Death in Vineyard Waters (19 page)

After a while, I drove west, parked, and waded out to
rake myself a basket of littlenecks. They were selling for many pennies apiece in the grocery stores and for even more on the half-shell in the restaurants and bars, so there was a day's pay for me if I could capture them.

And I could. There is something nice about quahogging. It's a lonely, quiet, and slow-moving sort of job. You and your rake and your basket are all by yourselves, and you cannot hurry the work. The big rake can only be tugged so fast and the quahogs are only so numerous. You have to be patient and steady, but while you are working you can think about other things without any loss in efficiency, so there's a double pleasure in the business: making money in a pleasant way and having plenty of time to muse, observe the flat beauty of the pond and beach, and enjoy being alone.

Even though I was a good distance from the new opening, I could feel a difference in the tug of water against my legs. There was a definite movement toward the opening, one that had not been there before. Nothing big—just a small pull toward the east. South of the island not long ago a similar soft flow had washed Marjorie Summerharp's body finally into the fish-filled nets of the
Mary Pachico.
Where had the strong subtle currents grasped her first? Where had they discovered her lifeless form before gently carrying it, floating and turning, into those nets and the realm of men?

If I died now, if my heart stopped beating and I pitched into this shallow water, the gentle tug of the opening would take me slowly east along the beach until the stronger pull of the rapid water took me—where? Out into the sea? Or would the tide have turned by then and would my body, now the property of the world's oceans, be washed into Katama Bay and on into Edgartown Harbor to astonish some yachtsman as he leaned against the rail of his vessel, looked down, and saw me sliding by, trailing seaweed, circled by curious fishes.

I worked a long time for my bushel of littlenecks, but I didn't mind. Tonight Zee and I had a date, and I reckoned
I might need the money. Ian McGregor was out of the picture, John Skye and his wife and daughters would be home, and normalcy would have returned to Martha's Vineyard. President Harding would have been pleased. When I wasn't thinking about Zee, I thought about the things people had told me about Sanctuary and Tristan Cooper. When I finally got my bushel and had sold them, I went home, stripped, and lay in the yard sopping up sunshine and thinking some more. Then I got dressed and went to get Zee.

Zee lived up island, where Tristan Cooper lived, where the Van Dams lived, where Helen Barstone and Bill Hooperman lived. Up island consists of the Vineyard's three westernmost towns, West Tisbury, Chilmark, and Gay Head. Down island, on the other hand, consists of Edgartown, Oak Bluffs, and Vineyard Haven, the latter town actually being disputed territory, considered by some to be up island and by others to be down island.

Zee's little house was off the road between West Tisbury and Chilmark. I'd tried to talk her into living down island with me, but she had declined, saying she'd just gotten out of one man's house (that of her physician ex-husband, Dr. Jerk), and wasn't ready to move into another one's yet. I didn't blame her, but I felt sorry for me. She also declined to marry me for similar reasons. Again, I didn't blame her, but . . .

I passed the general store and the field of dancing fiberglass statues across the road. Past the fairgrounds, I soon came to Zee's driveway. I arrived at her front door at precisely six o'clock, feeling happy and wary. She came out of her door as I turned off the ignition.

She was wearing white. White sleeveless dress, white shoes, small white purse, a white ribbon in her long, jet black hair. Her dark eyes and sleek tanned skin, her red lips and golden earrings gave her the look of a gypsy princess, of a Nereid, a siren.

“You came,” she said. Her teeth flashed in a grin. “And you look quite spiffy, too. I'm flattered.”

“I always dress this way on a first date.” I was wearing my yacht club clothes: white shirt, blue blazer, light gray slacks, a blue tie with little baby sailboats on it, a belt with whales on it, and boat shoes without socks, to show that I was, after all, on the Vineyard and not, therefore,
too
formal.

I took her arm, led her around the Landcruiser, and helped her up into the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” she said.

“A pleasure,” I said.

“Where are we going?”

“The Navigator. We'll sit by a window so we can look out at the harbor and decide which yacht we'll buy when we win the lottery.”

“Excellent. And we can watch the dinghies come in from the yachts and tie up at the dock and unload the boat people so they can have a meal on shore for a change.”

“And we'll have a couple of drinks and then order whatever we want.”

“Because we're rich with bluefish money and can afford the very best.”

“And if we spend all of that money, we still don't have to worry because I have an emergency supply of littleneck money that I've been saving for just this occasion.”

“And if we spend all of that money, then what?”

“We'll wash dishes. The secret is to eat everything first and
then
worry about whether the money is enough. If you count it first, you may never get to eat.”

“You can trust me. I won't even look at prices. Maybe we can use the old restroom trick. I'll go to the ladies' and then just keep going. You go to the gents' and do the same. After we eat, of course.”

“Of course. We can meet afterwards in the parking lot.”

“They'll never catch us unless they remember that they buy fish from you sometimes.”

“It's a perfect plan, but I suspect that we have so much money that we won't need to employ it.”

“I think you're right. What are you going to have?”

“Only things prepared at the table. Flaming entrée, Caesar salad, anything that's on the spectacular side. Nothing unobtrusive. Flaming dessert, flaming cordial, flaming brandy. That sort of thing.”

“My, you must be feeling theatrical.”

“I want everyone to see that I'm with you.”

“Well, then, I'm going to have all that showy stuff, too, for the same reason. We'll impress everyone in the dining room. They'll think we just came in off one of the yachts.”

“Precisely my plan. That's why I didn't wear socks. I want to look nautical.”

“It's too bad you don't have one of those blue hats that say ‘captain.' ”

“I have an old Red Sox cap in the back seat. Will that do?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

The restaurant served up both a beautiful view and a fine meal. And we didn't need spectacular food to capture many an eye. Zee did that all by herself. She was the most beautiful woman in the room. The women envied her and the men envied me, and I didn't blame any of them.

And afterward she told me to take her not to her place but to mine.

I waited till next morning to mention Ian McGregor. We were sitting on the porch, looking out toward Nantucket Sound. It was a sky-blue day with a few white clouds hovering over Cape Cod across the Sound. The storm was gone and the island was clean washed and shiny. Zee's hair hung loose around her shoulders and she was wearing my old bathrobe. We were eating smoked bluefish, red onion, and cream cheese on bagels, washed down with black coffee. Not a bad way to start any day.

“Did you have a date with Ian the night before Marjorie was drowned?”

She stopped chewing. “Do we have to talk about Ian?”

“Do you remember whether you had a date with him that night?”

“Why are you doing this? Let's forget Ian.”

“I'll be glad to. If you don't want to tell me, that's okay. I don't want Ian standing between us.”

“Good. He's ancient history.” I poured her some more coffee and she took a sip.

“You want to drive down and look at the opening?” I asked. “It's the first one we've had for several years. We can take inner tubes and shoot the rapids.”

She looked at me over a bagel. “If I don't tell you, you're going to nose around until you find out anyway, aren't you?”

“Let's forget Ian,” I said. “We can take a lunch and something to drink and a couple of books and make a day of it. My tan needs to be reinvigorated and I can use a day off.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know if he was driving around that night between midnight and, say four
A.M.
I think you've still got a bathing suit here, so we won't need to go to your place first. I've got everything else we need.”

“Why do you want to know if he was out driving around?”

“Because I don't think that Marjorie Summerharp went swimming at six in the morning. I think she probably went in about two or three at the latest. She had to get down there somehow, and Ian seems to be the best bet for the guy who did it.”

“But he said he drove down with her at six that morning. And weren't there witnesses who saw her driving with him?”

“That story doesn't fit the fact of where her body was found.” I told her the suicide theory and then, in part just to slander Ian, the murder theory.

“Murder? Nonsense. Why would he murder her? Ian is a vain, ambitious man, but he's not my idea of a murderer.”

“You told me once that there's a cruel streak in him. And he did punch out that young man from up island.”

“There's some meanness in me, too. And in you, too, Jefferson. But neither of us are murderers!” She took a sip of coffee. “All right, we were out that night. We had supper downtown—at the Navigator Restaurant, as I'm sure you'll want to know—and then went out to the Hot Tin Roof and danced until the place closed. Ian is a wonderful dancer, unlike you, and we had a very nice time. He took me home quite late.”

“How late?”

“About two, I think.”

“Did he come in for a nightcap?”

“That's none of your business.”

“All right.”

“No, he didn't.”

“He drove off about two o'clock.”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you're not only beautiful but brilliant, humane, compassionate, and articulate?”

“All the time. I hear almost nothing else.”

“How about omnipotent, omniscient, eternal, and completely good?”

“People tell me that every Sunday.”

“Do you want to talk about Ian McGregor anymore?”

“No.”

“Do you want to spend the day on the beach?”

“Only if you promise never to mention what's-his-name again.”

“Not today, at least.”

She sighed and gave me a sideways smile. “Okay. But I have to get home in time to wash my hair.”

We were at the opening by ten and played like children in our inner tubes, riding the tidal river as it flowed out from Katama Bay into the sea. The storm swells were gone, and only the normal surf beat against the south shore to give us a bumpy end to our inner-tube voyages. But we'd paddle to shore and run back upstream and do it again and
again until at last, breathless and weak from laughter, we threw the tubes down and collapsed on our blanket. Being a kid is tiring work.

After a bit we took our rods and fished. It was the wrong time of day, but it was fun and we didn't mind catching nothing. Then we had lunch and lay on the warm sand and let the sun do its work on our skin while we read and listened to the Chatham radio station play classical music. At three, we packed up and drove to my place so we could change to dry clothes before I took Zee home to West Tisbury. As we pulled into my yard, I saw McGregor's pretty sports car parked there. McGregor was standing beyond the car, looking darkly toward us as the old Landcruiser rattled into his view.

Zee touched my arm as I pulled up and stopped.

“I have a bad feeling about this, Jeff.”

I stared out at McGregor. He stood in the middle of the scraggly lawn between the house and the garden, where there was room for action. There was a comfortable silky quality about him. He was almost smiling.

“I want you to go into the house and stay there no matter what happens,” I said to Zee. “Don't come out until this is over.”

“I don't like this,” she said.

“It'll be all right,” I said. “But I'd rather have you in the house where I don't have to think about you for a little while.”

“He's going to fight you, isn't he?”

“I think that's his plan. Please go inside.”

“No.”

“Have it your way.” I got out of the Landcruiser and walked out to meet McGregor. “Hello, Ian,” I said.

“Hello, shithead,” he said. “I've been waiting for you. I don't expect your bitch will like what she's going to see.”

“You have dirt in your mouth,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I'm sure.” He put up his hands. He was wearing leather gloves. Smart. No more skinned knuckles for Ian McGregor.

I walked out onto the grass and he came quickly to meet me, left arm extended, right fist cocked. It was time to learn something about him, so I led with an awkward right. He blocked it, tapped me with his left, then crossed with his own right. I slipped the worst of it but went down anyway and rolled, wondering where the kick would be coming from. But there was no kick. I looked at his shoes. Sneakers. He had stepped back. “Get up,” he said.

I got up. He feigned a left, then a right, and as I ducked away kicked with his right leg. I took it on my arm but realized that the kick, too, was only another feint. He whirled and struck high with his left foot. I blocked a bit of it but went down again. Again he stepped back and waited.

“Get up, you stupid, nosy excuse for a man.”

I thought I had learned enough, but was not sure. I got up. He circled, then came in quickly and jabbed three times. They were leads to set up the right he liked. He had been trained in the manly art and was now putting that training to good use. When the right came I went backward, off balance, and he came after me with a flurry of punches. I went down on my rump and sat there. He danced on his toes, then stepped back again.