First Light (2 page)

“If I do, I'll try to make it painless.”

“I'd rather you didn't do it at all. Frankie's a freshman at UConn, and she's got the jitters about that on top of this other thing.” He rubbed his forehead. “This is a terrible situation. I'm afraid something has happened to Kathy. Otherwise I'm sure we'd have heard from her.”

“I'll see what I can do, but, like I said, you shouldn't get your hopes too high.”

We finished our beers and he went away. I ordered another and drank it while I looked over the file he'd left. Thornberry Security had been thorough and their information was useful. About the only thing I could do that they hadn't already done was talk to some people they hadn't interviewed here on the island.

Tomorrow was soon enough for that. Today I had
to get ready for the Derby and meet Brady Coyne when he came down from Boston. Brady used his law practice to support his fishing habit, and his plan was to combine some fly fishing in the Derby with some legal work for Sarah Fairchild, who owned two hundred acres up on the north shore overlooking Vineyard Sound.

My father and Sarah had met before I was born, and Sarah had taken to him enough to give him, and after his death me, lifetime access to Fairchild Cove, which consisted of Fairchild Point and Fairchild Beach, and which was one of the best bass-fishing and bluefishing spots on the island.

But now Sarah was old, and Brady was going to help her decide what to do with her estate. The very idea of trying to deal with that can of worms made me glad I wasn't a lawyer.

I left the Fireside, pushed Katherine Bannerman to the back of my mind, and headed home, thinking Derby thoughts. In September the bluefish are back, heading south after their summer sojourn to cooler northern waters, and to celebrate this return and to extend the tourist season, the Vineyard hosts a month-long fishing derby from the middle of September to the middle of October. Hundreds of fishermen and fisher-women come over from America and join island anglers in pursuit of striped bass, bluefish, bonito, and false albacore. Local plumbers, carpenters, landscapers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, and chiefs close up shop and go fishing. They become haggard and thin as they lose sleep and money to chase fish, and their customers grow surly when they're unable to find anyone
to do work for them. In mid-October, when the Derby ends, normalcy returns and you can finally get somebody to rake your lawn or fix that leaky pipe in your basement.

The Derby thrives in spite of the increasing difficulty fishermen have getting to traditional angling spots. The problem is a familiar one in all resort communities, where local land is owned by outside people. On Martha's Vineyard, more and more off-islanders, both individuals and corporations, are buying property and closing off access routes to the woods and shore.
NO TRESPASSING
signs are tacked on locked gates that previously were open to fishermen and hunters. Local folks, who once felt welcome to cast a line or pop a cap almost anywhere on the Vineyard, now can't get close to hunting stands or fishing spots. Only a lucky few, like me, have permission to open gates and cross private lands. I was happy to be among the chosen, although I wasn't sure how much longer my privileges would last.

I spent the early afternoon with Zee on our screened porch lubricating our reels, replacing rusty hooks with new ones, and checking lines and leaders and rods. Katherine Bannerman refused to stay out of my mind, so while we worked I told Zee about the job I'd taken.

“People don't just leave without a reason,” said Zee. “If you find out why she left, maybe you can find out where she went. What did you think of Bannerman?”

“I'm not sure. People wear different faces in different situations. I'm pretty certain he wants to find her, because he's spent a lot of time and money trying to
do it. But on the other hand, he's made a lot of money in the last few years, so he can afford to finance an expensive search even if it's just for appearances.”

“Is there another woman in his life?”

“None that Thornberry found.”

“How about another man in hers?”

“No, but apparently she likes to dance and socialize more than her husband does, and it was a point of contention between them. According to Thornberry, Bannerman is either at the office or at home getting rested up so he can go back to the office. She wanted more than that in her life. Is that enough to send her packing, do you think?”

“Could be. Maybe she was having a midlife crisis.”

“I thought only men had those. They divorce their wives and go off with blonde bimbos.”

“It happens to both genders. The difference is, nowadays more women have enough money to leave boring hubbies. That wasn't always the case.”

When our gear was in good shape, I drove with the kids to Fairchild Cove to make a few practice casts with each of the rods while Zee stayed home to wash her hair and muck out the guest room for Brady. The master plan was for us to take Brady, between lawyering stints, with us as we roamed the beaches in search of that prizewinning fish.

Joshua and Diana and I drove up to Vineyard Haven and managed to make a left turn at the infamous Tee intersection of State Road and the Edgar-town Road, the site of one of the three worst permanent traffic jams on the island, the other two occurring at the Five Corners near the Vineyard
Haven ferry docks and between Al's Package Store and the A&P in Edgartown. Smart Vineyard Haven cops do nothing to correct the situations at the Tee or at the Five Corners, because the traffic jams slow cars to a crawl, which is the speed for which island roads are constructed. The jams, of course, are caused by people making left turns. I've been pointing this out for years, but does anybody listen? No. When I'm king of the world, I'm banning left turns.

We drove to West Tisbury, then turned into the narrow, sandy driveway that led to the Fairchild place. A hundred yards along, a smaller lane split off to the right. We took that and came to a locked gate. I had the key.

“How come there's a gate, Pa?” asked Joshua.

“Because the people who own the land don't want other people to come in.”

“How come you have a key?”

“Because we're special.”

The lane led down to Fairchild Cove. It wound through the trees and past some big rocks left behind by the glacier that, before its eventual retreat back north, had created the Vineyard, Nantucket, Long Island, and other south coastal islands by pushing part of what is now New Hampshire down into what is now the sea. On the far side of the big rocks, we curled over a rise and dropped down toward the shore.

“Look, Pa. A haunted house.” Diana pointed.

It did look something like a haunted house. Actually, it was the stone cottage that some nineteenth-century Fairchild male had built as a hunting and fishing lodge for himself and his buddies. As cottages
go, it was pretty fair-sized, and in its day it had all of the amenities. But for as long as I had been driving to the cove, the place had been in ruins and, as empty and abandoned houses do, it had taken on an increasingly forsaken air. Maybe it
was
haunted. According to tales I'd heard in my youth, it had never been used again after the drowning death of one of the Fairchild buddies who had been staying there with his fishing pals. The victim had, it was said, been done in by that familiar fisherman's notion that they're biting better over there than over here. He had waded out to the rocks at the tip of Fairchild Point, been trapped by the rising tide, and had drowned trying to get back to shore.

Whether his ghost still hung around the cottage was something I'd never thought of until my daughter's remark. Maybe Diana was psychic.

“I don't think that it's haunted,” I said, “but it does look scary.”

“No,” insisted little Diana. “It's haunted, all right. It's got ghosts.”

I glanced at her and she looked up at me. “Don't worry, Pa. They're not bad ghosts. You don't have to be scared of them.”

The lane turned and we left the cottage behind us and came to the beach. Fairchild Point was to the west. Reaching out from its tip was the underwater sandbar that the drowned fisherman had followed to the fatal rocks that lay thirty yards out in the sound. The beach curved east to other rocks lying at the foot of the embankment that formed that end of the shallow cove. Out across the sound I could see the Elizabeth
Islands and Tarpaulin Cove, where I had anchored more than once while cruising in the
Shirley J.

There was a battered pickup truck parked in front of us, and fifty yards to our left a large man was reeling in his line and looking in our direction. His grizzled face wore a scowl. Nate Fairchild, Sarah's son. He didn't like me or anybody else that I knew of. I parked and pointed at Fairchild. “You see that man?”

“Yes, Pa.”

“Stay away from him. He doesn't like people to get too close to him when he's fishing. When you get out, go in the other direction to play.”

“Is he one of those big people who don't like children?” asked Diana, who was particularly perceptive today.

“Yes, he is.”

“I don't like him, either, then.”

Smart Diana. We got out and I looked at Fairchild and lifted a hand. He made no reply, but turned back to his line. Diana and Joshua went down the beach away from Fairchild. I got the first rod from the roof rack.

The sun was bright, the air was warm, and the tide was just beginning to run west. It wasn't the best time to wet a line in the cove. That happens at first light just before or after the changing of the tide. But when you fish, any time is better than no time.

I tried all of our rods and several lures and never saw a sign of life in the sea. Off toward the point, Nate Fairchild wasn't catching anything, either. I put the last rod back on the roof rack and called to the kids. They were wet and sandy, so I had them go
back in the water to rinse off most of the sand, then wrapped them in beach towels and took them home.

Zee was on the phone, so I put the kids into the outdoor shower, dried them again, and sent them into the house to get dressed. I hung their wet bathing suits on the line, and thought happy thoughts about that shower. An outdoor shower is one of the world's best things. You never have to worry about steaming up the walls or getting sand on the floor, and there's a fine feeling of freedom and airiness that you never get in an indoor shower. We used ours almost all year, forsaking it only when winter arrived in force.

I looked at the watch I'd found in the South Beach surf. You should never pay more than nine dollars for a watch, and mine had cost me only the price of a new band. A bargain. The watch said it was after four o'clock.

I had poured myself a Sam Adams and was up on the balcony drinking it when Zee, martini in hand, came up and sat beside me. She was sleek as a leopard, and her black hair gleamed. Joshua and Diana were down in the yard, looking up. The cats, Velcro and Oliver Underfoot, were in the garden doing cat things.

“Can we come up, Pa?”

“No, Josh. This is big-people time on the balcony.”

It was the daily answer to his daily question. He tried another familiar one. “Can we build the tree house, Pa?”

The big beech behind the house was an excellent place for a tree house.

“Not today. Now go play. Your mother and I are having some private time.”

Joshua and his sister went to look at the beech tree.

“That was Brady on the phone,” said Zee. “Plans have changed. He's getting here at six and having supper with us, but Sarah Fairchild wants him to stay with her. So after we eat, we'll take him up there. I'm sorry he won't be staying with us.”

“Well, Brady's been her lawyer for years. If she wants him to stay with her, I guess he should. She's business. We're just for fun.”

Zee finished her martini and glanced at her watch. “Time to meet the boat. We're having spag for supper. I've thawed out a batch of your sauce, so you can warm that up and make the garlic bread while I go pick up Brady.” She kissed me and went down the stairs.

I looked out over the gardens toward Nantucket Sound and thought about Katherine Bannerman. The dark blue waters touched a pale evening sky, and there was a single sail out on the horizon. Maybe Katherine was on that boat. Maybe she was looking at that sky.

Probably not.

Beauty is truth and truth beauty, the poet said, but I couldn't imagine much of either in the Bannerman case. I finished my beer and went down to the kitchen.

I
walked out of my office in Copley Square in Boston at one in the afternoon on the second Friday in September, and five hours later I had left America behind and was lugging my duffel off the ferry and down the long ramp at the harbor in Oak Bluffs on Martha's Vineyard, which locals like J. W. Jackson seem truly to believe is not America at all, but its own special world.

I'd spent the forty-five-minute ride up on the ferry deck, sniffing the salty sea air and watching the low hazy-green mound of the island grow larger as we chugged across Vineyard Sound from Woods Hole. I scanned the water—I never tire of looking at water—hoping to spot a school of blitzing bluefish, or maybe a shark or a whale or a harbor seal. I did spot some gulls and terns squawking and diving a half mile or so off the port side, but the ferry, inconsiderately, did not alter its course so I could see what was going on.

My mission on the Vineyard was business. Sarah Fairchild, one of my oldest and most beloved clients, had decided to sell off her Vineyard property. The
Fairchild estate encompassed about two hundred prime seaside acres in West Tisbury, where Sarah's old summer place was located. A golf course developer called the Isle of Dreams was vying with a nature preserve group, the Marshall Lea Foundation, for rights to the land, and my job was to check out the two parties, help Sarah decide what to do, and then make it happen.