Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (11 page)

We saw Captain
Barstein emerge from the rear of the chandlery. Chamberlain headed for him.
Deciding not to follow, I watched them meet, then go aboard the ship into the
wheelhouse. There was no way for anyone to hear their conversation, but with
the animation coming from Chamberlain and the head bowing of Barstein, I
imagined it would have been interesting.

After about ten
minutes Chamberlain stuck his head out of the wheelhouse door, searched the
dock with his eyes until he spotted me, and waved for me to come aboard.

Upon entering
the small, cramped space Chamberlain said to me, "I understand you've met
Captain Barstein. He's invited us to sail across in the wheelhouse, keep him
company."

We shook hands.
Barstein remembered me from the other day. It was hard to tell if he was mad at
me for informing Chamberlain he had seen Rinaldi. If he was, to his credit, he
didn't show it. Barstein signaled one of the two deck hands, who began boarding
the few passengers. A small amount of freight was loaded and secured on the aft
deck.

Barstein started
the big twin diesel engines. They created a muffled rumble somewhere deep in
the bowels of the ship. On a silent hand signal from a deck hand, he expertly
maneuvered away from the dock, turned the vessel around on its own axis, and
headed out of the harbor and the open sea.

"What's the
length of the MOMA C.?" I asked Barstein after he had settled onto a
heading out of the harbor.

Without
diverting his eyes from the bow, he said, "Ninety-six on the waterline,
one hundred ten overall. Draws twelve feet when loaded. She's an ex-supply
ship. Named her after my Ma. Her paint may not look good, but she's well
founded and sea worthy. I take care of her personally."

I looked at
young Captain Barstein, intense in his concentration on getting the ship safely
out to sea, remembering the long, jagged scar running from just below his right
eye all the way across the face, ending below his chin. He was a serious man,
six feet tall, slenderly built. Coal black hair stuck out from under a wool
seaman's cap. His arms were thick and powerful looking. Not a big man, but I
imagined strong and quick enough to take care of himself. I thought the thick
scar on his face might be proof of it.

"How long
you been running to Monhegan?" I asked, wanting to draw him out a little.

"Ten
years," he said, still without moving his eyes. "All with the MOMA
C."

Chamberlain sat
on a small bench inside the wheelhouse, his eyes closed. He seemed unconcerned
with our conversation or the trip across. Not me. Any sojourn to sea gets me
excited, even after thirty years of sailing small boats in the Gulf of Mexico.

As we cleared
the harbor, Barstein eased his ship around to a heading of one hundred and
eighty degrees.

He turned
abruptly to me, his face a scant few inches from mine. His eyes were startling,
wide, round, and jet-black. "You said you were a sailor of sorts. Let us
see. Here, take the wheel, steer one eight zero till clearing the Georges
Islands up ahead on the starboard side, then two two zero till Monhegan."

He stepped away
from the wheel. Taking over, I was as delighted as a kid.

"It's
illegal for you to do this when we have passengers aboard,” he said, his dancing
eyes twinkling. "But we'll keep a sharp lookout for any law
enforcement."

Chamberlain did
not respond. His eyes were still closed, his head bobbing back and forth with
the roll of the ship.

Wondering if he
were really asleep, I thought not.

The MOMA C.
began to feel the North Atlantic. The swells were running six to eight feet,
but she handled them easily. Made love to them. All I had to do was let her
have her head. She would climb a wave, roll off to one side, then the other, as
she climbed up the next one, always coming back on course. Barstein was right,
she was a well-founded vessel. I was having the time of my life.

Barstein stood,
silent, behind me for about ten minutes. When he was satisfied I would not
founder his ship, he disappeared from the wheelhouse.

At the first
movement of the Moma C. answering the ocean waves, I felt a familiar gnawing of
seasickness. It passed quickly with my newfound responsibility.

On passing abeam
the Georges Islands, I eased the MOMA C. around to a heading of two hundred and
twenty degrees. The water turned from the shallow, inshore shades of green to a
deep, bluish-purple. A flock of birds, too far away to identify, headed toward
the mainland, flying in a vee pattern, their wings out of sync and fluttering
in the broken sunlight like waves crashing on a beach.

Off in the
distance Monhegan rose out of the sea, stark and majestic. It was an island I
looked forward to visiting for many reasons, not the least of which was finding
out who put a .9mm pistol to the back of Nat Rinaldi's head and scrambled his
brain.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

Young Captain
Barstein reappeared in the wheelhouse and took command of the MOMA C.

Chamberlain
stirred, stood and looked out at Monhegan Island. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes, even
more than I imagined."

"You going
to have any trouble docking?" Chamberlain asked Barstein.

"It'll be a
little tricky, but we'll make it. Wouldn't want to delay local law enforcement
from their appointed rounds." There was no animosity in the statement. He
turned and grinned at Chamberlain.

Nothing else was
said among us. To my utmost admiration, Barstein laid the MOMA C. alongside the
pier on the first attempt. He was good.

When the engines
were shut down, Chamberlain told Barstein we would be aboard this afternoon for
the four- thirty return trip. Barstein, with another scar-faced grin, said that
he would save us a seat.

Chamberlain and
I walked ashore. The island was a ruggedly beautiful place. The harbor, formed
by Monhegan and the nearby island of Manana, is dotted along its shoreline with
colorful summer cottages and homes of the fishermen who live here year-round.
This is one of the finest fishing and lobstering grounds on the East Coast. The
land sloped gently up toward forest of tall spruce.

"Come on,”
Chamberlain said. "I want to see the owner of the Monhegan Store. He's a
friend. Maybe he can tell us who had the Kent Collection here on the island.
We'll have to walk, there are no cars."

"There was
a truck at the dock."

"Belongs to
the Monhegan Truckers. They carry luggage, goods for the few hotels,
restaurants and general store, but you gotta walk."

Following along
behind Chamberlain, I admired the beauty of this place. The sky was clear.
Spruce trees and rocks formed an interesting contrast of colors against the azure
blue waters and pale horizon. The wind blew, and I was glad Chamberlain had encouraged
me to bring my jacket.

"If we have
time, I'll take you to the other side of the island. There is a path through
the forest, a shortcut. The headlands are worth the effort."

"I'm
game."

Chamberlain and
the owner of the Monhegan Store greeted each other like long lost brothers with
a lot of handshaking and backslapping.

Introducing me,
Chamberlain said, "Jay, this is Shorty Williams, one of my oldest and best
friends." We shook hands. "Shorty taught me everything I know about
the sea."

"Yeah,”
Shorty nodded. "He still can't get from here to Rockland without getting
lost." We all laughed.

Chamberlain told
Shorty we would like to go into his office and discuss some private police
business with him.

In a small,
cluttered room at the rear of the store, Chamberlain explained the situation to
Shorty, surprisingly telling him everything. I hoped he knew what he was doing.

When he was
through, Shorty sat silent, rubbing his wrinkled, weather-beaten face. It was
hard to tell his age. He was a lot older than Chamberlain with a thin, lanky
frame, and a small head. His hair was gray and receding. He had quick, jerky
movements, which seemed to echo his black, dancing eyes. A wide grin made him
seem eternal, like the purple sea pounding on the rock a hundred yards from
where we stood.

Finally, rubbing
his gnarled and weather-beaten hands, he said, "J.L., an old couple,
Barnes, they were big Kent lovers. Live in one of the houses he built. I think
they are related to him in some way. The old man, Ben, ain't been around in
several months, but his wife comes in every once in awhile. She has seemed
rather out of sorts the last few times, come to think of it."

"Where do
they live, Shorty?"

"Way up the
hill, yonder." He pointed toward the tree line. "In the gray house at
the end of the path, bordering the preserve. You can't miss it."

Chamberlain
later explained to me that two-thirds of the island is held by the Monhegan
Associates to be kept forever wild.

"One other
thing you might be interested in,” Shorty continued. "There was a
helicopter made a couple of trips up near their house a few days ago. Don't
know if it's important or not."

Yes, I said to
myself. A helicopter, of course. Why didn't I think of that? Nat Rinaldi could
have chartered a chopper to bring him to the island when the ferry didn't run.
Anastasio's men could have done the same thing.

"Well,
Shorty, we'll walk up and pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes."

"When you
get back,” Shorty said, grinning, "I'll feed you two some of that smoked
cod you like so well."

"Deal."
Chamberlain slapped Shorty on the back.

We followed the
old storekeeper through the narrow aisles to the front of the building. The
similarity of the merchandise to that of the chandlery in Port Clyde was
amazing. Pausing, I looked at some of the caps, gloves, coats, and boots.
Things fishermen would need. There was the usual junk for the tourists who
crowded the small island during the summer. For some unknown reason, I had a
gnawing sensation about this collection of goods. Memory mechanisms deep down
in the recesses of my brain were trying to tell me something. Dismissing them,
I followed J.L. and Shorty outside.

We stood in
front of the Monhegan Store. Shorty pointed out the lane leading to the gray
house belonging to the Barnes couple. The house was hidden among the tall
spruce trees.

"Shorty
seems like a nice sort,” I said to Chamberlain as we negotiated the narrow road
up the hill, which soon turned from pitted stretches of paving brick into a
gravel lane, our steps crunching in the silence, sharp and even, like the
cracks of a radial piston engine. "He seems to be someone I would like to
have as a friend."

"He's one
of the good people, Jay. Born to the sea. Toiled all his life in a lobster boat
right here on Monhegan Island. He got old, his heart went sour." J.L.
paused, turned, looked back down the gentle slope toward the store. "Bill
had to force him to go down to Portland for the inevitable triple bypass. He
wasn't able to convince him until his heart stopped beating, and he resuscitated
him, bringing him back from the dead."

"Seems like
he's doing okay, now."

"Bill says
he'll probably outlive the both of us. He hates being landlocked, though."

"Wouldn't
you?"

"Yeah."
J.L. continued up the hill.

We rounded a
sharp curve in the now three foot wide path. Almost hidden in the trees was the
small gray house. I had expected something bigger. This one was about eight
hundred square feet. Big enough, I guess.

J.L. knocked on
the front door. We waited, no one came. He knocked again, louder.

"Ain't no
tourist allowed,” a hollow voice said from behind the door.

"This is
Detective Chamberlain from the Rockland Police Department. Need to speak to Mr.
and Mrs. Barnes. Shorty Williams told us where you live."

The front door
opened a crack. "You got some I.D., young man?" Asked a female voice.

It was funny,
her calling Chamberlain young.

"Yes,
Ma'am." J.L. held up his badge case to the crack in the door.

"What's
this about?"

"Could we
please come in, Ma'am? We want to talk with you about some artwork. A Rockwell
Kent collection."

The door opened,
we walked inside. The house was small, but immaculately kept. The curtains were
drawn. When the front door closed it was completely dark inside.

"Please
have a seat,” the woman said, opening the drapes, flooding the room with light.
"I'll get my husband." She disappeared down a narrow, dark hallway.

Looking around
the small living room made me feel like being back in the nineteen twenties.
The furnishings were spartan, but comfortable. There wasn't a speck of dust to
be seen. An old, battery operated radio sat in one corner of the room. A
fireplace took up one wall; a small, hand-carved writing desk next to a tiny
window took up another. A sofa and two wooden chairs with cushions completed
the furnishings.

Moments later
the woman returned with her husband. We all stood for a few awkward seconds,
looking at each other. Finally the woman said, "This is my husband, Ben.
He's not feeling well. I'm Betty Barnes."

We introduced
ourselves.

The man, Ben
Barnes, stood erect and proud. He appeared near eighty years old, and was
balding with gray veins lacing his shiny scalp. As he spoke one could see that
he had but one canine tooth left in his mouth. The arms were bony, with long
delicate fingers. His skin was so thin it seemed transparent. Dressed in a
clean, wool shirt, he wore blue khaki pants with the zipper half open, as if
forgotten from his last trip to the bathroom. On his feet were brown leather
slippers, no socks. His handshake was frail and weak.

He did not offer
us a chair; instead he walked over to the writing table, opened a drawer, and
took out a white bottle painted with blue birds. Turning to his wife and holding
up the bottle, he said, "Mother..."

She disappeared,
returning in seconds with four small shot glasses.

Carefully
pouring a tiny amount of a purple liquid into the glasses, he handed one to
each of us. Raising his glass in a salute he said, "Welcome to our
home."

It was solemn
and sincere. We handled it that way.

"Please be
seated, Gentlemen,” he said, as his wife took the glasses away. "I've been
expecting you."

Chamberlain and
I looked at each other in surprise.

Tasting the
thick, sweet liquid, I did not have the faintest idea what it was. Probably
something homemade and precious to this old couple.

The wife, a
tall, slim, proud lady, returned and sat by her husband. Her age appeared to
equal his, but her energy and vitality were strong, his was gone. She had the
thin, scraggly hair of the aged, but not a single strand was out of place. The
color was a beautiful silver-gray. The face was wrinkled, the skin, brownish
and spotted. Her eyes were green and full of life, though.

"Why were
you expecting us?" Chamberlain asked.

"Because
they stole our Kent collection,” the old man said. "I heard over the
wireless about the two men being killed." He pointed towards the radio.
"We listen to the news every day."

"Now,
Daddy,” his wife spoke up. "Don't be saying crazy things." She
fidgeted with a small, white handkerchief in her lap and tried to smile. Then
she said to J.L., "Aren't you the one who married Mac and Lucy Delaney's
daughter, Kathleen?"

"Yes,
Ma'am,” he answered, leaning forward and placing both elbows on his knees.

"The
Delaney's that owned the ship dock and marina?" The old man asked his
wife. She nodded. "Well, I'll be. She's a fine young girl. How's she
doing?"

"Pretty as
ever,” Chamberlain said with great patience.

Breaking in, I
said, "Mr. Barnes, you said someone stole your art collection. What did
you mean by that?"

Betty Barnes
bowed her head, worked the handkerchief around her fingers.

Chamberlain gave
me a sharp glance. If he wanted to handle this, he should have said something.
Shrugging my shoulders at him, I said nothing else.

"You tell
them, mother,” Ben Barnes said with a vacant, faraway stare in his dead eyes.
"You tell them how I ruined our lives."

Betty Barnes
went to the window. She stooped over her folded arms as she walked. Staring straight
ahead, she looked out across the Atlantic Ocean. No one could know what she
saw. Wearing a freshly cleaned and ironed blue dress with little red and white
deer patterned throughout the material, she had on no makeup or jewelry, only a
thin, worn, gold wedding band.

Ben Barnes
stared vacantly at the back of her head. His mouth hung loose, the single tooth
shining in the dim light of the room.

Betty Barnes
turned, holding the handkerchief as a crutch. There was something in her eyes
which I knew she did not want to be there. "We had a grandson, Mr. Chamberlain.
He did not turn out so good."

Chamberlain's
eyes darted, his brain searching through memory, trying to place their
grandson. Shifting position in the chair, he did not say anything.

Betty Barnes
continued. "His name was Ansel. We raised him from a baby after his mother
and father were killed in the boat accident over by Owl's Head. His mother was
our daughter. We tried to raise him right, only we did something wrong. I don't
know what. He left home when he was seventeen and went to Chicago. The only
time he'd ever contact us was when he was in trouble, or needed money."
She paused and looked back out to sea. She was a thin restless woman with
delicate features that made her look beautiful for a few years of adulthood and
never afterward.

Yeah, I thought
to myself. How many times have I heard this same, sad lament from parents and
grandparents?

"I remember
the accident,” Chamberlain said. "An explosion caused by gas vapors in the
bilge."

"Our grandson
was killed when he was twenty-five years old,” she said, ignoring Chamberlain.
"We don't know how he died. The police said he drowned in some canal in Chicago.
We had the body shipped back and buried over in Port Clyde. That's where our
family plot's located, over in Port Clyde."

"He was
murdered,” the old man said suddenly. His stare still vacant and unfocused.

Betty Barnes
said, "About six months after we buried Ansel, a man came to the house. He
said Ansel owed his boss a great deal of money and he expected us to pay it. He
said Ansel bragged that we were rich art collectors and would take care of the
debt. My husband told him to leave. We wouldn't be paying any money. The man
laughed and said we'd pay, one way or the other."

"When did
all this happen?" Chamberlain asked, leaning back in his chair, and
crossing his legs.