Death in Vineyard Waters (21 page)

One barn had been converted to a garage and storage area for machinery, and a second had become a small gymnasium with accompanying exercise rooms, massage rooms, showers, saunas, and whirlpools. Very clean and professional. The tennis courts were behind the barn, and male staff were housed on the second floor.

“And the real beauty of the place,” said a smiling Van Dam, leading me down a flower-lined walk, “is here.” He made another of the grand gestures that he favored, this one encompassing everything west, including the roofs of two cottages half hidden beneath the trees in front of us. “Sometime back in the early part of the century, when the Coopers still had money but were hoping to make more, Tristan's uncle, I believe, decided to convert his farm into a haven for summer visitors. He had these little cottages built, twenty or so of them scattered over a hundred or more acres. But bad timing was his lot, and the Great Depression arrived and left Uncle Cooper with empty cottages and, ha, ha, an empty wallet as well, I fear. The family barely managed to hold out over the following years, and Tristan was about to be forced to sell his beloved farm when, I'm delighted to say, Marie and I arrived and saw here the perfect haven for which we had sought so long! It was, if I may say so, a perfect match. Tristan has saved his beloved stones and Sanctuary's guests have private cottages to themselves.”

“I remember the cottages from the times my father came here to hunt years ago, but I don't remember the stones.”

“Ah, I can show them to you if you wish, but Tristan is really the man for the job. The most important one for us here at Sanctuary is yonder.” He pointed toward a rounded hill. “There is the great stone we call the Altar. We hold our own private religious services there from time to time. Would you like to see it?”

“I'm seeing Tristan Cooper later . . .”

“Then he's the man for the job. Fascinating, these old stones, but I'm not the scholar Tristan is. He can tell you everything about them.” He glanced at his wristwatch. It was not the kind you get in a gas station. “By Jove, we have just enough time to show you the beach. Come along, we'll take a golf cart. We've no golf course, ha, ha, but we do have good use for golf carts. Some of our guests are a bit too elderly to make the trek to the beach and boats, and for the rest of us they're a bit quicker than walking if time is important. Mind you, though, we encourage our guests to walk whenever possible.” He waved a finger. “Excellent exercise!”

The golf carts were in the barn, and each was fitted with a two-way radio. We took one southward along the gentle path. After a bit we met a young couple strolling with a vigorous-looking white-haired man wearing a robe and sandals. All three waved, called friendly hellos, and displayed perfect teeth. Again I caught the lilt of Ireland in the voices of the young couple.

Van Dam was quick on the uptake. “Yes, as you no doubt have guessed, our groundkeepers and aides are college students, mostly from abroad. They are well screened and absolutely dependable, unlike many young American students who came to the island to play more than to work. We're very particular about our help, but we pay well. Unlike most jobs on the island, ours allow a student to actually make and save some money. We do not allow our people to drink
or use drugs on the grounds or to enter the grounds under the influence, and we demand absolute discretion from them. Our guests' lives here are not subjects for public discussion. The members of our staff “sign contracts when they assume their positions here and understand that anyone violating that trust will be dismissed immediately and will also be sued. They all understand that and know that in return they will not only make good salaries but have access to all facilities when they are not being used by the guests.” He smiled his white shining smile. “I am happy to say that we have never had to enforce the provisions of those contracts. Our young people have been uniformly trustworthy!”

“What are those necklaces they all wear?”

“You've a keen eye, sir. Those are worn by all staff and guests. They identify our people and insure that they are not mistaken for others who might not belong on the grounds. Those Sanctuary amulets allow authorized members of our community to go wherever they wish whenever they wish. The gate you passed on your way in is new, installed with regret, I assure you, but necessary to insure the privacy that is essential to our guests' comfort. Visitors are always welcome, of course, but without an appointment they are usually delayed a few minutes at the gate while we arrange a guide for them.”

I caught the smell of salt water, and a moment later Van Dam pulled the golf cart off the path and stopped atop a sandy bluff. “There,” he said.

Below us was a white beach, a part of South Beach, which stretched from Gay Head to Wasque Point. On the beach and in the water were several people, old and young, enjoying the sun and surf. To our left was a small pond linked to the sea by a narrow channel. On the pond was a pontoon pier fronted by a wooden boathouse. Tied to the pier were a day sailer and a small sport-fishing boat. Beyond the beach another day sailer with the Sanctuary logo on her mainsail was beating westward. Out to the southwest I could see
Nomans Land, the small island that serves curiously as a bird sanctuary and a naval target range and near which many a large bluefish has been hooked. Off to my right, at the far end of the beach, naked people were on the sand and in the water. I glanced at Van Dam.

He smiled. “Yes, nude bathing is available for any who wish it. For the sake of guests not so inclined, we insist that the nude bathers stay at that end of our beach. We see no moral dilemma in this. Do you?”

“No. I do the same thing in my yard sometimes. Did the pier and boats come with the property?”

“The powerboat, yes. But Tristan kept it in Menemsha Pond. I installed the pier and boathouse and purchased the sailboats to give our guests yet another form of therapy. We dredge the channel several times a year so our powerboat won't get trapped inside. It needs it now, in fact, thanks to that last storm. We offer sailing lessons for those who wish them and fishing expeditions for our salt water sportsmen and women. The integration of the sensual, the spiritual, the emotional, and the mental, sir, that is what we teach at Sanctuary. We teach a centering of these modes of experience, a balancing, a knowledge of the self that our guests can carry back with them to their everyday worlds and that will make them happier, more creative people.” He glanced at his watch.

“Do you ever take the fishing boat out yourself?”

“I'm sorry to say that I know nothing at all of boats. Both my dear wife and I prefer the beauties of landscape rather than seascape. We hire young people with knowledge of boats to give lessons and take our guests out in pursuit of the fruits of the sea.” Again a glance at his watch. “You are free to go on down if you wish, but I fear I must get back to work.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I will, if you don't mind. You've got a beautiful place here.”

He looked as though he wished he hadn't made the offer. “Very well. Here, you'll need one of these.” From a pocket
he took one of the medallions everyone was wearing. It bore the Sanctuary logo. I put the chain around my neck. “Before you leave, just drop that off at my office. Oh, Barkley!” He shouted down toward the beach and a young man turned. “Come up here, will you?” Barkley, looking lean and sun bronzed, came running and arrived without even being short of breath. Ah, youth. “Barkley, this is Mr. Jackson. He's going to be exploring the grounds. Will you be so kind as to be his guide?”

“Yes, sir,” said Barkley. “How do you do, sir?” He shook my hand. He was young, but he was comfortable with older folk such as me. Van Dam gave me directions to Tristan Cooper's cottage, flashed his patented smile, and went off on his golf cart.

“What would you like to see, sir?”

“First, the boats. I didn't know this pond was here.”

“It's a natural pond, and we dredge it in the spring before we put the boats overboard. The channel is partially filled now because of that last storm. We can still get the sailboats out because they draw less than a foot with the centerboards up, but the motorboat has a vee bottom, and right now we can only get her in and out at high tide. We'll have the dredges down here late next week and get everything squared away. The boats get good protection in the pond, and there's a sandbar a couple of hundred yards off the beach that breaks up the worst of the waves.”

We walked down onto the dock. The day sailer was a seventeen-footer with centerboard, and the fishing boat was an older design but still well kept. The hatch was locked, and there was no key in the ignition. A rope for waterskiing was coiled neatly in the back of the cockpit. “I imagine the Van Dams like to use this baby to get away from it all now and then. She's a nice old boat.”

“Oh, no, sir. The doctor and his wife never go out. They don't care much for the water. They don't even come to the beach.”

“Let's have a look at the beach.” I took off my sandals.
A dozen young people and an equal number of older men and women were enjoying the sun and gentle surf. Barkley smiled and greeted people as we passed among them. I heard foreign accents. “You have a young Irishman working here. I don't know his name, but I'd like to meet him. About a month ago he would have been sporting tokens of valor on his face. Do you know who I mean?”

Barkley's pleasant face became wary. “I don't know if I can help you. Why do you want to meet him?”

“I'm not from Immigration, if that's what's bothering you. No, I just thought he'd like to know that McGregor, the fellow who pounded on him, has been pounded on in return. I'd like to tell him myself, but if I can't, perhaps you'll see that he gets the word. It might make him and the girl feel better.”

We walked on. “All right,” said Barkley. “If I see him, I'll tell him.” The nude bathers were just ahead of us. I felt overdressed and turned back. “I'm glad that McGregor got his,” said Barkley as we retraced our steps. “Davey Grant is a good guy.” He threw me a sudden glance and lowered his voice. “If you want my opinion, Maggie Leary isn't worth getting your face bashed in.”

“Different people have different tastes.”

“I suppose.”

“Tell me,” I said. “When Maggie was dating McGregor, did the two of them ever come up here and use the powerboat for waterskiing or fishing?”

“Not that I know of. If we want to date somebody who doesn't work here, we do it off the grounds.”

“Do many red-headed girls work here?”

He gave me a questioning look. “No. Just Maggie Leary.”

“I'd like to talk to Maggie. Is she around?”

He wasn't sure what to do. His hesitation made me think that she was indeed around. He apparently didn't care for Maggie, but nevertheless felt a certain loyalty toward her. “I don't know where she is,” he finally said.

It was a lie I could understand. I might have said the same thing myself. Maggie wasn't on the beach, so she had to be somewhere else. “Let's go up to the tennis courts,” I said.

Barkley looked unhappy but nodded.

At the tennis courts a red-headed young woman was playing doubles, teamed with a vigorous middle-aged man against a similar couple. They were a happy foursome, laughing and exchanging remarks. The red-haired woman's partner had a pretty good backhand and used it to win match point, after which he kissed her with casual carnality before jumping the net and shaking hands with the losers. I hadn't known that people actually jumped the net anymore and took it that the jumper in this case was not unwilling to have others admire his vigor. He seemed the hearty sort.

As the girl was toweling her face and arms and two other couples took over the court, I left Barkley and walked to her. She smiled a dark-eyed smile and raised a brow. Her hair was thick and a deep red such as you sometimes see among the Irish. Her complexion was not the sort that tanned well. It was milky and clean and very lightly touched with freckles. “Miss Leary? May I talk with you for a few minutes?”

“Who are you?” she asked. Her tennis partner was looking at us with what seemed a possessive stare. I looked back at him and smiled. “Nice game,” I said.

“Thanks.” He waved a hand and rubbed his towel on his neck.

“My name is Jackson,” I said. “I want to talk to you about life insurance. Is there somewhere we can speak privately? This won't take long.”

She looked at me with wise eyes. There was a carefulness in them that made her seem older than her years. “Life insurance, is it? You don't look like a life insurance salesman, if I may say so.” Her voice had that lovely Irish lilt that can make the commonest words sound like song.

I stepped closer and put my back to her partner. “I have a wallet in my pocket. There's a badge in it. If you insist, I'll get it out and show it to you and these other people. Personally, I'd prefer not to do that, but I'll leave it up to you.”

Her face seemed to contract a bit. She touched her lips with her tongue. “All right. We can walk together. That's probably best.” She smiled and waved her fingers at her tennis partner. “See you at lunch, Robert.” Then she walked with me off the courts and past Barkley.

“We'll be back in a few minutes,” I said to Barkley. “Just stay here and I'll be able to find you.”

Maggie Leary walked beside me down a curving pathway through the rocks and trees. Similiar paths wound here and there, connecting cottages and other buildings, leading to vistas of sea and countryside where comfortable benches were placed for the convenience of viewers. Pausing at one of these, I was again struck by Chilmark's wild beauty. Surely there is no lovelier township on Martha's Vineyard.

“What kind of a badge do you have?” asked Maggie Leary.

“Boston police,” I said, and I was even telling the truth. My old one was in my wallet. “I'm working on a case down here and I need some information you might be able to provide. Before you decide whether to help me, I should tell you that I'm close to some people in Immigration who are concerned about aliens working over here without green cards.”