Off Season (22 page)

That important decision made, I walked to Hazel Fine's house and knocked on the door.

A woman wearing what I immediately recognized I as a housedress opened the door. I felt an instant pleasure. My grandmother had worn housedresses, but I hadn't known women even had such things anymore. The women I knew who did housework wore jeans or shorts or sweats, depending on the season.

“A housedress!” I said. “I haven't seen one of those in years! You must be Mary Coffin.”

“And you must be J. W. Jackson. Come in.”

“Of the Nantucket Coffins?” I asked, stamping my slushy Bean boots on the porch before stepping through the door.

She nodded. “Distant kin. There are a few of us here on the Vineyard, too, these days.”

Mary Coffin's housedress was blue, and matched her eyes. Her dark hair was touched with gray and was cut in a sort of Prince Valiant bob. She wore comfortable black shoes and rimless spectacles. Now, she raised her voice. “Hazel, your visitor is here.” To me she said, “Let me have your coat. I'll stick it here in this closet.”

Another woman came into the room. Very attractive. Just this side of forty. Wearing banker's clothes: white blouse, woolen skirt (I saw the matching jacket folded on a chair across the room), low-heeled black shoes. Fair skin, thick curly dark hair, an inquisitive expression.

“How do you do? Mr. Jackson, is it? Have we met?”

A pleasant voice with a lilt to it.

“No, we haven't met.”

“Please sit down. I only have a short lunch period, so I'm afraid we don't have a great deal of time.”

I took a chair. “I don't need much time.” I looked at Mary Coffin, who looked back at me.

“Mary and I have no secrets,” said Hazel Fine.

“I'm investigating the murder of a man named Lawrence Lovell. They called him Chug.”

“Are you a policeman?” asked Mary Coffin.

“No.”

“Then I don't think we have anything to say to you,” she said. “I'll get your coat. Hazel, why don't you go back into the kitchen and finish your sandwich. I'll show Mr. Jackson out.”

I stood up.

“Before I go,” I said to Hazel Fine, “I should tell you that there were photographs of you in an album in Chug Lovell's house . . .”

“We know all about those photographs,” said Mary Coffin. “If you've come to try blackmailing Hazel with them, you'll have no better luck than that wretched little Lovell man had. Now, you be on your way before I call a real policeman in here and have him arrest you.”

I looked at Hazel's retreating back. “So he tried to blackmail you, too? He had better luck with some other women.” Hazel paused, and I said, “The police know there were photographs, but they don't have them. I think the killer has them.”

Hazel turned back toward me. I looked at Mary Coffin. She stood by the open closet door, my coat in her arms.

“I was a cop once,” I said. “A woman who was also in his book has asked me to help her. So far, I don't think the police know about her or any of the other women he photographed, but that could change anytime. When it does, all of those women will be suspects. The police have already collected Chug's paraphernalia, so they know what went on in his house. They just don't know who was involved.”

“Hazel hasn't been there for years,” said Mary Coffin. “She was only a girl. She didn't know who she was, then.”

“I was more than a girl,” said Hazel, “but you're right. I didn't know much about myself then.” She looked at me. “It was a long time ago. It seems almost like a dream.”

“Well, it was a dream caught on film,” I said. “I found you because someone remembered seeing your face in Chug's album, and if I can do it, so can the police. There were a lot of women, apparently, and the police will be interested in every one of them.”

Hazel placed an immaculate hand on her chest. “You mean that I could become a murder suspect?” She wore an amused little smile.

“You could.” I looked at Mary Coffin. “Or you could. On balance, I imagine you'd be a more logical choice.”

Mary came into the living room and put my coat on a chair. She nodded her head. “Yes. I could have done it. I nearly did it a long time ago, in fact. That disgusting little man came here and tried to get money from Hazel. Threatened to show those filthy pictures to her boss, to get her fired, and to tell other island men about her, and to sell the pictures to those pornographic magazines that publish such things. I told him to do his worst, that it wouldn't make any difference to me, but that if he did I'd kill him. I got a butcher knife from the kitchen . . .”

“Yes,” nodded Hazel, catching my eye. “She did. She actually got a knife. Chug went out and never came back. We never heard from him again, did we, dear?”

“No.” Mary Coffin smiled at her, then looked at me. “We never did. Since then, if I happened to see him in the store or on the street, he'd go the other way or cross the road. I think he believed that I always carried that butcher knife in my purse, just for him.”

“And he never did any of the things he threatened?”

“Not that we know of.”

“And you never paid him any money?”

“Not one red cent.”

I looked at Hazel. “While you were with Chug, did you ever look at the pictures in his albums?”

“Oh, yes. He'd get them out and we'd both look at them. He enjoyed them, and wanted me to enjoy them, too.”

“Did you recognize any of the other women in his pictures?”

“No. It all happened a long time ago,” she said. “Besides, I really didn't like pictures of women doing those things, so I didn't look at them very closely. To be frank, right now I'm not really sorry, even though I know you'd like to interview some of the other women.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because maybe one of those women did kill Chug Lovell. And if she did, I want her to get away with it.”

She and Mary exchanged looks of complete understanding. I felt a crooked smile form on my face.

“Well,” I said, “thank you both. I guess I'd better . . .”

“We're having sandwiches and soup in the kitchen,” said Mary Coffin, who had been studying me. “If you haven't eaten, maybe you'd like to join us.”

I hesitated. “Sounds good.”

“Perhaps you'd like something to drink?”

“Beer?”

“Oh, dear. Will white wine do?”

“White wine will do just fine.”

We went into the kitchen.

“Would you like to buy a ticket to a Christmas concert?” asked Hazel, as soon as we were seated at the table.

“Oh, Hazel,” said Mary. “Have a little couth. Don't put the poor man on the spot.”

“I want him to be on the spot,” said Hazel. “The church needs all the money it can get. Well, Mr. Jackson? I assure you that it will be a very enjoyable evening for you. We have both an orchestra and a chorus, all island people—we have some very talented musicians, you know. Mary will be playing the oboe and recorder, and I will be singing. it's the night before Christmas Eve. Early and Baroque music, and traditional carols. We'd love to have you.”

The turkey sandwich was moist and good, and the Graves was clean and refreshing.

“Is it really going to be as good as she says?” I asked Mary.

She nodded. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“In that case, I'll take two tickets.”

“You're a shameless person,” said Mary to Hazel. “Exploiting a guest like this. Well done. More wine, Mr. Jackson?”

I drove home with ideas moving around inside my skull. They were taking shape, for a change. I thought about them, turning them this way and that, until I came to my driveway.

The paved roads and streets were pretty much melted and free of snow, but there was sandy slush beside them. Beyond the slush, the ground was still white, but the once fine light snow was settling and becoming heavier as the winter sun worked on it. The snow had melted from the trees and bushes, and was beginning to melt in my driveway where the car tracks had cut through it to the sand beneath.

There was a new set of tracks among the old ones.

I turned in and stopped and looked at the tracks. Zee was working and I didn't get many other visitors. I felt tingly. I shifted into four-wheel drive and eased halfway down the driveway, then stopped and got out.
I walked down the driveway until I could see my house. There was smoke coming from the chimney, and Nash Cortez's pickup was in my yard. I walked back to the Land Cruiser and drove on in.

Nash was sitting on my couch watching a kitten drinking milk out of one of my saucers. “Look at that little fella,” he said. “Hungry as a bear in the springtime.” He pointed at the closed door of my spare bedroom. “Got his sister, well, not his sister, but a little girl cat looks just like him, in there. Should know the results of their leukemia tests tomorrow.”

The kitten was black with one white paw.

“Only way you can tell ‘em apart without turning them over and having a look, is this one's got a white front paw and the other one's got a white back paw. What do you think?”

“I think Mimi is going to love them.”

“Boy, I hope so.”

“How are my cats?”

“Terrific. Named ‘em already. Oliver Underfoot and Velcro. Oliver's the big one. Always wound around your ankle when the two of them aren't sleeping or tearing around the house. And Velcro, she likes to hang on screens or your chest or the side of the couch. Like if you threw her against anything, she'd stick. Course Zee'll get to name ‘em again, if she wants.” He looked fondly at the kitten, which was now washing its face. “These two, I haven't got names for them yet. Haven't had them long enough.”

“How about coffee?”

“That'd be good.” He glanced around. “Place is looking good, J.W. Real homey. Zee'll like it.”

“I hope so.”

“Course she'll change things to suit her fancy. Women do that.”

“I imagine.”

“She'll say don't you think we might do this or that, or don't you think this or that would look nice, and what she means is she wants to do it. But that's all right, because she'll probably be right.”

“As long as I have a place for my stuff, she can do anything she Wants to.”

The kitten had followed me into the kitchen and now followed me out again. I put coffee, milk and sugar on the table. Nash sampled his cup, stared at it with a wrinkled brow and sampled it again.

“Cinnamon,” I said. Cuts the acid.”

“it's good,” he said. “Smooths out the brew. Worth remembering. I brought up two Kitty Litter boxes. One for each cat. I put their food out there by the stove.”

“I saw it. She's going to love these kittens.”

“Thought I'd put a red ribbon on one of them's neck and a green one on the other one. What do you think?”

“Great idea.”

“Christmas colors, you know. Sure hope she likes em.”

“She will.”

“You think I ought to give her some candy or something, too?”

“I think the kittens will be enough, but you do what you like.”

He rubbed his bony hands together. “Nice fire. New stove, isn't it?”

“Yep.” I poured more coffee.

The kitten ran into the kitchen, then came bounding out again. Nash got down on his hands and knees and dug under my overstuffed chair. He brought out a small ball of tightly wound yarn. “Made ‘em each
one of these. Training mouse. Made a couple for Oliver and Velcro, too.” He rolled the ball toward the kitten, which immediately attacked it. “I'll make a couple more for when I give these guys to Mimi.”

“Good idea. Now, stop worrying. This is going to work out all right. I admit that Mimi may not exactly greet you with open arms when she comes to the door, but she'll have family there so she won't be able to make too big a fuss. The thing is, you give her the kittens before she can say anything. Just say merry Christmas and give them to her. Once she's got them, she'll love them. Besides, her grandchildren are going to be there. They'll love them, too. It'll be great.”

“I don't know,” said Nash, picking up his cup and putting it down again. “I don't know. Look, I got this idea. You and Mimi are friends. Maybe you could be there to sort of tell her what's going to happen. Tell her that I'm coming and not to get all worked up. You know, so when I get there, she'll be ready . . . What do you think?”

“Oh, no. I'm J. W. Jackson, not John Alden Jackson. You're on your own on this one, Nash. You have to bite the bullet sooner or later, so you may as well do it Christmas Eve. No, I'm not going to do it, so forget it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Maybe you're right.”

“I know I'm right,” I said. “Trust me. It'll be fine. It'll work out just fine.”

But when Nash drove away, he didn't look like he was sure it was going to be fine.

I called the hospital and left a message inviting Zee to supper, then set about making it.
A fruits de mer
pie made out of stuff in my freezer: scallops, some pieces of flounder and some lobster meat, covered with Aunt Elsie's pie crust (which has helped me win a couple of
blue ribbons at the county fair up in West Tisbury) and baked at 350 until the crust is just the right color. On the side, baby peas and mashed potatoes drooling with butter. Everything washed down with a jug of chenin blanc and topped off with coffee, cognac and Pepperidge Farm mint cookies. What fair maiden could resist such a feast?

Not Zee, who afterward sat on the couch and unzipped her uniform. “Oh, my. Fat city. Why does it feel so good to be so bad?”

When I had introduced her to the kittens and told her about Nash's plan to give them to Mimi, she had proclaimed that not only were the kittens sweet, but that I was sweet and Nash was sweet. Now I told her about Nash's notion that I should be at Mimi's house to smooth his arrival on Christmas Eve.