Death on a Vineyard Beach (28 page)

When I had been casting for about a half hour, I got my first hit. And lost it. The hit encouraged everybody, however, and pretty soon a guy on the other side of the rocks actually landed a mackerel. Everyone was happy for him. A little later I landed one of my own. I cut its throat and stood it, head down, in my five-gallon pail full of salt water. Before I left, I had another one standing on its head beside the first one. Not bad, for a short trip to the beach. I opened a celebratory beer, and drove home, looking at the birds, feeling better than when I'd left the house.

I cleaned the fish and got one ready for supper. When that was done, I phoned Thornberry Security. Thornberry was out. His secretary was willing to take my message: Had Thornberry checked out Fred Souza?

Then I called Aristotle Socarides. No answer. Where did that guy spend his time? Wasn't he ever home? And why didn't he have an answering machine? Everybody had an answering machine these days.

Except me, of course.

Zee's hair was dry. Our martini glasses were in the freezer, chilled and waiting, but she'd gotten her bag of shooting gear out of the gun cabinet. Apparently shooting didn't get your hair salty. I wasn't surprised when she said she'd take the martini later, after she and Manny finished their evening shoot. She invited me to come along, and I did that, not forgetting to take my own earplugs.

She and Manny worked hard, and the targets disintegrated before their pistols.

“Jessica James,” I said, when she pulled the plugs out of her ears and packed her gear away.

“The lady can shoot,” said Manny, approvingly.

At home, while Zee cleaned her Beretta, I got the drinks and appetizers ready, and took them up to the balcony. Zee came up and we sat and looked out over the evening waters. Life seemed strange and beautiful. I thought back to what Vanderbeck had said, and tried to imagine what God saw when examining the world. But I was not God, and could not guess.

  
23
  

The next morning, I called Detective Gordon R. Sullivan. He didn't seem too happy to hear from me.

“What is it this time? Another hot lead?”

“A few years back, a kid named Vinny Cecilio stole a car…”

“Every other kid in Boston has stolen a car,” said Sullivan. “You want to talk to somebody about a stolen car, I'll connect you.”

“This kid was Luciano Marcus's grandson. He still is. Nowadays, he's the old man's chauffeur. He was driving Gramp's car when the guy went at Luciano with the shotgun.”

“So?” Sullivan was a little more interested, but not a lot.

“There were a couple of other kids with Vinny when they hooked the car. One of them was named Benny White, and the other one was called Roger the Dodger. I'd like to know what they're doing these days.”

“I have things to do, Mr. Jackson. I don't have a lot of time to run around looking up juvenile records. If I tried to keep track of every kid who stole a car in Boston, I wouldn't have time to do anything else.”

“You sound jaded,” I said, putting a note of obviously false sympathy in my voice. “Okay, forget it. I'll call Thornberry Security. And I know a reporter over at the
Globe.
I'll see if he can help me out. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Cops often have good relations with reporters, and sometimes they actually get along with private cops. But they don't like it when those reporters and Pi's have information and they don't.

“All right, all right,” said Sullivan. “But what's the deal here? Why do you want to know who those kids were?”

“Because somebody took a shot at Luciano Marcus, and if it wasn't Fred Souza, it was somebody else. The only name I have that ties the Vineyard to Boston is Vinny Cecilio's, and aside from the island kids who knew him at UMass, those two names are the only ones I have that are tied to him.”

“You telling me that Vinny tried to pop his own grandfather?”

“No. But if he did, it wouldn't be the first time some kid did it.”

“There aren't any first times anymore,” said Sullivan.
“I got a lot of people to talk to. I'll add those to the list. It's the best I can do.”

“One more thing. Those other two guys who were shot-gunned. When did the shootings happen? Was it since the shotgun was stolen down on the island?”

“Yeah. One in May, and one in June. And now this latest one in July. Sounds like Joe Louis.”

I didn't get that one, and said so. “You're too young,” said Sullivan. “Joe Louis knocked them down so fast that they said he had a bum-of-the-month club. This shootist may have his own bum-of-the-month hit list. May, June, and a whack at Luciano in July.”

Great. And now it was August.

I rang off and called Thornberry Security. I got Jason himself this time, and gave him the two names.

“So far,” said Thornberry, “your tips have not gotten us very far.”

“They've gotten you as far as yours have gotten me,” I said, and told him what I'd been up to since last we'd talked. He told me nothing, of course. Jason the silent.

I thought about the people I'd talked to and the people I hadn't. I thought about people I hadn't even seen. I thought about Vinnie Cecilio. I decided to talk with Angela Marcus. Grandma.

How many times had I driven to Gay Head in the past few days? I was spending more time there than down island, where I belonged.

I drove up the Marcus's long driveway and parked. No one came to meet me. Nobody was watching the television screen. Security was lax. I knocked on the door, and Priscilla opened it. I told her I wanted to talk with Mrs. Marcus.

“She's in her garden,” said Priscilla. I followed her along a hall and up some stairs. We passed Luciano's office en route. Priscilla opened a door and I went past her, out into the light of the August day. I walked along a path and came to Angela's garden. She was alone, on her knees, peering at her basil. She glanced up and smiled as I approached.

“Bugs,” she said. “I've put some beer traps here. Did you ever use beer traps?”

I thought of the cans and bottles I'd emptied over the years. I was probably in a beer trap myself.

“Yes,” I said. “I use them sometimes. And sometimes they even work.” I knelt beside her, as she sat back on her heels and wiped her brow with the back of a gardening glove. “I've talked to everyone, and I'd like to talk to you some more. About the shooting.”

She lifted a leaf and looked under it. “I'm afraid I won't be able to help you, but I'll try, if you like.”

I liked Angela. She didn't seem to have any bad bones. “You're probably right,” I said, “but I'll ask you a few questions anyway.”

“All right.”

“Do you know anyone who might want to harm your husband?”

“No, I don't.”

I wanted to protect her as much as I wanted to question her. “I understand that when he was younger, his, ah, business activities may have created enemies.”

“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Luciano has not been involved in such things for years.”

“Ah. You knew about them, then?”

She looked at me. “I'm not one of those wives who shuts her eyes to her family, who sees nothing but good in her husband and children. I love them, but I know who they are. Luciano did things that he felt he had to do. And he did them knowing that I did not approve. But he loved me and I loved him, and in time he stopped doing those things. All that was a long time ago.”

“Tell me about your grandson Vinnie.”

Her gaze was steady. “Vincent is a naive young man who has neither great intellect nor ambition. In part I blame our daughter and her husband for that, though perhaps I shouldn't, since neither of them values thought or hard work, either. Perhaps it's genetic. My sons are intelligent and industrious, like their father, but my daughter is like my mother, good-natured and clever, but lazy. Worse yet, she married a man much like herself, and Vincent is the product of that union. So what he is, is probably not his
fault. It's probably mine, for not having brought him down here earlier, before his weaknesses got him into trouble.”

“But you give him money. Isn't that catering to those very weaknesses?”

She shrugged. “I have it to give. Perhaps I spoil him a little. But a boy needs a little money.” She smiled. “It's like that good cop, bad cop business I see on the TV programs. Luciano is the bad cop, and I'm the good cop. Together, we get the work done. We get Vincent to become a man, instead of a child.”

“You love him.”

“Of course. He's my grandson.”

“And does he love you and his grandfather?”

“What a question! Of course he does!”

“One of the motives behind crimes is money. Who will benefit from Luciano's will?”

Her back stiffened. She put her hands on her knees and looked down at them. When she spoke, her voice was tight. “A good deal of the money will be in trusts. If I survive Luciano, most of the rest of it will come to me, but some will go to the children and grandchildren. I don't think you should be thinking along these lines, Mr. Jackson.”

“I gather that the estate will be considerable. Who'll control the businesses? What you've said about your daughter suggests that she's not the one to leave in charge.”

Some of the anger seemed to go out of her. She sighed. “Cynthia and her husband would very much like to get control of the family businesses, but Luciano has put those businesses in our sons' hands. Our daughter and her family receive the income from a trust, and from the businesses as well. It will keep them comfortable, though probably not as comfortable as they might wish. But what is it they say about wishes? If they were horses, beggars would ride? We love our daughter very much and are fond of our son-in-law, but we no longer hope that someday they'll become responsible enough to trust with the large amounts of money. When Luciano dies, they will, of course, receive a very nice cash legacy, as will the other members of the family, but their principal inheritance will be another trust.”

“And the boys will get the businesses.”

“No. Our sons will control the businesses, but they will continue to be owned, in part, by their sister.”

“But she'll have no hand in running things.”

“That's right. Cynthia is like her son. When she has money, she spends it and wants more. She's a wonderfully pleasant person, but she never looks beyond her present desires. We're working hard to see that Vincent won't turn out the same way. Vincent…” Her voice fell away.

It was interesting to have it affirmed that rich people had almost as many money problems as I did. They were just of a different kind. Mine came from having almost too little cash; theirs came from having almost too much. I wondered what it was about Vinnie that made her voice fade away like that.

A shadow fell across the basil, and we both turned and saw Bill Vanderbeck peering down. I glanced down at Angela. Her face, which had been troubled, seemed immediately very happy.

“It's doing very well,” he said, nodding.

“We love pesto,” she said. “I think we might eat it every day if our cook would let us.”

He smiled at me. “Hello, J. W.”

How had he gotten there? As usual, I'd heard and seen nothing of his coming. I shook his hand, and stepped back. He knelt beside Angela, and together they worked their way down the row of basil plants, pulling the occasional weeds that had emerged since Angela had last worked along this row, and discussing Angela's herbs and vegetables. When they were done with the basil, they started on the beans.

“Wonderful beans,” said Bill. “You could live on pesto, I could live on fresh-picked green beans.”

“Me, too,” agreed Angela. She paused and sat back on her heels and looked around. “In fact, there's nothing here that I wouldn't be able to live on.” She smiled at him, and her teeth flashed in the summer sun.

“You take care of your garden, and your garden will take care of you.”