Billingsgate Shoal (13 page)

"No I don't. Mr. Kincaid always kept in close
touch with the office even though he was no longer directly involved
with the day-to-day operations. He wouldn't have gone off for over a
week without telling us. Something's happened to him—I'm sure of
it—but don't you quote me! I'll deny ever having said it; the
official corporate line is that we're not giving up hope."

"And you know of nobody who hated Walter
Kincaid?"

"The only man—the only man who ever hated him
is dead."

"And who was that?"

"He was Jim Schilling, a former vice president
of Wheel-Lock. Mr. Kincaid promoted him up the executive ladder from
as salesman. He had an incredible amount of energy and he was a
terrific salesman. You know, good-looking. .. smooth. He was a real
macho type too. Loved to hunt and fish. He was in terrific shape all
the time. You know the kind."

"Uh huh."

"I think Jim Schilling was jogging ten years
before the fad hit, you know?"

"Yeah. What happened between them then? They
were good friends, right?"

"Oh yes. They were almost like brothers for
years. They went fishing together lots at first. Then something—I
don't know what it was—happened. Some think Mr. Kincaid began to
fear Jim—you know, began to get the feeling that Jim was going to
try to take over the company or something. They began to argue about
different company policies, advertising campaigns—things like that.
Jim started saying Mr. Kincaid was losing touch with the marketing
end of the business—that he was too old. Mr. Kincaid found out
about it and fired him. It was rumored around here that he regretted
the decision almost as soon as he made it. But Mr. Kincaid was pretty
stubborn, and wouldn't change his mind. Jim moved out to California
right after that, and was killed the following year."

"How was he killed?"

"They think he drowned."

"They think?"

"Uh huh. You see it was on a hunting trip. Jim
went to Alaska to hunt polar bears. No wait. It wasn't polar
bears—the another kind."

"Alaskan brown bear?"

"Right! Hey how'd you know? Do you hunt?"

"Just birds occasionally. But I love to study
wildlife. So Jim Schilling went to Alaska to hunt the brown bears.
And then?"

"Well—let's see if I can remember, it was
almost a year ago—they flew to a certain special place in Alaska in
a small plane."

"The Kenai Peninsula perhaps?"

"Hey, that's right again! How did you know?"

"Because the Kenai Peninsula is famous for big
bears. The only place more famous is Kodiak Island. So who did he fly
there with?"

"A pilot. A bush pilot—I guess that's the
expression, right?"
 

"Yes. And the plane crashed?"

"Oh no. They landed all right and loaded up a
boat with their gear, and went poking along the shoreline of the
peninsula looking for bear. According to the story, Jim and the guide
split up and Jim took the boat alone. They were going to meet at
sundown or something, each one looking for bear that they could
stalk—is that the right word, stalk?—the next day."

"He was with the pilot? That's odd. . ."

"Huh? Oh I don't think so, Mr. Adams. I think
the pilot just dropped him off. I think the guide was an Eskimo or
something. Anyway sundown came and went, and no Jim. The next day the
guide went walking up the coast looking for him, and he found the
boat, half sunk, washed up against a fallen tree in the water. No
sign of Jim. He looked for the rest of the day—even built a
smoke-signal fire and shot his gun and everything. Nothing."

"Hmmrrm1m. Too bad. Did he have a wife?"

"Yes. And two kids too."

"And they never found a trace?"

"Nothing. And of course even Mr. Kincaid said it
would be unlikely that they would ever find the body. You know, with
all the bears and wolves and things—"

"True. They'd make short work of any meat lying
around."

"So that's the end of the only person I can
think of who wasn't fond of Mr. Kincaid."

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Haskell. Oh, where
did Mr. Schilling live in California, do you remember?"

"Yes I do. It wasn't that long ago. He lived in
Newport Beach. When he lived here, he lived in Marblehead. He loved
the water just like Mr. Kincaid. He was never far from it. I think he
had a cabin cruiser there too, for deep-sea fishing."

"Ah yes. And he drowned. It's kind of ironic
isn't it?"

She thought a minute, then answered that the more a
man was on the water, perhaps the greater the chance, in the long
run, of his drowning. I had to admit there was logic to what she
said.

"Well, was there a storm or anything? Any signs
of violence?" Something was beginning to tug at the back of my
brain and I wasn't sure what it was.

"No—you mean up on the bear hunt?—no. They
think he must have lost his balance and fallen overboard, then hit
his head somehow. The shore's very rocky up there I've heard, you
know, 'boulder strewn' like it is here."

"Was any of his gear found? His rifle?"

"You know, I don't remember."

"Sure. It was a while ago. Uh, when exactly was
it—do you think you could pin it down a bit?"

She recollected that it was just before the
holidays—between Thanksgiving and Christmastime 1978. Since it was
now September 1979, that meant Jim Schilling had died about a year
ago. I asked Mrs. Haskell if she'd seen any newspaper account of
Schilling's disappearance. She replied that she hadn't, that to her
knowledge it wasn't even carried in New England papers. And of course
since he had been forced out of Wheel-Lock any open talk and
speculation about the incident was discouraged—if not absolutely
verboten—by Walter Kincaid.

After another ten minutes of chitchat with Mrs.
Haskell, during which time I was presented with a brochure describing
the facilities, products, and policies of the Wheel-Lock Corporation,
I left.

After an hour's discussion, Mary and I figured out
away to sneak up on Mrs. Walter Kincaid.

"It's got to be a name she can't remember later
and check up on," I said.

"How about people names—you know, like Smith
and Jones?"

"That's good. That's the right track. Let's
think up names that'll be impossible to remember?

In ten more minutes, we were ready. Mary dialed the
number and I listened in on the extension phone.

Laura Kincaid picked up the phone after three rings.
I felt just a tad sneaky doing this, especially after her gracious
hospitality and frankness. But there was something gnawing at me I
had to find out.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mrs. Kincaid?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Just take a second, Mrs. Kincaid. Trelawney and
Hoopes cleaners calling from Boston—you know the uniform people?
Listen we've got your three maid's uniforms here and they've been
ready for two weeks now and we're wondering when you can have them
picked up or we can deliver them to your house but we've found nobody
home so I don't know what—"

"Who is this?" Laura Kincaid finally
managed to break in—but Mary, as planned, rattled right along
without even slowing down.

"Er, hello? Yes, Mrs. Kincaid, the uniform
people from Boston and we have your maid's uniforms here—"

"You're mistaken, I don't have a maid—"

"Beg pardon. Mrs. Kincaid? Well you must have
gotten rid of her, right? Because we've got these three uniforms—you
know the black rayon complete with cap just like you always ordered
and we—"

"I'm sorry!" snapped Laura Kincaid
irritably. "Now I told you I do not have a maid! I have never
had one! Is that clear?"

"Sorry ma'am, you're not Mrs. Kincaid?"

"Yes, but I do not—"

"Mrs. Robert Kincaid, 309 Bullfinch—"

"No. No, you have the wrong Kincaid. Good-bye!"

And a quick ring off, almost a slam.

I went in and told Mary she was perfection. Of course
Laura could always look up cleaners, or uniforms, in the Yellow Pages
and see there was no Trelawney and Hoopes, but we'd hoped that the
name would slip from her mind in the interim or, even more likely,
she would assume it was a routine foul-up and pay it no further
notice.

"So no maid, Mary. I thought as much. Then
who—pray tell me—was that person who opened the front door while
Laura Kincaid and I were yakking on the terrace out back, hmmmm?"

"A good question, Charlie. It seems to me that
the Kincaid household is fairly well secured. Intercoms and all.
Exclusive area. It seems they value their property and privacy and go
to great lengths to protect both. It certainly was not a casual
stroller. I think she has a boyfriend?

"I agree. It's not a maid. It wouldn't be a lady
friend. Why would she give the front door key to a friend? No, it's
somebody she's intimate with. Someone she trusts even with the front
door key. Yes, a boyfriend. But then why didn't she introduce him to
me?"

"Because maybe it's none of your goddamn
business."

I had to admit Mary had a point.

"From what you told me earlier, it doesn't seem
that her marriage was that hot. Why not have a boyfriend? And now
that her husband's dead, why not live with him?"

I nodded.

"But then why—since she was open with me about
here so-so marriage—wouldn't she tell me about him?"

"Because maybe it's none of your goddamn
business."
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

I SAT 0N the porch and smoked and thought. I had the
strange feeling that every line of questioning and research I
undertook had a curious wrinkle in it—a strange bend in the stream
that was totally unexpected and hard to explain. "Curiouser and
curiouser," as the British are fond of saying. I considered
doing a bit of further research on Mr. James Schilling. Something
that Mrs. Haskell told me was knocking around in the old gray matter
and wouldn't leave. . .

I thought about it off and on for almost an hour,
then decided to go ahead with it, even knowing that it might possibly
upset poor Sarah Hart again, just as she might be starting to
recover. But she was so perfectly situated in Pasadena. I called her
for a chat to see which way the wind was blowing. If she seemed at
all upset I wouldn't push it. She was not upset so much as resigned
and bitter—even vengeful. I told her what I wanted her to do and
she instantly agreed. "Doc, is this what you call a lead?"

"Probably not, Sarah. I just want to check it
out is all. The best paper would be the
Los
Angeles Times
. Schilling died sometime around
November or December of 'seventy-eight. If you find anything, would
you mind photocopying the article and mailing it to me. If the
newspapers are on microfilm you'll have to get assistance from the
librarian. . ."

She agreed and said she'd have it in the mail the
next day. Mary and I were due to return to The Breakers on Thursday a
evening. It was now past Labor Day, and the Cape would begin to
settle down a bit. The traffic on Route 28 would only be terrible,
not horrendous. Late September/early October is far and away the best
time on Cape Cod. The tourists are (mostly) gone, the water is still
warm, the bluefish are beginning to liven up, and the colors of the
foliage are beginning to change. So I couldn't wait.

But on Thursday morning I got a call at the office
from my old friend Jim DeGroot, the semiretired real estate
developer. He owns
Whimsea
,
a thirty-foot Lyman cruiser that he keeps moored up in Gloucester. He
was calling to inform me that the bluefish were rushing the season a
bit; people were tying into them off Rockport and Halibut Point. The
day before some lucky lass had snared twelve of them.

"Twelve?" I asked incredulously.

"Twelve. The paper said it was her first time
fishing, ever."

"Ah. Beginner's luck. I have a patient at three,
but it's only to remove stitches from a third molar extraction. I can
get out of here before four, and meet you at the marina shortly after
five."

Jim had also invited Tom Costello, a stockbroker
friend of his I'd met several times before. The three of us sat up on
the flying bridge as we left Cape Ann Marina northward up the
Annisquam River and entered Ipswich Bay.
Whimsea
rocked and swayed beneath us in the big water, and her motion was
exaggerated by our high perch. We sipped beer and took in the ocean.
The tide was turning—coming in—which would bring the blues with
it. The horizon was invisible in the haze, and boats of all sizes
dotted the water. The air was cool, as it always is on the ocean even
in midsummer, but as fall approaches, the cold intensifies,
especially in the evening. As we rounded the tip of Cape Ann and
began to head south, I hopped down and began to rig the big hooks
with squid and mullet. We fished the Rockport breakwater for a while.
No luck. Not even a hit. We crawled by trolling, watching lobstermen
hauling up their traps. I thought again of the
Windhover
and, as I sat in the chair looking over the stern at the wake that
churned and hissed behind us, told Tom about my visits to the Kincaid
home and his corporation. He seemed interested. In between fiddling
with his reel and tackle box, he asked me questions relating to
Walter Kincaid.