Death Dance (39 page)

"Not at all. I don't mean to be rude, but I think I need to
nap for a bit. Just tired," I said, leaning my head against the small
window and closing my eyes. It seemed to be my only tine of defense.

I actually slept for twenty minutes, shaken awake on the rough
descent through the thick clouds over the Elizabeth Islands. We set
down on the short runway of the Vineyard airport and taxied to the
terminal.

My neighbor offered his hand. "By the way, I'm Dan Bolin. I've
got my car here, if you need a lift."

"Thanks a lot," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm all set."

"Your name is?"

"Stafford. Joan Stafford." I hoped Joanie didn't mind that I
had saddled her with four hungry little mouths to feed. And there I'd
been with Mike a few hours back, wondering why people find it so easy
to lie to us.

The steps had been lowered and the passengers were descending
from the center of the plane. Dan Bolin waited for me to get off, but
as I took my time walking back to the terminal building, he waved
good-bye and headed for the parking lot. I had arranged for my care
taker to leave my car there for me, so I stopped in the Plane View
restaurant and loitered over a cup of coffee to give Bolin the chance
to be out of my way.

There was just enough daylight left for me to enjoy the
stunning vistas as I made my way through the familiar curves and hills
of Chilmark. The old Grange Hall, the dirt road cutoff to Black Point
Beach, the calm glade of Abel's Hill cemetery, the seventeenth-century
stone walls that lined the pasture of the Allen sheep farm, and then
the sun setting on the water at the town landing by the Stonewall
bridge. I could race the remaining two miles to my sanctuary, the old
farm—house that sat high over Menemsha Pond with a commanding
view of the rich green landscapes and the blues of Quitsa and the
Vineyard Sound far beyond.

My gardens were prepped and dressed for spring. The forsythia
gave off a golden glow on either side of the gates marked by granite
pillars, and the crushed white quahog shells that served as driveway
dressing brightened the grassy surround. An array of pastel-colored
tulips stood on either side of the front door, while sprouts of
daffodils haphazardly dotted the yard and punctuated the formal
plantings, which had not yet bloomed along the bordering walls. All of
these hearty April flowers seemed to be taunting the deer to come and
taste them.

No matter how severe the stress, no matter how profound the
problems I encountered at work, when I reached my Chilmark home, it was
as though every pore opened and relieved me of the pressure building up
inside. I didn't forget the images in crime scene photos or the details
of an autopsy report, but somehow I could put them in perspective and
be restored by the beauty and peacefulness of this one place on earth I
loved above all others.

The inside of the house had been readied for my arrival, and I
smiled with pleasure at the personal touches that welcomed me back. In
every room there was a small bouquet of flowers from my own gardens,
dry logs were laid in the fireplace—flue open and matches on
the mantel next to my collection of old ivory
crustaceans—crisp new linens had been laundered to refresh
the palette of my bedroom, and a pint of my favorite clam chowder from
the Homeport was next to a pot on the oven to be heated for dinner.

I called Joan Stafford to explain the change of plans and told
her I'd pick her up at the airport at noon. I took asteam shower and
wrapped myself in a warm robe before moving into the living room to
light the fire and settle in with the evening news and an old
Bar—bara Stanwyck movie. When I got hungry, I warmed up the
chowder and then watched the second half of the flick with a glassful
of Dewar's.

Despite the fact that some of the perils of the job had found
a way to the island from time to time, and that even my home had been
the scene of a frightening intrusion, the changes that I had made to my
security system over the years kept me comfortable here and completely
at ease. I slept well, lulled by the steady noises of the crickets and
awakened only by the early-morning light through the glass panes of the
French doors in my bedroom, with the cries of robins searching for
worms in my wildflower field.

My first foray out was to the Chilmark Store, for the morning
papers and a cup of coffee that I drank, picking on a cinnamon bun,
while rocking in a chair on the deck. I greeted islanders who had been
longtime friends—fishermen, painters, construction workers,
post office employees, waitresses, and the librarian—asking
and answering the obligatory start-of-season questions about how the
winter had gone. For all of us who lived or worked on the western tip
of the island, past Beetlebung Corner, this general store was our
lifeline— the center of the universe for food, supplies,
news, and gossip.

Back at the house, I took my ten-speed bike out of the barn
and set off for the Aquinnah Cliffs on State Road, glad for the first
exercise I'd had in a week, coasting down past the dunes of Moshup's
trail and saving my energy for the last winding hill on the way back to
my house.

I called to check on Joan's flight, which was scheduled to
land on time, so I put the top down on the vintage Mustang and drove to
the airport, nested in the middle of the island within the state
forest, to pick her up.

Joan's exuberance was hard to contain in a confined space, and
she began blowing kisses to me the moment she emerged in the doorway of
the small plane and made her way down the short stairway.

I stood behind the gate at the edge of the tarmac and she
dropped her bag to hug me as she stepped out of the way of the other
passengers.

"It must be love," I said. "You look stunning."

"Love—and then, of course, Kenneth. You like the
highlights?" She spun in place, referring to the legendary hairdresser
who had given her a new look.

We locked arms and walked inside to the rack where the luggage
was delivered. There was no such thing as traveling light for Joan.

I picked up her duffel bag and started toward the car. "You
won't need half of whatever is in here."

"I've brought some things for you. I know, I
know—not necessary, but I did. And you've got to read my
manuscript. I'm almost halfway done with the new book. That's in there,
too. I didn't know if we'd be going out so I brought some extra
clothes."

"And Jim? How is he?"

"He's the best. He's wonderful, Alex. And he sends lots of
love."

We had been pals for a very long time and there was nothing
that relaxed me more than curling up on opposite ends of a sofa with
women I trusted and adored—like Joan and Nina
Baum—to unload my problems and listen to theirs, or simply to
dish about guys, clothes, kids, and anything else that came to mind.

"You'll catch me up on what he's doing. It's your call: we can
go out for dinner tonight—the Cornerway, the Galley, the
Beach Plum, Bittersweet, the Outermost," I said, ticking off my
favorite restaurants, "or we can stop at Larsen's Fish Market and ask
them to cook and split a couple of lobsters for us. Then we just take
them home and chill them until it's time to eat."

"Perfect. Let's go out tomorrow night. Have you got any really
great wine?"

"Some Corton Charlemagne."

"Whoops. Sorry I asked. Jake's favorite, if I remember
correctly? Let's stay home and stuff ourselves in front of a roaring
fire. We can drink you out of his leftover vino, darling, and then you
can order something entirely new. We're over him, aren't we?"

"I'm trying, Joanie. Let's not go there."

We drove into Menemsha, the commercial fishing village that
was my favorite part of the island. Along the dock where steel-hulled
trawlers off-loaded their catch, old-timers watched from the wooden
benches along Squid Row.

Betsy Larsen was in the kitchen, cooking lobster and working
the raw bar, and her sister Kris was behind the counter. It would take
twenty minutes to make our dinner, so Joan and I ordered a dozen
oysters each and carried them out to eat as lunch down on the jetty, at
the bight that led out to the sound.

We reached the house and I parked in front of the barn,
opening the trunk to take out Joan's bag.

She was already on the step and called out to me as she pulled
on an envelope that was wedged in between the screen and doorjamb.

"Did you do this?"

"What?"

"It's addressed to me," Joan said, tearing open the sealed
paper.

I came up behind her and saw the daffodils bunched in groups
next to the granite step. They were soaking in four brightly colored
pails—children's plastic sand buckets—lined up in
graduated sizes, each full of the bright yellow flowers.

" 'For Joan,'" she read aloud to me. " 'Hoping to see you and
the kids before too long.' It's signed Dan Bolin. I don't get it, Alex.
I don't know anybody named Dan Bolin. Does this make any sense to you?"

"I think it's romantic."

"It makes my skin crawl. Creepy, not romantic."

"It's exactly what you get for lying to the guy. Especially,
may I add, for using my name and giving me the added delight of
mothering four little monsters. I almost asked him to join us for
dinner tomorrow night."

"Spare me," I said. The Temptations were singing "I Can't Get
Next to You," as I added two logs to the fire and opened the second
bottle of wine. "It was a weird thing for the guy to do."

"That's the difference between us. You're always seeing
perverts and madmen where I would find adventure and, well, sexiness.
Thanks for giving him
my
name."

"Sexiness?"

"Well, it was a very sexy move. Admit it. To drive all the way
up here from Edgartown with flowers for you. Have you forgotten how
it's supposed to feel when a guy hits on you? Especially when he's
cre-ative about doing it?"

Joan had called the phone number on the note that Bolin left
at the door before we sat down for dinner. He had recognized me from
the photographs in the paper and the evening news stories after the
arrest of the Silk Stocking Rapist several months earlier. He knew I
was pulling his leg from the first answer I gave and decided to play
with me.

"In my business we call it stalking. Now I'll be up all night
worried that the guy might actually find you in the D.C. phone
directory. How's that for guilt?"

"You've been in your line of work too long."

"How did he know where I lived? That's not in the book."

"It's a friendly island. He told the kid who pumps gas in
Men-emsha that he forgot which driveway was yours and got a very
cheerful and accurate set of directions."

"So what did you say to him?"

"That we have a full house this weekend. I promised I'd pass
his number along to you and maybe you'd call him next time you're here.
It's against my better instincts, Alex. I'd much rather check him out."