Blood Money (42 page)

Nick squeezed her shoulders tightly and drew her close. “Why not? Don’t be a fool. Take the money.”

She moved away and looked squarely at him. “Because I love you. Because I want
you—
not the money. Can’t you see?”

Nick was silent. He did see but hadn’t wanted her to know.

“You
are
a bigger fool than I thought,” he chuckled, shaking is head.

“No, I’m not.
You
are—if you don’t ask me to come with you. I’m the best woman you’ll ever find, Nick Ceratto. And you know it.”

“You want to be a fisherman, Grace Monahan? You want to live on a smelly, damp boat and be seasick all the time? Huh?”

“I’d love it,” she answered defiantly.

“How do you know?”

“The same way you know. You
are
an idiot. How did you ever get a law degree?” She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

“You want to come with me, lady?” He smiled and tousled her mop of red hair. “You want to be a poor, salty lady?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And I’ll bet I catch more fish than you. And besides, you need my money.”

He thought for a moment. “Are you trying to buy me?

“Yes.” She rubbed his hand along her cheek. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

“I’m pretty cheap, huh?”

“Yes. You’re not worth a penny more than ten thousand, and that’s stretching it.”

“You sound like a defense attorney.”

“Maybe I’ll be one, one day.”

“Is that so? There aren’t any law schools on the sea,” he mocked.

“But there are Internet courses, and Harvard’s not far, right? An hour away by plane. So, I can afford it. I’ll visit on weekends.”

“So, you’re already quitting the boat and leaving me? You have it all worked out, don’t you?”

Grace felt flutters deep inside her. “No, not everything, not just yet.” She wondered when she would break the news. Now was not the time.

In the middle of a deep, long kiss, Nick’s cell phone rang.

“Ceratto,” he answered.

“Mr. Ceratto, this is Henry Pool,” said an unctuous voice. “I’m an attorney with Crown Mutual Life Insurance Company.”

“Yes?” Nick inquired hesitantly, wondering what other insurance company was in the process of trying to screw him.

“Mr. Ceratto, Joseph Maglio was one of our insureds. He had taken out a two million dollar policy on his life. At first we denied the claim because Mr. Maglio’s death was deemed a suicide, which is excluded under the policy. But when we discovered that Mr. Maglio and his wife and two children were victims of foul play, we tried to contact the alternate beneficiary, only to discover that she, too, was deceased.”

There was a pause. “Mr. Ceratto, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Who would this
alternate beneficiary
have been?”

“Let’s see. I have it written down here.” Nick could hear papers being shuffled. “Ah…here it is. Ms. Maria Elena Maglio. It seems that she was Mr. Maglio’s cousin,” Pool answered. “She had been trying to prove to my company that Mr. Maglio had not committed suicide. She was in touch with us almost on a daily basis. In fact, she said she was conducting a private investigation and insisted that we not close our files.” There was another pause. “Luckily we obliged her and kept the file open. She was quite charming and very persuasive…”

“I know,” Nick interrupted. “She was very charming and very persuasive.”

“Oh, did you know her?”

“Yes, in fact, I did…” he said, his voice dropping. So much for
Help me clear my cousin’s name. Help me restore my family honor.
“But what do I have to do with this, Mr. Pool?”

“A great deal, Mr. Ceratto. You are the second alternate beneficiary under the policy.” There was a long silence. “Mr. Ceratto?”

“You said two million dollars?”

“Yes sir. You may claim the check in person at our office in the Public Ledger Building at Sixth and Chestnut Streets, or I can mail it to you. I have it right here in my desk.”

“I’ll be right there.” Nick flipped his phone closed. He turned the ignition key, put the glimmering red sports car into gear, and raced down the hill, turning right onto Spruce Street.

“Nick, where are you going? What the hell’s so urgent?” Grace laughed giddily like a schoolchild on an amusement ride.

“Gracie. I’m rich again. Two million dollars rich. But I’m not giving it away this time.”

“What the hell happened? Did you hit the lottery or something?”

“Better.” He turned north on Fifth Street, passed Independence Hall, and circled around to Sixth to Chestnut.

“What’s better?”

“Insurance proceeds. Money I fucking
got
legitimately.”

“How?” Grace yelled.

“By staying alive.” He pulled into a bus stop in front of the classic marble arched building and leapt out of the car, automatically pulling the keys out of the ignition. He raced around to the passenger side and tapped on the window. “Here,” he said, as she opened it, and he handed her the keys, “In case a goddamned Septa bus comes along. And don’t take off on me.” He leaned down to kiss her.

She would ask no more questions. “I’m never leaving you, babe.”

The
Eagle
blasted its horn as it rounded Brant Point and glided into Nantucket harbor. She was a big, white, broad-hipped hulk capable of carrying at least fifty automobiles and several tractor trailers. Over the past fifteen years she had carried her share of summer tourists and their over-loaded SUVs with their dogs, cats, bicycles, boogie boards, and beach chairs to the island. In summer she was filled to capacity. Now, in winter, she was mostly empty.

Nick and Grace stood on the passenger deck. They’d left the warmth of the enclosed galley, smelling of coffee and fresh doughnuts, to brave the February chill in order to take in the view as they approached the island which would be their new home.

In the distance, the low, sandy arm of Great Point embraced them, pulling them toward the Gray Lady, as the island is called. It looked magical in the distance, yet snug in its smallness compared to the sunlight sea surrounding it. The ferry slid past magnificent, now empty summer mansions piled atop the low sand cliffs surrounding the harbor.

Grace put her arm around Nick’s waist. He responded squeezing her tightly to him. They were silent in their excitement, awestruck at the panorama opening up before them. It was beautiful despite being winter. The towering, white, and gilded tower of the Second Congregational Church was the centerpiece, perched high upon a hill while below were layers of bare trees and gray shingled houses with red brick chimneys. Puffs of woodsmoke rose into the frosty, bright blue sky. Lonely buoys bobbed up and down, waiting for winter’s end. Shuttered shops and empty docks came into view as the
Eagle
made her turn with the ease of a ballerina. The sound of her engines stopped briefly and then changed, humming loudly as the captain reversed engines. The screws obeyed, and the Eagle
paddled slowly backward until she met the resistance of the tarblackened pilings and gently thudded against them.

Nick and Grace were awakened from their rapture by the sound of the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker, reminding them that they should have been in their car five minutes ago with the engine running.

The metal ramp was already in place when they got to the Boxster below. The five eighteen-wheelers packed with food, booze, building supplies, and other necessities were already off. Nick and Grace were the last to drive through the gaping hole at the back end of the Eagle and onto the empty Steamship Authority parking lot. Nick opened his window. “I like this place, Grace. It smells of freedom.”

She stared quietly at the emptiness—the huge, vacant, black macadam parking lot, the lonely piers, closed shops, deserted tennis courts. And she wondered for a moment if she had made a mistake. “Somehow I’m going to have to get used to this,” she said skeptically.

“In a few weeks you’ll love it. Look,” Nick said as he stretched his arms as far as he could, given the confines of the car.

“That’s what I mean. Look at this,” she motioned with an open hand, “this place is deserted. I have to be honest. I’m a little scared.”

“Of what? Of clean air, of natural beauty, of…”

“Of that,” she broke in, pointing to the dock and the huge rusted hulk with its enormous outriggers reaching ominously toward them. The boat bobbed up and down in the choppy water. On deck, a white-bearded man in a navy wool pea coat waved to them. On the side of the peeling vessel painted in faded red was the name
Sankaty Lady
.

Nick hesitantly waved back. “Holy shit,” he said. “Is that it?”

“What did you think it would be—the
QE II
? This
is
it, Nick. This is your dream boat.”

“Let’s make the best of it, OK?” he snapped, annoyed at her sarcasm and half scared to death himself. He put the car in gear and drove slowly toward the old sailor and the iron monster.

“You’re the new owner, I reckon,” the old salt said without cracking a smile, dropping his
r
’s in true Cape Cod fashion.

“I guess,” Nick answered, wondering if he had made a huge error while his lawyer’s mind searched for ways to escape the deal.

“Don’t look like seafaring material to me,” he said, eyeing Nick’s black cashmere Calvin Klein overcoat. “You’ll have to get rid of that,” he said, pointing to the gleaming, red Boxster. “Salt air’ll turn it into a rusted heap in no time —’less you want to spend all your fishin’ money restorin’ it.”

“OK, what else is wrong?” Nick fired back.

“Got a year?” The old man chuckled, then sighed and shook his head at the city folk wanting to become natives. He had seen this before and was glad that he had been paid ahead, and in cash. “Come aboard,” he sighed resignedly. “I’ll try to teach ya. Remember, the deal was thirty days. If ya don’t learn the boat, the tides, the charts, the fish—too bad. I’m headin’ to Florida. Here, grab a line,” he said throwing it in their direction.

Grace was the first to catch it and to pull the boat closer. She tied it off, not expertly, but adequately. She had seen clove hitches tied by boaters at the New Jersey shore at the marina bars. She stepped effortlessly aboard, managing to keep her balance as the boat rocked. She shook her red hair and faced the old grump as if to say,
OK, I’m ready, now what?

Nick was impressed. He followed cautiously as the boat swung out a few feet from the dock again. This was not going to be a piece of cake, getting used to a world that was never still. He fought the urge to be seasick and willed his stomach to behave. He put his arms around Grace and gave her a long kiss on the lips. “Welcome home, honey.”

“The missus, I reckon?” the old salt asked, uncomfortable at such an open display of affection.

“No. This is Grace Monahan. She’s my partner. She’s my first mate. She’s proud. She’s smart. She’s beautiful. And she’s Irish.”

“Well, that’s one thing ya got goin’ for ya, sonny.” the old man said, focusing on Grace. “Some women are better fisherman than
men. They use their instincts instead of just relying on the sonar. Know anything about boats?” he asked her.

“No,” she answered, smiling.

“Anything about fish?”

“Just that I like them broiled with fresh lemon,” she said, standing her ground.

He cracked a smile for the first time, revealing two missing bottom teeth. “You
will
, missy. You
will
when we’re finished. I can tell you’re a quick learner, you are.”

Grace followed the old man to the companionway and descended to the messy cabin below.

Nick walked to the bow. He took a deep breath of the cold, salt air. It smelled good. He picked up the end of a thick line, coiled on the deck. He looked at it curiously, then gripped it tightly in his hand. Its roughness felt good. It was real. It was honest.
Yes, this can definitely work,
he said to himself. He thoughts turned to Joe Maglio. He smiled—at the sea, at the chattering gulls overhead. “Thank you—wherever you are.”