The Kills (44 page)

I tossed
fitfully for most of the remaining hours of the night, getting up to brush my
teeth and try to give some direction to my hair a little after six-thirty in
the morning. Sunlight was streaming in the window and reflecting off the
water's bright blue surface. By the time I got downstairs, a fresh pot of
coffee was brewing on the hot plate and two other cops had reported in for
duty.

I
introduced myself and asked for Chip.

"Gone
up to your place to look around," one of the guys told me. "Somebody
picking up lobster pots from the pond ran him over there. Asked to have you
wait here for him."

I sat on
a bench in front of the station, sipping my coffee. I could even make out my
house on the hilltop across the way. Within the hour, Chip Streeter walked up
the driveway, a clipboard swinging in his left hand, and what looked like a
pair of my rain boots in the other. I stood to greet him.

"You
find anything?"

"Sure
looks like Bigfoot was roaming around up there."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
don't want to alarm you too much, but you weren't exaggerating the least bit.
There's some impressions in front of the house, going off to the right, that
must be your feet. Something with a soft bottom, no ridges?"

I stuck
out my foot and showed him the plain sole of my suede moccasin. I nodded my
head. That was the direction from which I'd left to go down to the cottage.

"But
there's a set of footprints-I guess 'bootprints' is a better word-that circles
the entire house. Firm and deep in the mud-"

"Did
you take pictures? Can you make an impression of-"

"CSI,
we ain't, Alex. Maybe the state police can do that kind of stuff. I'll give 'em
a call."

"Could
I go back over with you? Sometimes there's such a clear imprint that you can
make out the brand and size of the footwear."

"Suit
yourself. Road crew is out already, trying to clear the debris away. Somebody
can drive over with you in an hour or two, if you're willing to hang around.
You ought to know that whoever it was tracked inside the house, too. All over,
like he was looking for you, or for something you had."

I sat
back down on the bench, trying to think about who this could possibly have
been.

"Alex,
you got any ideas? You'll have to look the place over and tell us whether
anything is missing. I checked the usual stuff-TV, CD player-all that's still
there. I got no way of knowing about your personal things, cash or jewelry.
Thought you might need these to get around, though."

Streeter
handed me the boots. I removed the damp moccasins and pulled on the heavier
gear.

"I'd
like to ride over when you get the chance. I didn't have anything valuable with
me." I didn't think my visitor was a petty thief, but there was no point
pressing the issue with Streeter.

"Well,
hang around and make yourself at home. They got some doughnuts down at the
Texaco station. That's about all we got to offer so far today."

"Sounds
perfect."

"Ever
see those photographs of the thirty-eight storm, the one that washed out half
of Menemsha and killed scores of folk all over the area?"

"Yeah."

"Check
out the beach parking lot. Doesn't exist anymore. It's covered with mounds of
sand, rocks the size of my head, dead fish everywhere. Makes you understand
that mean old hurricane and why so many people died back then. Puts your own
bad night in perspective."

It was
only a short walk from police headquarters, past the closed shops and fish
stores, to the gas dock at the marina adjacent to the state beach and jetty. I
was stunned by the amount of destruction that Gretchen had visited on this
strip of land. This was the road I had driven down the night before last, and
now it was clear that water had breached the beachfront and swamped the
pavement, making it unrecognizable as the same ground.

I stepped
in sandpiles that came up to the tops of my knee-high boots, bypassing crabs
and shellfish that had been crushed by the waves. The
Unicorn
and
Quitsa
Strider,
massive steel commercial-fishing boats, had weathered the
storm just fine. But the old shacks that bordered the waterfront had thrown off
shingles and shutters, pieces of wooden board sticking out from the sand all
along the way that I walked.

The lone
outpost at the end of the road was a small gray building just beyond the
harbormaster. On the land side, the gas pumps that fueled our cars were half-covered
with what had once been Menemsha's beach. The other side was known as Squid
Row, where boats gassed up before heading back out to sea, through the Bight,
onto the corner at Devil's Bridge, where Vineyard Sound met the Atlantic Ocean.
On a given morning, the old-timers filled the benches there, trading yarns and
fish tales, while cabin cruisers vied for space at the dock with working boats
that trolled the waters for blues and stripers.

Cassie,
the sixteen-year-old girl who usually pumped my gas, held open the door for me
when she saw me coming in. "Hey, Alex, wasn't that awesome last
night?"

"Guess
so. Hope you were home with your folks."

"Yep.
Drove down here this morning but had to leave the car at the top of the hill
and walk down 'cause of the sand and all. Picked up some stuff from
Humphrey's," she said, lifting the lid on a box of pastries and baked
goods. "Got a little generator, too, so we have some coffee brewed. Help
yourself."

She
turned away and walked to the door that opened onto the dock, pushing it and
sticking her head out for a look at something. "Hey, Ozzie," she
called out to one of the ancient mariners seated with their backs against the
shop, "let me know when that big one pulls in. I don't want to miss
her."

"She's
next. Get yourself out here," came the reply.

"Wanna
see a beauty?" she asked me. "Fancy yacht out here waiting to fill
up."

I poured
myself a cup of coffee and grabbed three sugared doughnut holes before stepping
out onto the dock and saying hello to several of the regulars who had parked
themselves at the water's edge for a bird's-eye view of the day's events. It
was certain that there would be no traffic on the land side for the foreseeable
future.

By the
time I stepped out onto Squid Row, the gleaming black-hulled vessel had
maneuvered its way into the harbor and turned around so that its rear end was
against the dock, ready to start refueling.

The gold
letters shined brightly as the sun glanced off them.
Pirate
was the name of the boat, and its home port was
Nantucket. Graham Hoyt's yacht.

I closed
my eyes and thought of last night's prowler. Could it possibly have been Graham
Hoyt? How could I have forgotten that he was the one who first talked to me
about coming to the Vineyard because of the storm?

The first
mate and steward, dressed in crisp white sweatshirts with the yacht's name and
outline emblazoned on the chest, were tying up along the pier. Cassie was
asking them if they needed help and trying to make herself useful.

I started
to make small talk with them, too, anxious to find out where they-and their
skipper-had spent the previous evening. "She's a beauty. Hope you didn't
have anyone on board during that blow last night."

"Had
her all safe and sound, thanks, in the lee. No harm done."

"She'd
hardly fit here in Menemsha," I said, aware that the marinas in Edgartown
and Vineyard Haven would have had no problem docking a boat this size.

"No,
no. Over in Nantucket," the mate shot back. "That's her home."

"You
guys actually sit it out on the water in this?"

"Captain's
orders," he said, looking over at the steward and laughing.

"Must
have been rough."

"They
don't make enough Dramamine to get you through one of these. And we were damn
well sheltered."

Cassie
was filling the fuel tanks and surveying the length of the yacht with great
admiration.

I
laughed, too. "Bet the owner doesn't hang out in the storm with you."

"Are
you kidding? He wouldn't leave this baby for a minute. Rode the whole thing
through with us. Only his wife got a pass to stay onshore."

"Is
that you, Alexandra? I would never have recognized you."

I was
startled by the sound of Hoyt's voice. Squinting and shielding my eyes from the
sun, I raised my head and saw him in the cockpit on the flying bridge, one
flight above the crew.

"I
was just trying to call you," he said, waving the cell phone in his hand.
"Thought seven
A.M.
was a respectable time to wake you up. We're heading for the city and needed to
gas up. Don't know when the airport will reopen but thought you might want to
hitch back with us."

"Way
to go, Alex," Cassie said. "Totally cool."

"No
thanks, Graham. Cell phones don't work in Menemsha." This sleepy little
village was a black hole in the world of cell communications. "There's no
tower."

"No
tower, no power," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "How about the
ride home?"

"Thanks.
I may stay on the island for a while," I said, lying to him. I wasn't
about to spend another night in the house until the broken glass was replaced
and the locks and alarm system were changed. But that didn't mean I was ready
to set out on the high seas with Graham Hoyt.

"I
bet you won't say no to a hot breakfast. How about you, young lady? Want a
tour?"

Cassie
had stepped out of her boots and climbed on board without hesitating for a
moment. From over my shoulder I heard one of the guys on the bench urging me to
follow her. "What are you waitin' for, honey? Don't see one of these big
guys pull into town every day. You afraid they's got Bluebeard hiding belowdeck
or what?"

I forced
a smile and kicked off my boots, winking at the grizzled old-timers. "If
they pull out with Cassie and me on board, tell Chip to get the navy after
them, okay?"

The men
laughed but I wasn't entirely kidding.

Hoyt
extended his hand to help me off the ladder, then turned to the steward.
"Why don't you tell the chef to set a table on the aft deck for three?
Some scrambled eggs and bacon, a fresh pot of coffee, and some juice."

The knots
in my stomach were turning somersaults. Perhaps it was because I had not really
eaten yesterday, but also because I worried about where Graham Hoyt had been
during the storm. What if his crew were covering for him? They had no reason to
be setting up a false alibi, I reassured myself. They couldn't possibly have
thought that the bedraggled woman in the oversized flannel shirt and the
Capri-length chinos was trying to cross-examine them.

"So
this is my little folly, Alex. Let me show you two around."

I
followed Hoyt and Cassie through the entrance into the yacht's main salon. The
entire room was paneled in teakwood, with thick green leather sofas and wool
sisal carpeting. Crystal wine goblets hung upside down over the wide bar,
notched in place so they wouldn't fly off and break in the fiercest of storms.

"Come
see the staterooms," he said, leading us down the aft staircase. The
master had a queen-sized bed and full bathroom, and the two smaller rooms were
just as exquisitely appointed, in the softest shade of sea foam.

"How
big is she?" Cassie asked.

"Ninety-eight
feet. A Palmer Johnson. Cruises at twelve and a half knots, holds five thousand
gallons of fuel."