Murder at a Vineyard Mansion (6 page)

The next morning Zee wasn't working, so I left her and the kids and went to the Edgartown Police Station. The Chief looked up from his desk when I darkened his door.

“Just one question,” I said. “Did Ollie Mattes have a cell phone with him that evening when he was killed?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Do you always answer a question with another one?”

“Why shouldn't I? I get paid to ask questions.”

“Well, did he?”

“Why do you want to know?”

I sighed as theatrically as I could. “I'd like to know why he didn't call you guys when whoever coshed him showed up.”

He tapped his ballpoint pen on the desk. “The question occurred to us, too. I don't know why he didn't call, although I can think of several reasons why he might not have.”

“So he did have a cell phone.”

“Any ideas about why he didn't use it?”

“None that you haven't already thought about. Do you know anything about Ethan Bradford?”

“You said you had just one question. Isn't Ethan that guy up in West Tisbury who lives in a tent or something? The one who used to work for Raytheon or some such outfit before he decided that he'd rather be a hermit?”

“That sounds like the guy.”

“What about him?”

“He's Cheryl Bradford's brother. You ever see him around Edgartown?”

The Chief studied me. “Everybody comes to Edgartown at one time or another. If you sit in front of the town hall long enough you'll see the Queen of England go by. What's so interesting about Ethan Bradford aside from the fact that you saw his sister on Chappaquiddick?”

“You said that all the old island families know one another. What I've heard about Ethan is that he'd prefer it if we were still in an earlier century instead of this one, which makes me think he might not be happy about our current boom in castle building.”

“And you think that might make him more likely than most to cosh other people.”

“Those are your words, not mine, Chief. While we're discussing old island families, though, what can you tell me about George Pease? Cheryl Bradford was married to him.”

The Chief cocked his head slightly to one side. “George got his head kicked in by a horse. It's what you get by marrying into one of those equestrian families like the Bradfords. Happened in the family barn, as I recall. I think that eliminates him as a suspect in this case, if you were giving him consideration.”

“I guess I'll scratch him off my list. How did the widow take the loss?”

“I don't keep track of the lives and times of the island's elite. You'll have to ask somebody else about Cheryl's emotional crises, if she has any.”

“Did she remarry?”

He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Maybe those people who write the Chilmark columns in the
Gazette
or the
Times
can tell you. Now go away. I've got work to do.”

I said good-bye and left.

I think of myself as being as gossipy as most people, but in this case as in others I was forced to admit that I apparently hadn't kept track of the doings of the island's important people. Maybe it was my clothes that kept me out of their social circles. Didn't any of them wear stuff from the thrift shop?

I went home and found the last edition of the
Vineyard Gazette,
a properly famous newspaper that deals only with island issues. If World War III ever breaks out, it won't be mentioned in the
Gazette
unless some Vineyarder is involved.

I sought and found the paper's social columns and noted the names of the people who wrote them. Then I drove to Daggett Street and got in line for the little three-car On Time ferry, because Norton's Point Beach was closed.

During many weeks of the summer tourist season, the ferry is the only link to Chappaquiddick because the Wildlife and Fisheries people close Norton's Point Beach, the only other way to get there, to SUV travel, in their continuing failing effort to thus safeguard plover chicks until they can fledge. Few do, since plover eggs and baby plovers are favored meals for natural predators, but the Fish and Wildlife people can't close the beach to the gulls and skunks, so they close it to SUVs instead. Our tax dollars at work. No wonder Ethan Bradford lived in the woods and tried to ignore the last century.

It was still pretty early in the morning, so the ferry line wasn't too long, consisting as it did of fishermen hoping to nail bluefish along East Beach and workmen going over to construct houses such as Ron Pierson's castle-in-progress.

I was heartened, not for the first time, by the innocence of the earth and its people: even as war, pestilence, and plague slew thousands, normal life for most people continued. Farmers toiled in their fields, children played, artists painted, and women continued that work that is never done. The carpenters and fishermen who were going to Chappy that morning had not stopped their lives because two men had been murdered there. I, on the other hand, was going there because of the murders.

There is a single Z-shaped paved road on Chappy. It leads from the ferry to the sandy entrance of Dyke Road, then zigs to the right, where it becomes Chappaquiddick Road before zagging to the left, where it becomes Pocha Road The pavement ends rather arbitrarily before Pocha Road does, and first-time Chappy bicyclists are often unpleasantly surprised to discover that they have to pedal a long way on sand and dirt before they get to Wasque Beach on the south shore.

Dyke Bridge, still the Vineyard's most popular tourist sight half a lifetime after the accident that made it famous, is at the end of Dyke Road, and is usually an objective of my Chappy trips since it provides the only access to the far beaches that constitute my favorite part of Martha's Vineyard. Today, however, I wasn't going fishing, I was going to visit Maud Mayhew. So I followed the paved road until I got to the postal box that marked the end of her driveway. The sign on the mailbox announced that I had come to Black Duck Farm.

Black Duck Farm lay between Chappaquiddick Road and Pocha Pond. It had been there a long time and had once provided a livelihood for its owners. Now, however, it was like most farms on the Vineyard, large acreage still under partial cultivation, but one supported by its owners rather than the other way around. Poor people didn't own farms on Martha's Vineyard anymore; they had been replaced, mostly by gentlemen farmers. Or, in this case, a gentlewoman farmer. Not that Maud Mayhew could be considered gentle in any sense other than her pedigree.

Her long driveway took me past fields and through trees until it formed a loop in front of the spacious farmhouse that was her home. Barns, corrals, and outbuildings were across the loop from the house. They, like the house, were old but well maintained. A John Deere tractor and an ancient truck were parked beside the barn, and Maud's pickup was parked in front of its wide sliding front doors. Beyond the barn I could see cattle sharing a pasture with horses.

I parked in front of the house and knocked on Maud's front door. Nothing happened, so I walked around to the kitchen door and knocked again. This time Maud answered. Her eyes were red, and she looked older than when I'd seen her at my house, and when she spoke her voice was dull.

“What brings you here, J.W.?”

“I'm here because I'm sorry about Harold. You asked me to look after him but now it's too late. I feel to blame, somehow. I wish things were different.”

She studied me then shook her head. “You had nothing to do with Harold's death.”

“You may be right, but I'm going to try to find out who did it and why. I know it's too late to help him, but I want to do this, at least.”

“The police say they'll find out who and why.” Her voice was without emotion, and sounded like it came from a tomb.

“Probably. But I'm going to try, too. I wanted you to know, and I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your son.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “Thanks for coming. Now go home to your family.” She stepped back and shut the door.

I listened to her slow footsteps as she moved away into the house. I had questions to ask her but couldn't bring myself to knock on her door again.

I went back to the Land Cruiser and looked around the yard, wondering where Harold had fallen. There was no police tape in sight, but the location of Maud's pickup suggested that the barn also served as a garage. I walked to the barn and slid back one of the large doors.

Inside was a blue, middle-aged Jeep Cherokee with underinflated tires. Those tires allowed it to drive over sand. My tires were like that, as were the tires of many a fisherman's truck. I memorized the Jeep's license plate number, and wondered if whoever had killed Harold had been hiding in here waiting for him to come home.

Harold's body, according to the newspaper account, had been found out in the driveway. Even if his attacker had waited for him here, he had apparently killed Harold outside the building.

Unless he had dragged the body out there after the killing or Harold had managed to get that far before he died.

Had Harold known and trusted his attacker enough to let his guard down, or had he not seen him or heard him until it was too late? I wondered if Harold had any defensive cuts or bruises on his arms or hands.

Many people, police and others, had been in the barn since the killing, so I'd find nothing there that hadn't already been found, but I walked through the building anyway, taking note of doors and windows and hiding spots for assassins. I went out through an unlocked back door and circumnavigated the building before returning to my truck. I saw no indication that Maud had noted my snooping. Perhaps if she had, she just didn't care. I walked around the circular drive and looked at the ground. There were tracks of many cars, including police cars, no doubt. Too many for me to learn anything.

Whoever had killed Harold had either walked into the farmyard or had driven there. If he'd walked in, he either lived nearby or he'd parked his car somewhere before taking his hike. If he'd parked his car somewhere, some eagle-eyed Chappy person might have seen it and remembered it.

If he'd driven in, he'd have had to have parked his car somewhere. If he'd planned to ambush Harold, he'd probably have hidden it. The best place for that was behind the barn, but I'd seen no car tracks there. If he'd parked it in plain sight, Harold would have seen it when he came home.

Maybe he didn't care if Harold saw him.

How had he known that Maud wouldn't be there that evening?

Would he have killed her, too, if she were?

I thought about the island's old families. A lot of people in this case seemed to be members of one or the other of them. Was there a tie-in, or was I just spinning webs for nonexistent bugs? After all, only the Mayhews and Ron Pierson were undeniably involved, and both were victims. The other families—the Bradfords and the Peases—were only in the mix because I'd put them there. Or were they?

I was sailing on a sea of ignorance in a boat that was full of holes. I didn't know where I was going and I had no real business leaving shore.

I got into the Land Cruiser and drove back to the ferry landing. Not many Chappy people wanted to cross over to the other side, so I had only a short wait. When the captain of the ferry came by for my ticket, I asked him if Harold Hobbes drove a blue Cherokee. Yes, he did. Too bad about poor old Harold, he added. He hadn't been a bad guy, really. A little strange, maybe, but not a bad guy.

I looked somber and agreed. When I left the ferry I drove into town and found a parking place on School Street. I had an hour before the ever-vigilant meter maids and men would attach a ticket to my truck. I used it to go into the library of the Historical Society. Ed was there.

“I thought you guys were supposed to be moving this operation to West Tisbury,” I said. “You don't look like you've made much progress.”

“We'll get there,” said Ed, who was the society's expert on logbooks from whaling days. “When we do, we'll need some guys with strong backs and weak minds to help us out. We'll call on you.”

“Do that. Meanwhile, I want to read up on the island's old families. You have any suggestions about where to start?”

“I don't think you should plan on passing yourself off as a long-lost son at this late date,” said Ed, “but come with me. I'm sure Arthur can steer you to some sources.”

And he was right. Arthur could and did.

Banks's three-volume
History of Martha's Vineyard
is the place to start looking for information about the island before 1911. I had a set of the books at home but worked on the Historical Society's copies for a while. As is typical when I do research, I mostly encountered information having nothing to do with my interests. I am also typically distracted by such discoveries, which is not good for my detecting. Proper sleuths, unlike me, stay focused on what they're doing.

I read once more how in 1695, when Nantucket separated itself from the other islands then composing Dukes County, the existence of a single word in the legislation officially, if accidentally, transformed “Dukes County” into “the County of Dukes County,” a curious name at best but one which, three hundred years later, still boldly identifies such institutions as the County of Dukes County Airport and the County of Dukes County Courthouse, and gives citizens of the county a certain amused pride.

I learned that Sengekontacket Pond originally had been Sanchacantocket Pond, that Wasque had originally been Wannasque, and that Cape Higgen and Cape Pogue are corruptions of other Wampanoag names that have nothing to do with capes.

In Volume III, I spent some time on genealogies, but only reaffirmed what I already knew about the Mayhews, Bradfords, Hobbeses, and Peases: that they were old island family names, and that members of the families had from time to time married members of the other families.

This triggered a memory of my father's long-ago observation that during the winter when the tourists were gone, islanders played Monopoly with real properties and traded spouses so often that everybody on the Vineyard was related to everybody else

In truth, at one time there was so much intermarriage, and rumored incest up-island, that deafness was commonplace among Vineyarders and many of them used a kind of sign language without giving it much thought. Improved transportation and a growing influx of new blood put an end to the deafness, but not before it attracted scholarly interest from university professors who visited the island and published their findings in learned journals.

I wondered if any of this generation of Mayhews, Bradfords, et al. suffered from congenital deafness. If so, I hadn't noticed it. But then how would I, since the only one I'd ever talked to was Maud Mayhew?

I turned to other sources and read accounts of land dealings, disputes, business arrangements, whaling ventures, religious activities, balls, marriages, divorces, the establishment of educational institutions, and other island activities involving both the old families and newer ones.

Out of this came little information of use to me other than the general truth that old families were not necessarily richer or more morally upstanding than any others. There were good, bad, and indifferent Peases and Hobbeses and Bradfords and Mayhews. There were failures and successes among all of the families; there were scholars and fools; there were ministers and sinners (some of whom were one and the same); there were paupers and millionaires and middle-class citizens. The old families, in short, were mostly much like the newer ones.

Mostly, but not entirely. Some of their wealthier factions socialized together rather than with newer arrivals. They married, divorced, and had affairs with one another more than with those outside their circle. Similarly, they feuded and sued and fought with one another more than they did with younger island blood.

Some battled like the Campbells and the MacDonalds while others loved like Damon, Musidora, and Pythias. For better or for worse, these families' lives had been entwined in complex and elusive ways for over three hundred years. And still were, apparently.

Ed came by with an ancient logbook under his arm. He peered at my pile of books. “Ah,” he said, “is this scholarship linked to the death of Harold Hobbes by any chance?”

Smart Ed. “Sort of,” I admitted.

“Memorial services for two murder victims in a single week,” said Ed. “They're planting Ollie Mattes later this morning and I hear they'll do the same for Harold on Saturday. It should be interesting to see who shows up for the church services. Do you think the causes of death will increase the crowds?”

This morning, eh? I looked at my watch.

“Excuse me,” I said, shoving my books aside and scrambling to my feet. I ran out of the building feeling Ed's widened eyes on my back and got to my truck just in time to escape a ticket from a young meter man wearing an Edgartown summer cop uniform. He took his failure to increase the town's income with good grace, and even wished me a happy day as I pulled out of my parking place.

At home I made a couple of phone calls and learned that services for Ollie Mattes were to be held at St. Elizabeth's. Should I have been surprised just because Ollie had been at least as irreligious as I am? Probably not, since churches specialize in dealing with sinners, and Ollie was therefore probably more than qualified for St. Elizabeth's attention as he passed on to wherever it is that dead souls go.

Zee wisely opted not to attend services for someone she really didn't know, and I vetoed Joshua's and Diana's votes to go.

“We'd like to go, Pa. We've never been to a funeral.”

“No. There's just a lot of talk and prayers and then they take the coffin to the graveyard and there's more talk and prayers. There's not much to see.”

“We'd like to go anyway, Pa.”

“No. And don't tell me that all of your friends get to go to funerals.”

“Aw, Pa. We never get to do anything.”

I pointed at the sign above the kitchen door. “What's that sign say?”

“It says,
NO SNIVELING
.”

“You know what that means.”

Big sighs. “Yes, Pa.”

“Good.”

“Pa?”

“What?”

“Can we go next time?”

“Probably not. You can go to all the funerals you like when you grow up.”

“Pa?”

“What?”

“When are we going to get our computer?”

It was a lovely day for a funeral. The summer sun was warm and the blue arch of the sky curled high above human heads. I sat in the back row of the church's pews and looked at the people who attended Ollie's last rites. There weren't many of them, but Father Joe treated them to a more dignified service than Ollie probably deserved. Afterward I stayed where I was and watched until the last person went out onto Main Street. I was pretty sure who Ollie's wife and kids were, since they had been down in front, nearest the casket. They looked solemn but not heartbroken. I was more interested in some other mourners.

I followed the hearse to the graveyard, then stood by my truck, well back from the grave, while Father Joe said last words over the late lamented Ollie. There was something primeval about the ceremony and I had little doubt that this rite of passage, in one form or another, had been of unparalleled importance since the dawn of civilization. And why not, for what greater mysteries are there than life and death? Whence came we? Whither do we go?

My take on it didn't involve souls or heaven and hell. Rather, my theory was that there is a constant amount of energy in the universe and that one of its forms is life. When that life ends, the energy takes a new form. The body's movement and heat cease. The corpse rots. A flower grows. A bee sucks its nectar. A bear eats the bee's honey and perhaps the bee itself. The bear dies and is eaten by worms. A tree grows in worm-rich soil; it's struck by lightning. Its energy takes the form of fire. Nothing is lost.

Today the energy that had been Ollie was being transformed. What shape would it take? Perhaps there was a God who knew. I doubted it.

When the graveside service ended I watched people walk back to their cars. Two of them, a man and a woman, spoke briefly to the widow and her children, then walked to a Volvo station wagon. The woman was Cheryl Bradford, and the man, who was about her age, had similar posture and facial bone structure. Brother Ethan, I guessed.

I got into my truck, and when the station wagon pulled out of the graveyard, I followed it. Cheryl Bradford drove up-island and took South Road to Chilmark, where she entered one of those narrow, sandy driveways that lead from the Vineyard's paved roads. The mailbox beside the driveway had no name on it, only a number. The Bradfords, like many of the Vineyard's moneyed families, preferred their privacy. Theirs was not the only large island house at the end of an inconspicuous driveway.

The more newly rich and sometimes the younger members of old families preferred to advertise their presence and display their success by erecting more observable castles. One such was the successful car dealer who had offended local sensibilities by building a hotel-sized house on Edgartown Harbor; another was Ron Pierson, who was in the process of doing the same thing on Chappaquiddick. Once, when the automobile dealer was asked what he'd do differently in light of the criticism he'd received for building such a giant structure, he replied with a wide smile that he'd build it bigger. So much for community sensitivities.

Bucolic Chilmark scorns wide roads and ignores the dangers their narrow, winding ones impose upon bicyclists, walkers, and moped riders, but I found a place to turn around without getting killed by traffic rounding blind corners and then found another place to park where I could see the Bradford driveway. I didn't have long to wait before a battered Jeep lurched out onto the road and turned toward West Tisbury. I had a good look at the driver's face as he checked oncoming traffic before pulling onto the highway. Ethan Bradford was at the wheel. I followed him.

He took a right toward Edgartown then a left on Old County Road until he came to another of those sandy lanes that are found all over the island. He turned into the narrow lane and I pulled over beside the road and waited a minute before following. The lane was winding and the Jeep wasn't in sight. Listing poles carried sagging wires parallel to the road. From time to time other narrow roads and wires split off the main one, causing me to slow and check tire tracks before going on. Fortunately for me the lane was little used, so the Jeep's track was not hard to follow.

There is a lot more undeveloped land on Martha's Vineyard than you might guess. You can see it from the air, but not from most roads. Much of it was open grazing land a hundred years ago, but in the century since tourism seriously began to replace agriculture as the island's chief economic base, the fields have become new forests crisscrossed with fallen stone walls. Back in the trees are the foundations of long-gone farm buildings and houses, holes that were once cellars, old wells, and other hints at past sites of human occupation.

Around a sharp turn, the road I was following ended in a small meadow holding a badly maintained house. Its roofline was irregular and shingles were missing from its walls. A rotting wooden fence surrounded a vegetable garden between the house and a weather-beaten barn. The Jeep was parked in front of the house and beside it, facing me, a double-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms, stood Ethan Bradford. He still wore his proper funeral clothes but he reminded me of a young William Devil Anse Hatfield eyeing a McCoy.

I pulled alongside his Jeep and got out. I heard Baroque violin music drifting out of the house behind him, but it didn't impress me as much as the shotgun.

He stared at me with narrow eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

“J. W. Jackson. Are you Ethan Bradford?”

“You been following me since the graveyard. What the hell you want?”

“You know how to use a rearview mirror.”

“I know how to use a shotgun, too.”

I felt a little tingle of fear. “I didn't come here for trouble,” I said. “I came to talk.”

He cocked the weapon. “I'm not in a talking mood. Get your ass off of my property.”

“You don't need a gun to get rid of me,” I said.

“I may not need it, but I've got it. Now git!”

I was angry as well as frightened. “If you point that thing at me, I can charge you with assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Not if you're dead.” He sneered but he didn't point the shotgun.

“What do you know about Ollie Mattes's death?”

His eyes widened then narrowed again. “Nothing. Ollie fell off a cliff.”

“The police say he was murdered.”

“The police don't know shit.”

“They know murder when they see it. He didn't have many friends, but you and your sister were at his funeral. You—”

I stopped speaking as he lifted the shotgun. It still wasn't pointed at me, but his finger was on the trigger. His voice was thin and cold like a winter wind.

“He wasn't my friend. You can choose your friends but you can't choose your relatives. Now get the hell off of my land before I have an accident cleaning this gun!”

I didn't want to turn my back on him, but I did. I got into the Land Cruiser and turned it around and left. As I did I heard him shout, “And don't come back!”