Vineyard Chill (23 page)

Even Mickey's eyes got wide.

I lowered the shotgun and said, “Look at me, Jack.”

He peeked through his fingers, saw that the shotgun was lying across my left arm, and lowered his hands.

“The mistake was thinking that Clay still has the suitcases. He doesn't. The Feds have the money. Clay sent the locker key to the bank when he couldn't locate Mark and Lewis got himself killed. The money was too dangerous to keep. The Feds have had it for weeks, since long before you two got here. You made the trip for nothing. Isn't that right, Clay?”

“Absolutely,” said Clay.

“So here's what you're going to do,” I said. “You're not going back to your hotel. We're going to put you and your car on the first ferry to the mainland. You have about enough cash here to pay for a one-way ticket, but when you get to America you're going to have to sell your car to get enough money to go home. Out there on the coast, where the living is easy, you can probably find another boss and get back to work. But don't ever come back here. Do you understand?”

Jack and Mickey exchanged looks. Mickey looked disgusted, but both of them nodded.

Jack drove the Mercedes to the ticket office with Mickey in the suicide seat. I sat behind them with a couple of pistols. Clay followed us in the Bronco. At the office Clay went in and got a reservation for an early afternoon boat, an impossible task in the summer but no problem in March. Jack then drove to Vineyard Haven and put the convertible in the boarding line. None of us said a word to one another. I stayed in the backseat until the car was on the boat, then leaned forward and said, “Don't come back. There's nothing here for you but grief.”

“Don't worry,” growled Mickey. “I never want to see another island.” He used a familiar adjective to emphasize his point and gave Jack a disgusted look. “This was the dumbest thing I ever got talked into.”

“Remember that,” I said. “So far, all it's cost you is some time and money. Next time it'll cost more, if there is a next time.”

“There won't be, but you better stay out of California.”

I got out and went back ashore, where I stayed until the boat left. Then I walked to the parking lot, where Clay waited in his truck.

“Gone where the good doggies go,” I said.

We drove back to Abel's Hill, where my old Land Cruiser waited. We put our firearms into its backseat.

Clay said, “You're pretty scary.”

“Image is everything.”

“Would you have knocked his teeth out?”

“I don't think so, but I was glad when you spoke up.”

“I'm a born thespian. You think they'll be back?”

“Your crystal ball is as good as mine. I can't imagine that they're so mad about being sent home broke that they'll swear revenge, but I guess it could happen. I doubt it, though.” I told him what Mickey had said.

Clay laughed. “I guess Jack will be coming alone, if he comes at all.” He looked at his watch. “I think I have just about enough time to go to the farm, pack up, and move back over the garage. I feel like celebrating, so I'm going to invite Elly to supper.”

“Good idea. I'll follow you to the farm and close the place up after you're gone.”

“Why don't you and Zee come to dinner? It's on me. I'll make reservations at Le Grenier.”

He'd named my favorite island restaurant, but I shook my head. “No, but thanks. I have leftover Coquille St. Jacques at home, and it's always better the second night. Another time.”

I followed him to John Skye's farm, and after he'd loaded his gear into the Bronco and driven away, I checked the house and grounds, lowered the thermostat, locked up, and went home. I felt like someone who'd just been let out of jail.

That evening, when the kids were in their rooms and Zee and I were sitting in front of the stove looking into the flames and sipping after-dinner brandies, I told her about my day.

She shook her head. “Sometimes I don't know about you, Jefferson. You could have been killed or you might have killed those other guys.”

“I had the drop, and I didn't think they'd be stupid enough to go up against a double-barreled shotgun. And they weren't.”

“But what if they had been stupid enough?”

“But they weren't. And they're smart enough not to come back.”

There is no end to what ifs, and Zee knew the futility of going down that road, so instead she said, “I love you, Jefferson. I just wish you wouldn't do these things. I worry.”

“That's why I didn't tell you till the game was over. Now there's nothing to worry about.”

She whacked me and said, “Oh, yes, there is. Now I have to worry that you'll do it again and won't tell me until later.”

“You don't have to worry about that. This was a onetime thing.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it.”

“That's something else to worry about: you actually believe what you're saying.”

I put my arm around her. “I really mean it.”

She snuggled close. “Now I'm really worried.” She turned her face to mine and I kissed her perfect lips. They tasted faintly of cognac. Delish.

The next day was Saturday, and March, just for a change, offered us a day that belonged in June. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, and the air was warm, thanks to a southwest wind that brought balmy Carolina temperatures to New England. They dropped a bit when they crossed over the still-chilly ocean waters to the Vineyard, but were still a taste of summer and roused within us thoughts of gardening. Those thoughts, in turn, enticed us to drive to Cape Pogue for another load of seaweed.

“Pa?”

“What, Joshua?”

“Can I invite Jim to go with us? I don't think he's ever been to Cape Pogue.”

A lot of islanders have never been to Cape Pogue since you can get there only by boat, helicopter, or four-by-four vehicle, and there are many Vineyarders who have none of the above. I thought about the fights between the two boys.

“Yes,” I said. “And if his parents aren't sure, tell them I said it was okay and that we'll pick him up in about half an hour.”

Joshua ran to the phone.

“Pa?”

“What, Diana?”

“Can I have a friend come, too?”

Fair is fair. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Mary Alvarez.”

I wasn't going to have too much room for seaweed, if this kept up.

“Yes,” I said. “When Joshua is off the phone, you can call Mary and invite her. Tell her we'll come by in about forty-five minutes.”

Zee, with whom I was packing a lunch basket, said, “Can I bring a friend, too, Pa?”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Robert Redford?”

“Why not? When Diana gets off the phone, give him a call.”

“I guess we'd better make a couple more sandwiches even if Robert can't join us.”

We did that, then I put rods on the roof rack because you never know when some starving fish might be going by just as you get a yen to cast, and a bit later we were off to pick up Jim and Mary, whose parents had raised not a single objection to the trip to Cape Pogue.

I drove down to Katama, then took a left onto South Beach and headed for Chappaquiddick. I was pleased to note a catboat in the center of Katama Bay, its skipper and crew taking advantage of the lovely day. It might be time for us to put bottom paint on the
Shirley J.
and hang her on her stake between the Yacht Club and the Reading Room. I wasn't a frostbite sailor like some, but it wouldn't hurt to get a jump on summertime.

On Chappy I fetched Dyke Road, crossed the bridge and turned north, and drove beside the lagoon up to Cape Pogue Pond. There, because the tide was low, I drove close to the water all the way to Simon Point, then crossed the little drainage creek and went out to the jetties. The beach sand there was soft, as it often is, but my old Land Cruiser was up to the challenge and carried us to the point and around onto the rocky north side of the elbow. Miles to the north we could see East Chop jutting into the sound and beyond that the low, dark line that was Cape Cod. There were gulls both in the air and on the water.

At the crossover, I cut to the inside of the elbow and there, just where we'd found it in January, was a good supply of seaweed. We all got out and felt the warm sun and air fill us with good sensations.

“Pa?”

“What, Joshua?”

“Do you need us to help fill up the bags?”

“I guess not.”

“Can Jim and me go to the lighthouse?”

“That's Jim and
I
.”

“Can Jim and I go to the lighthouse?”

“Do you know how to get there?”

“Sure. We just follow the road.” He pointed.

“Pa, we want to go, too!” Diana looked up at me with eyes like Zee's.

“Do you know how to get there?”

“Sure. We'll just follow Joshua.”

“What if you lose sight of him?”

“We'll follow the road!”

Zee said, “All right, but be careful. Stick together and don't do anything foolish. Joshua?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“Be careful and keep an eye on your sister.”

“Aw, Ma.”

“She's younger than you are. You don't have to be a babysitter, but you're her big brother. Go on, now. You have time to get there and come back before lunch. If you're late there may not be any left for you.”

The four children walked along the beach toward the narrow sandy road that led over the sand dunes and on to the lighthouse. Looking at them I remembered adventures I'd had at that age. I'd been a pretty careful kid but had come home a few times with cuts and bruises I hadn't had when I'd left. My father had been interested in my travels but hadn't ever made a big issue out of my injuries, contenting himself with applying Band-Aids and iodine to my wounds until I was up to telling of my adventures. I hoped I would be as wise.

We filled bags with seaweed and stuffed them into the back of the truck, only leaving room for the four kids, us, and the lunch basket. When the truck was packed, we spread the old bedspread that we use for a beach blanket on the sand on the sunny side of the truck and flopped down side by side.

“I believe this is the way it's supposed to be,” said Zee, lying on her back with her eyes shut behind her dark glasses. “This is why people pay thousands of dollars to vacation on Martha's Vineyard.”

“Would you like a beer?”

“Not yet. I feel like I have too many clothes on.”

“I feel like that, too.”

“That you have too many?”

“No, that you have.”

“I suspect that if I shed what I'm wearing I'd actually be a bit chilly. I have an idea. Why don't you get naked and then lie there awhile and let me know if it's really warm enough for nude beaching. I'll lie here like this and wait for your report.”

We lay in the sunshine and listened to the gulls and the sound of small waves slapping the sand at our feet.

By and by I heard children's voices. From their sound I concluded that no one was dead or seriously wounded. I rose and got the lunch basket and put it on the bedspread.

When the four children rounded the truck and spied us, they looked happy.

“How was your adventure?” I asked.

“Excellent,” said Joshua.

“We went all the way to the lighthouse and back,” said Diana.

“I forgot to tell you to be careful of cars.”

“We didn't see any cars, and besides, we know what to do. You just step off out of the way.”

“My dad says just to remember that there are a lot of idiots driving cars,” said Jim.

“A good thing to remember. If you guys are ready for lunch, lunch is ready for you. Find places to sit on the blanket.”

There were sandwiches and potato chips for all, pickles and olives, soft drinks for the kids, and Sam Adams for Zee and me. For dessert, an apple apiece.

When lunch was over, all of us spent some time casting lures into the empty sea, just in case something was there. Then we put the rods back in the roof rack, put all of the paper and empty containers back in the lunch basket, put it and the bedspread and ourselves in the truck, and went home.

As we waited on the Chappy side for the little On Time ferry to pick us up and carry us over to Edgartown, I was glad to have observed that Joshua and Jim seemed to have totally forgotten that they'd ever punched each other. I didn't think that I'd ever had any fights at their age, but maybe kids were maturing faster these days. In any case, the two of them seemed to be as close as ever. Perhaps it was because their battles had ended in a draw, leaving neither a winner or a loser, so that a balance was maintained between them.

It had been a good day, but as I thought of the combative friendship between the two boys and of how love and hate often seem two sides of the same coin, I found myself wondering if the latter was what had led to the death of Nadine Gibson.

The On Time arrived and carried us across to the village. I dropped off Mary and Jim at their homes and drove on to ours.

A lot of people had loved Nadine. Had something flipped the coin in one of the people I'd interviewed? Or was there another lover-hater out there, as yet unknown to me?

The sun was sinking and the air was cooling. As I emptied our bags of seaweed out by the garden, I wondered if Nadine's killer had had as lovely a day as I'd had.