Billingsgate Shoal (11 page)

"Now Doctor, you say that you may be of some
help in locating my husband. . .what exactly do you mean by that? I
mean, it's pretty well assumed that Walter is dead."

"First of all, Mrs. Kincaid—uh, Laura—you
should understand that my thoughts are pure conjecture. This could
very well be a fool's errand; you can discount all of what I'm going
to say. The only reason I'm curious is because of the death of a
young man, which I feel partially responsible for."

She squirmed slightly on the lounge and squinted at
me.

"Okay. A week ago I saw a boat grounded on
Billingsgate Shoal, just off my cottage in North Eastham. It was a
green trawler named
Penelope
,
which stopped briefly in Wellfleet Harbor after the tide rose, and
has not been seen since. Now what is odd is the fact that the boat I
saw was quite similar to your husband's boat, the
Windhover
.
Moreover, there is little previous history of the boat I saw. . .the
Penelope."

She grabbed her glass, and I could see her hand was
shaking. It was also covered with age spots. I placed her age closer
to fifty-five.

"What are you trying to say, and what are you
implying?"

"I don't know—that's the point I guess. What
does it all mean?"

She let out a slow sigh and looked at the sky with a
resigned expression.

"Doctor Adams, I don't know what you're trying
to do to me, but this past month has been hard enough—"

"I'm sorry."

"—without your raising false hopes about
Walter's survival. Let me tell you quickly what happened. Then, when
I've explained it, I trust that will be the end of the matter, OK?"

I nodded.

"My husband has been interested in marine
archaeology for some time. . .say, the past eight years or so. He
retired early from daily work at Kincaid Industries, although he was
still chairman of the board and chief executive officer of
Wheel-Lock. The daily tending of the business is in the hands of the
current president. Anyway, he spent more and more time searching for
marine relics along the New England coast. He bought an old coastal
trawler and had it completely refitted with all kinds of electronic
metal detecting equipment. Since he gave most of what he found to
museums and the National Trust for Historic Preservation, he was able
to finance the entire operation through a nonprofit foundation
designed especially for this pastime. The foundation, and the
searches, were entirely legitimate, of that you may be sure."
She slapped her hands down on her knees to emphasize the point. I
nodded again, and sipped the tea.

"Almost seven weeks ago he left Gloucester
Harbor on an expedition. He said he was going to take
Windhover
to Provincetown for a few days, then on around the router shore,
stopping at Chatham before going on to Nantucket and the Vineyard. He
called in every three or four nights, either by telephone if he were
in port, or by the ship-to-shore radio. When ten days went by with no
word, I knew something was wrong and called the Coast Guard. They
searched all over the Cape and the Islands for over three weeks.
Nothing."

"I'm sorry. What do you think happened?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"The only thing I can think of is that the
Windhover
struck a
ledge somewhere. Walter spent most of his time around old wrecks, or
places where wrecks might be. These were almost always reefs or
ledges—places where a boat can get into trouble. I don't think they
got lost. . .that'd be impossible with all the loran, radar, and
whatnot on board. I think the
Windhover
went down, either by hitting a ledge or another boat."

"And you don't think it's possible that your
husband, or anyone else for that matter, would deliberately disguise
the boat as another in order to disappear, for whatever reason?"
'

Her jaw had set firm, her eyes bugged out a bit at
me. She blinked rapidly and turned her head away.

"No. I think the idea is absurd."

"Thank you. I guess I'll drop the whole idea
then. By the way, who usually went on these expeditions with your
husband?"

There was a momentary pause as she looked at her
hands, then her nails. She was thinking of something;

She looked annoyed; she grabbed her glass and bit at
it impatiently.

"I might as well tell you, Dr. Adams, since
you'll find out anyway if you're curious enough—after all, it's
hardly a secret—"

"I don't really want to pry."

"Oh of course you don't, dear—" She gave
me a cute smile that cut clear through me. Underneath the patina of
super-rich suburban housewife, Mrs. Walter Kincaid was tough as
nails.

"Jennifer might have been along too. I'm not
positively sure, but I'd bet on it."

"Really? I didn't bring the
Globe's
account with me and haven't laid eyes on it in several days, but I
don't recall a I woman's name mentioned."

"Girl's name, dear—she was no woman, just a
girl. No, you're right. You won't come across an official listing of
her a name anywhere, Dr. Adams, because even her mother and
father—wherever they are—have no idea of her whereabouts. But as
I said, it's certainly no secret that she was Walter's girlfriend."

"I see. Uhhh. Well. . .and you think she would
have been aboard
Windhover
when she left Gloucester?"

Laura Kincaid stared steadily at me, as if passing
final judgment on the matter. Then she spoke.

"That's interesting. Because I think the chances
are pretty good that she wasn't. The
Globe's
people are pretty thorough. They pump their sources pretty dry—leave
no stone unturned, especially in a dramatic story like this one. I
don't think she was aboard when the
Windhover
left Gloucester. I imagine only Walter was aboard. But she could have
joined him somewhere else. Provincetown, Boston, even Rockport or
Ipswich Bay. Walter believed in keeping up appearances. He wanted the
appearance of propriety if not the real thing. Excuse me—"

She was interrupted by a beeping sound, of the
electronic variety, which emanated from a small box on her cocktail
table. A tiny red light was flashing in sync with the beeps. I had
noticed the small contraption earlier, but had assumed it was a
transistor radio. She turned quickly in the chair and clicked it off.

"Wait. I think it's the maid. Can you wait here?
I'll check—"

And she hurried into the house. As soon as she
disappeared inside I walked over and peered down at the contraption.
It was as big as a small cigar box, and had a speaker-microphone
screen and a button bar that said "press to talk"
underneath it. No doubt this was how she had burbled at me upon my
arrival. Under the sensor light that had been blinking I saw the
words door open. There was also another light, a big red one the size
of a quarter. Under it were the words emergency: system breached.
Finally, there were two small yellow indicator lights labeled front
door and back door. These were no doubt set off by the doorbell.
Someone, had opened the front door however, evidently without
ringing. I returned to my chair and waited. The handy gadget was
cordless and could be taken anywhere in or about the house. It was an
intercom system and burglar alarm all in one. It made sense for a
family like the Kincaids. In a trifle, she was back in her chair,
explaining that the maid had stopped by to collect a coat she left
behind.

"Now where were we'?"

"Discussing whether or not the girl was aboard
the
Windhover
."

"Ah yes, sweet Jennifer. Actually, maybe she is
sweet; I never met her. They were always off galavanting over the
waves together in search of buried treasure."

"Buried treasure?"

"Certainly. Or didn't you know, Doctor? Why
that's the real reason for the
Windhover
.
Walter wanted to strike it rich—by uncovering lost pirate gold. Of
course it was probably an escapist dream. . .a hobby more than
anything, but nevertheless that's what lay behind it all: buried
treasure."

"How did he ever expect to find any treasure
around New England?"

"Oh there"s lots of it. Tons of it—so I'm
told."

"Really? I thought it was all buried down in the
Caribbean—"

"Oh no. Take a walk inside with me and I'll show
you Walter's study. On the way I'll tell you how he got bitten by the
gold bug."

We strolled up the flagstones to the back door. The
kitchen was what you'd expect: huge, with work island in middle.
Ceiling racks dripping with copper pans. Microwave ovens,
floor-to-ceiling refrigerator-freezers, walk-in cold storage—the
works. The glimpse I was allowed of the house set me reeling. I
wasn't offered a tour because Laura was accustomed to her wealth and
no longer impressed by it, and assumed others wouldn't be. One can
always tell older money by the fact that those who have it wear it
graciously, even casually, like an old cashmere sportcoat. We went
upstairs and wended our way to the end of the house where a separate
wing sprouted from it like an oversized limb. We opened double doors
and stepped down into a two-room suite. I realized then we were above
the double garage, in the old live-in maid's quarters.

"I assume that your maid doesn't live in, but
shows up several times a week?"

"What? Oh, yes. Walter took over this set of
rooms for his private retreat. During the past eight years, he seldom
left it except to eat and work. He even slept here; the next room has
a bed and bath."

The room was paneled in dark walnut, with beams on
the ceiling. A magnificent burled oak desk dominated the center of
the room, which was lined with built-in bookcases. Every man's dream
of the perfect study. What struck me immediately, though, was the
nautical air of the place. Ship models in glass cases topped the
bookcases. Prints of clipper ships lined the walls. I noticed one
that was in my study as well: Montague Dawson's picture of
Thermopolae Leaving Foochow
.
There were charts of Cape Ann, charts of the Cape and the Islands,
charts of Boston Harbor. I noticed photographs too. Most of them
showed a gray-haired gentleman aboard a boat. Sometimes at the wheel,
sometimes hunched over a chart. One showed him in a wetsuit, hair
dripping over his forehead, triumphantly holding up a gold coin.

Laura stopped before this last picture.

"That's Walter—that was Walter—as you may
have guessed. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-one when he
made his first find."

"What is it, a doubloon?"

She bent forward, squinting at the picture closely.

"That or a piece of eight, or something. .
.anyway, he found a small cache of them off P-town in 'seventy-one,
and from that time on thought about almost nothing else. Except
Jennifer and the other beach girls."

"I take it, Laura, from the tone of your voice
and what you've said, that you and Walter weren't particularly close
during the last ten years or so."

"That's putting it mildly, Doctor. I'm being
open about it because you'd discover it anyway if you asked enough
people."

She ambled over to the leather easy chair with an air
of resignation and flopped down into it.

"We weren't enemies you understand. We didn't
fight. To fight takes emotion—stress and strain. When the emotion
is gone, then there is only a void. A peaceful, blank void. He went
his way and I went mine. He went treasure hunting on his boat and I
played tennis. He had his friends and I have mine."

She looked up quickly into my eyes during this last
remark. I could read between the lines, and let it pass. It was a
clear blueprint, a perfect scenario down to the last detail, of what
so often happens during a marriage in the late-middle years,
especially when there's adequate money—or even more often when
there's too much money; a growing apart. No fights, no divorce. No
separation or settlement. Just two roughly parallel lives lived out
under the same roof, each with its own concerns, hobbies, and lovers.

"I see," I said finally. 'And now that
Walter is probably dead, will you keep this house?"

She gave me a shrewd grin.

"If that's your way of asking me the terms of
Walter's will, it's a very clever 0ne."

I gave a short laugh—a genuine one. That wasn't my
intention; I was merely curious. But clearly Laura Kincaid had been
questioned a good deal during the past weeks by reporters and police
detectives. She was learning to spot the leading question
immediately.

"Let me put it this way, Doctor Adams: Walter
left me sitting pretty. He was incredibly successful you know;
everything he touched turned to gold. I may keep the house; I may
sell it. But whatever happens, life will sweep on as usual for me.
This whole thing has left hardly a dent in my life, Doctor, one way
or another. I was born rich, married a rich man who got richer, and I
will die rich. We had no children. The man I married grew apart from
me in recent years, and now appears to be dead. So that just makes it
official, I guess, that's all. So here I am, same as always."