Vineyard Deceit (11 page)

There was a large crowd at the Damon place that night: a hundred guests, two dozen servants and as many security people, the reporters and camera people, a band, which had arrived just in time to be impounded, and, of course, Damons and Sarofimians. Fortunately, it was a very large house which could hold everyone and had
no more exits than there were security personnel to guard them.

The upshot was that everyone was steered inside, where Edward C. Damon himself, too shaken to be truly ambassadorial, gave the news to them all (except, it turned out, two young couples who were discovered, in the subsequent search of the house, more or less au naturel, in dark corners of upstairs maids' rooms). The guests were shocked and thrilled at their host's revelation and were much abuzz as they rapidly tried to calculate which of them had been upstairs and therefore more or less near the emeralds sometime during the evening. Some of the ladies had, for several of the powder rooms were upstairs, and many thought themselves more a part of the drama because of that.

“Who'd have thought my bladder would be responsible for my practically being right there when the emeralds were stolen!” exclaimed a distinguished-looking dowager to her friend, paying me and my nearby ears no attention whatsoever.

“It's very exciting!” agreed her friend. “Do you suppose they'll
search
us? Gracious!”

I imagined searching her and decided I'd let someone else do it. On the other hand, I would be glad to volunteer to search Helga Johanson.

Jason Thornberry then was introduced, and both his appearance and profession provoked further small cries of interest. Chief of Security! Imagine! What a handsome man!

Thornberry explained himself and informed the crowd that indeed the emerald necklace was missing from its rosewood box in the safe in the master bedroom. His aura of authority combined with his distinguished appearance and calm speech was in sharp contrast to Damon's nervousness.

“Now
he
should be an ambassador,” whispered one gentleman to his wife, and she eagerly agreed.

Thornberry explained that a thorough search of the house had already begun and that everyone, particularly those who had been in the upper rooms, would be asked to give statements to him privately in the library.

Everyone?
Moil
Hands touched chests. Questioning looks were exchanged. Thornberry smiled comfortingly. Most would, of course, have nothing to contribute, but someone, perhaps, may have seen something of importance that could be of help. Often, witnesses were not even aware that they may have observed something, but a trained inquisitor could, by asking the right questions, sometimes produce valuable information that would otherwise be lost. Best to ask those questions immediately while memories were still fresh.

It was logical. It was also romantic. A robbery! And not an ordinary one, but theft of the Stonehouse emeralds! Thornberry strolled into the library, and a line of eager guests formed at the door.

A bit later, sirens were heard, adding to the drama, and almost as soon as they stopped, the door behind me opened and in came the Chief and a corporal of the state police. The Chief gave me an I-thought-I-told-you-not-to-let-this-happen look, and the two of them followed my pointing arm into the library.

An hour later, as the line crept forward, much of the good humor was gone. Some people's feet hurt, some were feeling the drinks they had had earlier. Helga Johanson, noting this, collected the band members and disappeared into the ballroom. Moments later the sound of music followed her back out into the hall. Tired eyes looked at her, and she stepped forward and took the grandfatherly retired newscaster by the arm.

“Come along, everyone,” she said. “If we must wait, we can dance while we do it!”

And like the Pied Piper, she led them into the ballroom. Happy sounds replaced the unhappy ones. More champagne appeared at the bar.

I stood at the front door without even another soda and twist. No one tried to escape. From time to time someone came out of the library and someone else left the ballroom and went in. The corporal of the state police went upstairs. Smart Thornberry had put guards around the veranda and allowed the dancers to go out for air. Below them the water glimmered with lights reflected from the far shore and from the boats, now moored for the night. I reckoned that from the water and the houses across the bay it must have seemed that the Damons were having quite a party.

People appeared at the top of the stairs. The corporal, Willard Blunt, other men in tuxedos, women in party dresses. The search committee, their faces indicating that they had found nothing. Actually, they had found the two young couples but had decided to leave them where they were after searching both their rooms and their clothes, which latter were mostly not being worn by their owners. The searchers were not in the morality business at the moment.

I thought about the upstairs layout of the house and remembered that from the window of the master bedroom you could see the upper reaches of Katama Pond and the narrows leading into Edgartown Harbor.

I wondered if anyone had told Thornberry that in the old days people used to swim their cattle across those narrows so they could pasture on Chappy for the summer. I guessed not.

I had been most impressed by the unexpected decorations on one of the bedroom's walls: a display of the souvenirs of some Damon fond of collecting primitive weapons in far off places. The wall was hung with dusty assagais, dark bows and long reedy arrows, wooden shields, crude machetes, blowguns and darts, slingshots, shark's-teeth swords, and similar hunting and fighting weapons. An exotic decor for a master bedroom. Maybe
the Damons were more interesting people than I had thought.

A Thornberry guard had stood outside the locked bedroom door, and two others had been on the balcony outside of the locked windows, one to watch the rooftops and one to watch the balcony door. (Each to watch the other?) Yet another guard had stood at the end of the hall that led to the bedroom. Inside the room, inside the locked safe, inside their rosewood boxes, had lain the necklaces.

I imagined Emily Damon and Willard Blunt passing the guard at the end of the hall, passing the guard outside the door, entering the room. I imagined Willard Sergeant Blunt opening the box holding the pastes, and Emily Damon donning the necklace. (Where? Before a mirror? Bending her neck to allow Willard Blunt to fasten the catch? Did it make any difference?) I imagined the two of them locking the safe, then leaving the room, Willard locking the door, the two of them walking to the top of the stairs and descending. And then I didn't have to imagine what happened, because I'd seen it.

But later Emily Damon had repeated her trip upstairs, this time in the company of both Willard Blunt and her husband. What had happened then? Presumably Blunt had opened the safe and then the box supposedly containing the genuine emeralds and had found the necklace missing. Either he hadn't opened that box when he and Emily had gone for the paste, or the real necklace had still been there at that time. Otherwise the alarm would have been sounded earlier.

Unless, of course, he had stolen the emeralds himself. I looked at his craggy Yankee face as he came down the stairs. He looked unhealthy and was leaning on the polished railing as he descended. I had read of doctors who could diagnose diseases from the mere appearance of a patient, but I was no doctor, alas. As if suddenly aware
that he was revealing some weakness or distress that was inappropriate, he straightened and released the railing and seemed to grow taller, stronger. The evening clothes, which moments before had hung on him as on a scarecrow, now were revealed to be custom fitted and subtly splendid. He wore them with casual old New England grace that would have bordered upon grandeur had he not insisted upon being gray and respectable instead.

I had a hard time seeing him as a thief, but who else was there? I had never been good at locked-room mysteries. Could, perhaps, a trained ape have stolen the necklace? What would Poe have imagined?

It was one in the morning before the last person in the house had been interviewed. Thornberry came forth from the library with a weary Edward C. Damon, the Chief, the state policeman, and a petulant looking Padishah of Sarofim, who did not bother to put on a happy face for his public. Damon mounted the bandstand and announced that the inquiries had ended and everyone could go home, but that the police might wish further interviews later.

I left the door and went into the library. Helga Johanson was there, leaning over a plan of the house.

“What did Blunt have to say?”

She was tired and not in a generous mood. “I don't think you need to concern yourself with this matter anymore. Your job is over when the last guest leaves this house.”

“I'm a police officer,” I said. “Are you withholding information from a police officer?” That seemed an unlikely ploy, but instead of laughing she shrugged.

“He said the jewels and the pastes were in their cases when he left Boston and that they were still there when he examined the cases and locked them in the safe in the master bedroom. Dr. Youssef concurs. He testified that he
and Blunt examined the gems together, in their cases. Blunt put the pastes into the safe while Youssef verified the authenticity of the emeralds. Then Youssef himself put the emeralds in the safe and locked it. Blunt says that the only people who entered the room after he and Dr. Youssef left were himself and the Damons. And none of them were in there until this evening, when they went in to get the necklaces. The guards agree.”

I ran times through my mind.

“When did Blunt bring the jewels to the house?”

“Early Friday afternoon. One-thirty or so. He came in by corporate jet to the airport and from there by one of the Damon cars. The cases were in a briefcase cuffed to his wrist. A guard was with him.”

I really didn't know what I was trying to find out. “And afterwards the bedroom door and windows were locked? Could the guards have gotten inside?”

“The windows have inner bolts. Blunt kept them locked.”

“The door?”

“Locked.' Her mouth curved into a brief ironic smile. “No secret passages, I'm afraid. No trap doors. No hidden stairs.”

“So no one got inside?”

“Someone did.”

“You mean a fourth someone, someone besides the Damons and Willard Blunt? Why look for a fourth suspect when you have three good ones to start with?”

She gave me a cold look, then focused her eyes beyond me. I turned as eight men came into the library: the Padishah, Colonel Ahmed Nagy, the Chief, the state police corporal, Damon, Thornberry, and two men who looked federal to me.

“You can go, Jackson,” said Thornberry. “The evening has ended. Your check will be in the mail tomorrow. Thank you.”

I looked at the Chief, who nodded and gestured toward the door. I felt two pairs of Sarofimian eyes on my back as I went out.

I didn't sleep well. I dreamed that Zee had some guy on the hook that I didn't know about. I woke up and thought about the Padishah of Sarofim, whose father kidnapped women and kept them in his harem and gave the uncooperative ones to his secret police. Later I had more bad dreams.

Early the next morning, while I waited, fuzzy headed, for other people to get up and get going, I went fishing. The sea's rhythms are indifferent to our fretting and can bring us back from inner chaos. I fished until early mass was over. Manny Fonseca always went to early mass so afterwards he could be the first one at the Rod and Gun Club shooting range. He was already popping caps when I drove through the club gate, which he had left open. I walked down the track to the range, then stopped to watch him shoot. He was very quick and sure. I wondered how he would do if one of the targets was shooting back. I knew I hadn't done so well when I had shot at people shooting at me.

When he had emptied all his clips and was reloading, he finally noticed me. I put the borrowed pistol and harness on the table holding his weapons and shooting paraphernalia. Manny always shot several guns on Sundays.

“Thanks, Jesse.”

“Don't give me any more of that crap about working up at Fort Wampanoag, J.W. I heard you were over on Chappy last night. What went on there, anyway?”

I'd not heard of Fort Wampanoag before. Manny had been working on his vocabulary. I told him about the Damon party, and he almost threw his favorite shooting hat on the ground and stomped it. “Damn! I miss everything interesting that ever happens on this bleeping island!”

“You didn't miss much, Sundance. Not a shot was fired. Tell me, is Fort Wampanoag all of Gay Head or just the Tribal Council headquarters?”

He grinned, happy about something, at least. Having missed the big robbery, he could at least insult the Wampanoags. “The whole damn town. Injun country, I call it. A man has to be ready to pull himself into a circle every time he goes up there.

“Here.” He handed me earplugs, glasses, and a pistol unlike any I had seen before. “Try this. Most of it's plastic. Gun of the future. Glock 17. Nine mm. Go right through an X-ray check if you happen to want to hijack a plane, ha, ha.”

I wasn't interested in hijacking any airplanes, but I did shoot the pistol. The bullets went out fast and pretty straight. Shooting something made me feel better.

“Not bad,” said Manny. Then he shot the Glock, and my shots seemed pretty wild by comparison.

I had to shoot two more pistols before I could leave without hurting Manny's feelings. I didn't mind at all. I might have stayed longer, but I wanted to see if Amelia Muleto had heard anything more from Zee. I was irked because it was possible that Zee might even have phoned me and that I'd have been home for the call if I hadn't gone fishing. But I
had
gone fishing, so now I wanted to see Amelia.

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