then got up and walked to the gun case. She got the key off the top and opened the case and saw that my .38 was right there where it belonged. She locked the case and came back to the table.

“All right,” she said.

“Ma, what were you doing?” asked nosy Diana.

“Nothing, dear,” said her mother.

“When are you going to show Joshua and me how to shoot, Ma?”

Zee was by far the best shot in the family, as attested to by the pistol-shooting trophies accumulating in the guest room closet. She hated the idea of guns but loved shooting them at targets. She was what her shooting instructor, Manny Fonseca, called a natural. Life is full of ironies.

“You're still too little,” I said to Diana. “When the time comes, we'll teach you. Until then, you know the rules.”

Both children nodded and spoke in unison: “Don't touch a gun. Don't get in front of one. If you see one where it doesn't belong, tell a policeman or your parents.”

“For that you get an extra piece of dessert,” I said.

Zee and I washed and rinsed the dishes and watched the news on our tiny black-and-white TV. Nothing in the world had changed very much. At seven-thirty I got into my down coat, kissed Zee, and went out.

“Be careful,” said Zee.

I drove to Oak Bluffs and pulled up in front of the Martin's Vineyard Hotel, aka Saberfox Central. Paul must have been watching for me because he was in the car almost as soon as I stopped.

“I'm not much of a drinker,” he said, “but I guess I can handle a beer in a bar.”

“Maria will probably be glad to know that, and so will her mom if she ever decides to stop hating you. Neither one of them is heavy on the sauce as far as I know.”

We drove to the Fireside. Because it was a cold night and the regulars were warming their innards with Max's finest, we had to drive a ways up Circuit Avenue to find a parking place. We walked back and found an empty booth against the far wall.

Bonzo was wiping down a table across the room. He smiled and came over.

“Hi, J.W. Can I get you something?”

“A couple of Sam Adams, Bonzo.” I aimed a thumb toward Paul Fox. “You know this guy? Name's Paul. Paul, this is Bonzo.”

Bonzo put out a thin, pale hand, which Paul Fox accepted. “Glad to know ya, Paul.”

“Same here.”

Bonzo went away and Paul looked at me, then at Bonzo's retreating back, then at me again.

“Bad acid,” I said.

“Too bad.”

Bonzo returned with two beers and we sampled them. Delish. You can't beat a cold Sam Adams.

“What is it that you want to know?” asked Paul.

“Saberfox is known for hiring ex-fencers. You know why?”

His answer suggested that he'd asked himself the same question. “I think there are two reasons. The first is that the people Donald knows best are fencers. Fencing was his life for many years, and most of the people he met were fencers. They don't drag their knuckles on the ground, if you know what I mean. They're smart and usually well educated. They're sophisticated. They can read. They think.”

“Are they all snobs?”

He looked at me, then grinned. “You mean me, I guess. Well, yes, maybe a lot of them are. The ones I knew when I was fencing were a pretty proud lot. They thought of themselves as a bit above the crowd. They were fencers, not barbarians. They were gentlemen and ladies.”

“Your brother never had that kind of reputation.”

“He was a champion. He didn't have time for lesser men. He was a competitor. You have to have a lot of vanity to be the best at anything.”

I wasn't sure he was right about that, but let it go. “So when he established Saberfox, he hired fencers because they were smart and competitive. That makes sense. Brad Hillborough fenced, you fenced, Donald, of course, fenced. Who else fenced? How about Peter Wall and Chris Reston?”

He shook his head. “No, they're my people. I brought them into the firm. They weren't fencers, but they were athletes at college. Wrestlers. Another esoteric sport, like fencing, that most people have never heard of and no one who hasn't competed can understand. Donald took my word that they'd be good employees.”

“Does he still think so? The last time I saw him, he was after their scalps.”

“When he found out why they were after you, he calmed down a little. If they'd acted like fools, they'd acted that way because they were trying to help me. He gave them a tongue-lashing and then a drink from his private stock of bourbon.”

“Have you heard the latest about Rick Black?”

His ears went up. “No.”

I told him about the planted pistol.

“Well, well,” he said. “It sounds like somebody tried to set him up as a fall guy.”

I watched his face and asked, “You know anybody who owns a Walther P-38?”

His hand strayed to the bruise on his chest. “I don't know much about guns. I've seen some, but not since I got here to the island. Doesn't Mrs. Donawa have one? Was it the kind you just mentioned?”

“No. That was a twenty-two that belonged to her husband.”

I wondered if his honest-looking face was a countenance I should believe. Devils often pose as angels.

“Tell me about Albert Kirkland,” I said.