Murder at a Vineyard Mansion (3 page)

“My enemies might wonder the same thing,” she said in a bitter, thoughtful voice.

“One last piece of free advice. Don't lie to your people like you're lying to me. They'll expect you to, but don't do it. It won't help your son if he's innocent.”

“He is innocent, and I'm not lying!”

I believed half of that. “If you say so. There's a very good private investigation organization in Boston called Thornberry Security. I suggest that you give them a call.”

She pushed herself out of her chair. “You're probably right to refuse this job,” she said. “We've never gotten along before and we probably wouldn't if you went to work for me. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.”

I stood. “I hope your son is innocent.”

She inclined her hoary, horsey head. “Thank you for your time.” She turned away, then turned suddenly back and surprised me by bursting into tears. “Please help me!” she cried. “Please! I need your help. Don't turn me away!”

I was shocked into pity. I saw my hands go out and touch her shaking shoulders and pull her close. My arms went around her and I heard my voice say, all on its own, as if at a distance, “All right. All right. I'll do what I can. Don't worry. Don't worry.”

She was tough, and after a while she pulled away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I hate emotional people.”

“Don't be sorry.” I went into the house and came out with a clean handkerchief. She blew her nose and wiped her red eyes. “Thank you.”

“I'll come over tomorrow and talk with Harold. With luck we'll find out where he was when Ollie was killed.”

I watched her drive away and wondered if I should have taken the job. I didn't like Harold Hobbes, but on the other hand, the money was good and a murder involving the rich or famous is always a thought teaser.

The next morning, as I listened to the local news on WMVY, I learned that Norton's Point Beach was going to be closed that very day by the Fish and Wildlife experts, that the busy Silencer had struck again in Oak Bluffs, and that the island had suffered a second homicide within the week. Harold Hobbes had been found bludgeoned to death in his own driveway. His mother, Maud Mayhew, returning home from a CHOA meeting the previous evening, had found the body and phoned the police.

As I read of Harold Hobbes's death, I experienced a powerful feeling of guilt, as though I were somehow responsible. The irrationality of this notion annoyed me as much as the feeling itself. I pushed it away, but it was instantly replaced by an equally irrational and powerful feeling of duty, of obligation to discover who had done this to a man I'd promised to protect. He was an old woman's only son. She must be devastated. I pushed at this feeling, too, but with no effect, because I could imagine my own emotions if anything should happen to Joshua or Diana.

Still, I attempted to do away with my guilt through action. I finished refurbishing our fishing gear, did some repairs on the tree house with the help of Joshua and Diana and the supervision of the two cats, Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, and even climbed on our roof and made another search for the source of the persistent leak in the corner of the living room that dripped every time we had a wet northeaster. Naturally I couldn't find it because you can never find a leak that's not leaking at that moment. Annoying. Even more annoying was the fact that all my busywork failed to ease my mind, so just before noon I gave up, loaded the kids into my rusty Land Cruiser, and drove to the Edgartown police station.

Four-year-old Diana the huntress was always pleased to go for a ride, especially if it eventually led to something to eat. She had gotten that sobriquet, in fact, because of her seemingly permanent search for food. One meal was scarcely over before she was ready for the next one. A dark-haired, dark-eyed miniature of her slender mother, she could eat like a horse and never show it.

Big brother Joshua also liked to go for rides, but he was less insistent on a culinary reward at journey's end. For him the ride was enough in itself, for he was a transportation buff who liked cars, boats, bikes, planes, and all other known vehicles. It was a fascination I could not grasp, nor could I guess the gene pool from which it came. All children are mysteries in one way or another.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Diana.”

“Can we get ice cream?”

How predictable. “Sure. But first I have to talk with the Chief.”

At the station I left my offspring playing crazy eights in the backseat of the truck and went inside.

The Chief's office was full of cops, including Sergeant Dom Agganis of the state police. I guessed they were discussing the recent unpleasantness on Chappaquiddick. In Massachusetts, the state police handle all homicide investigations outside Boston, which has its own homicide people. This can create tension between the state cops and the local cops, who often know more about the particulars of a crime than the state cops do.

Fortunately for Edgartown, Dom Agganis and the Chief got along very well. Fortunately for me, I got along with both Dom and the Chief. The only cop in the office that I didn't get along with was Dom's second-in-command, Officer Olive Otero. Olive and I had never, ever hit it off. We were like flint and steel; the first time we met, sparks flew and they'd flown ever since. Why that was, I could not say. Nor, I guessed, could Olive. Olive saw me come toward the Chief's office and tried to push the door shut in my face. I got a sandal out just in time to stop it.

“This is a meeting of police,” said Olive, giving my foot a kick with her shiny black shoe and shoving harder on the door.

Dom Agganis, hearing his subordinate's voice, turned and put his big hand on the door. “Olive is correct,” he said. “Your business will have to wait a few minutes.”

“If you're talking about Harold Hobbes,” I said, “I might have something you can use.”

“I doubt that,” said Olive.

“Find a chair,” said Dom. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

Olive sneered and shut the door.

I looked at Kit Goulart, who was behind the reception desk and listening to every word. Kit was over six feet tall and the size of a horse. Her husband was of the same dimensions. Together they made a team that could probably outpull a yoke of oxen.

“Round one goes to Otera,” said Kit. She pointed to a bench against the wall. “Go to a neutral corner and when the bell rings, come out fighting.”

Instead I took a peek at my truck. The kids were still playing. Crazy eights is a good game for all ages. I turned back to Kit.

“Has the law collected Mickey Gomes, or is he still on the loose?”

“Oh, they collected him, all right. He was just where they figured he'd be: hiding in the woods behind the girl's house and getting hungry.”

“He hasn't broken out again?”

“No, they took away his screwdriver and replaced the screen with bars on his favorite escape window, so Mickey will be staying put for a while, much to his girlfriend's disappointment, no doubt.”

“Don't her parents object to him coming around all the time and getting their daughter pregnant?”

“The rape was only statutory. I guess they figure that if Mickey's willing to break jail every week or so to see their little girl, his love is true and the child-to-be is the proof.”

“It's nice to know that romance is not dead, but I imagine the wedding will be delayed until Mickey serves the extra time he'll get for busting out.”

Kit nodded. “The child will no doubt emerge into the outer world before Mickey does.”

“Tell me something. How come he never escaped until after supper and always came back before breakfast? Was that because he figured his keepers would be asleep between meals?”

“Ah,” said Kit, “a sound but incorrect theory. The real reason is Duane Miller. You must have heard about him. There was a story about him in the
Gazette
a while back.”

“But of course.”

It all came back to me. Duane Miller was a gourmet chef who was serving a term in jail for selling dope to some friends. He'd made a deal with the jailers: if they'd use the jail's food money to buy groceries he ordered, he'd cook for both the inmates and their keepers. The result of the agreement was that the best food on Martha's Vineyard was served in the county jail. No wonder Mickey made sure that he never missed a meal inside.

“You should write a book called
Jail Tales,
” I said. “It would be true, but everyone would believe it was fiction.”

“When I write my book, I'm going to call it
Policing Paradise,
” said Kit. “No one who isn't a cop will believe what I say either, but I won't have to make anything up. I understand that one or two guys who used to work over at the jail have gotten through.”

On the Vineyard, when you're no longer working at a job, you're said to have “gotten through.” The phrase includes no indication of causality. If Joe Blow got fired or quit, you'd know something about what happened, but if he got through, you wouldn't. I liked that. In the case of the ex-jailers who had now gotten through, you might guess that they'd gotten fired because they'd allowed Mickey Gomes to escape over and over again, but you couldn't be sure. Maybe they'd quit so they could go back to grad school to finish their doctoral studies.

Behind me a loud mumble of voices indicated that the Chief's office door had opened, and I turned to see Dom Agganis waving me inside as other officers moved out.

I peeked at the kids as I went that way and saw that they were still being good enough to be rewarded with ice cream when I rejoined them. Inside the office I found myself with Dom, Olive, and the Chief.

“Well?” The Chief was turning his unlit pipe in his hands. He was hoping, I thought, that my visit would be brief so he could duck outside and light up. I didn't blame him. I hadn't smoked in years but I still missed my bent corncob.

“You've talked with Maud Mayhew, of course,” I said. “Did she mention paying me a visit yesterday?”

The Chief and the state cops exchanged glances that didn't reveal a thing. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“She hired me to prove that Harold didn't kill Ollie Mattes.”

This time the Chief's eyes narrowed slightly. He stuck the cold pipe in his mouth and chewed on the stem for a moment, then said, “Why did she think he needed somebody to do that?”

“Because, according to Maud, Harold told her he'd smashed the windows in the Pierson house and he was afraid that if that got out he'd be suspected of going back there again and killing Ollie.”

Silence prevailed. Finally Dom Agganis said, “Maud didn't mention talking with you. Did you take the job?”

“Yes. I suggested she get in touch with Thornberry Security, up in Boston, but she talked me into it.”

“Are you sure you understood her right about Harold being the window breaker?”

“There wasn't much to misunderstand.”

“It wouldn't be hard for you,” said Olive. “You could misunderstand a soup spoon.”

“Why didn't you tell us what Maud said as soon as you heard it?” asked Dom.

“I didn't like Harold Hobbes but I couldn't see him as a killer. I wasn't going to drop a dime on him for breaking Pierson's windows, especially when I was trying to keep him from being nailed as Ollie's killer.”

“If you'd spoken up, he might be alive today,” said Olive. “We might have been talking with him when he got his head bashed in. You're a sad case, Jackson. I've got half a notion to collar you for withholding evidence of a crime.”

“Try to control your attack puppy here, Dom,” I said. “She's liable to get so excited she'll bite herself to death.”

“Both of you calm down,” said Dom, stepping between us. “I'm sick of this business between you two. You want to bad-mouth each other, you do it on your own time, not mine! You got that?”

“I'm a civilian,” I said. “I'm civil by definition. I'm kind, loyal, and patriotic. My only flaw is that I don't like small dogs.” I looked at Olive. “Including this one.”

Olive clenched her teeth but said nothing.

“Olive's right, you know,” said the Chief. “If you'd told us what Maud told you, we might have had a talk with Hobbes and maybe he'd be alive instead of dead.”

“That's why I'm here now. I had that same idea stuck in my brain. I don't believe it, but I had a hard time getting rid of it. Anyway, I thought it might interest you to know about Harold claiming to be the window breaker. It might save you some sleuthing.”

The Chief nodded. “We'll talk to Maud about it. You have any other tips you want to pass along?”

“Only that Harold apparently had a life Maud didn't know about. He wouldn't tell her where he was when Ollie was killed. Or maybe he did tell her but she just didn't want to tell me. Maybe she'll tell you.”

The Chief looked at me steadily. “You aren't thinking of getting involved in this business, are you?”

“Maud hired me to help Harold.”

“You're not answering my question.”

“Harold's dead, so you could argue that my job's over.”

“Stop dancing. Just answer the question.”

“I go over to Chappy pretty often this time of year. I'll probably keep it up.”

“Don't interfere with our work.”

“I gave up being a cop years ago. I don't want your job.”

“Do you think Maud knows more than she told you about Harold?”

“I believe people will hold back information and lie to defend themselves and the ones they love. I accused Maud of doing that, hoping that it might shock her into telling me more than she did. But she didn't shock and I can't think of any reason why she would have lied to me, although maybe she did. Do you have any theories about who coshed Harold?”

“None of your business,” said Olive.

“We're working on it,” said the Chief. “You think you owe something to Maud, do you? Your long nose is itchy, isn't it?”

“My nose isn't itchy,” I said, “but I owe Maud. Or maybe it's Harold I owe. Or maybe Olive is right for once: maybe none of this is my business. I've told you everything I know, and now I'm going to take my kids down for ice cream. You minions of the law can take it from here.”

I turned and went out the door. As I did, I heard the Chief's ironic voice say, “And why so great a no?”

He'd been reading
Cyrano
again, apparently. That also explained the itchy nose metaphor.

I got into the Land Cruiser and said, “Who won the game?”

“We're not through yet, Pa.” One of the nice things about crazy eights is that it can go on a long, long time; maybe forever.

“What do you guys say to us getting some ice cream first and then taking a ride over to Chappaquiddick?”

Diana the huntress folded her cards immediately. I wasn't surprised. “That sounds good, Pa! Let's do it.”

And we did. We went to Mad Martha's and got cones, then, eating till the cones were gone, took the On Time ferry across to Chappy and drove to the fishermen's parking lot above Cape Pogue Gut on North Neck, where we parked beside a couple of other cars decorated with rod racks.