Vineyard Deceit (12 page)

Amelia was on her knees by the flower bed. She got up and came toward me, pulling off cotton gloves. “J.W., I've been trying to phone you, but nobody's been home. Have you heard from Zee?”

A little cold spot formed somewhere inside of me. “No. I was hoping you had.”

“Come inside. I'll fix us some tea. I don't know, it's just not like Zee not to phone and tell us, you know, when to expect her, at least.”

Amelia looked distressed. “She'll probably call later,” I said. “Maybe she was up all night and is getting some sleep.”

Amelia was heating water in the kitchen. “That's probably it. It's too bad she had to miss the party. She was looking forward to it. Her dress looked lovely when she was here Friday.”

She brought in the tea. “It seems so long ago . . . So much has happened since. We spent the afternoon together, and the three of us ate down at Martha's. Willard was quite taken with Zee and she with him, I think. We had a fine time together. Afterwards, he insisted on driving her home.”

“Lucky man.”

Amelia smiled and patted my knee. “You should definitely be jealous. Zee is worth it. She took her dress with her so she could do a bit of last-minute stitching we hadn't managed during the afternoon. I remember she said she had to get some sleep because she had a lot of work to do on Saturday, prepping for the party. We laughed about that. Little did we know how much work she'd end up doing!”

“That's for sure. Who called you about her going off-island?”

“The hospital. About noon.”

“What'd they say?”

‘Oh, that there'd been an emergency and that Zee was flying to Boston with a patient and wanted me to know what she was doing and why she wouldn't be here for the party.”

“What was the emergency?”

“I didn't ask. I'm sure you can phone the hospital and
find out. What with all the goings-on at the party, maybe she won't be sorry she missed it.”

High times on Chappy. “And she'll be back Monday?”

“As I understand it. I'm surprised she hasn't called . . .”

“Must be some kind of a private case to keep her away that long. I know she had the weekend off . . .”

“Zee has a kind heart. I imagine it was important and they were shorthanded and called her, and she, being Zee, couldn't say no. More tea?”

I thought she might be right about her scenario. “No. I have a date with my garden. I'll call you if I hear from Zee.”

“And I will do the same for you.” She smiled. She seemed a bit more content than she had when I'd arrived.

I couldn't say the same for myself. I looked inside to find out why and after a while dug out the answer: I was mad at Zee for not calling. I was like a parent waiting in growing vexation and worry for an overdue teenager to come home at night. But I was not Zee's father and Zee was a grown-up woman who didn't owe me any explanations about anything, and my anger seemed so childish that I decided it would be better directed at myself, where it more properly belonged. So I worked on that as I drove home.

During the afternoon I picked and canned tomatoes. I burned a hand because I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. When I was through, I had enough tomatoes to last all winter, but more were still growing on the vines. It was almost as bad as trying to keep up with the zucchinis, an impossible job. I had about a million zucchini recipes and someday was going to write the definitive zucchini cookbook for all of those people whose zucchinis are about to overwhelm them and conquer the world. The working title for the book was
The Attack of the Zucchini Monsters.
So far I hadn't written one word. I didn't get started that afternoon, either.

That evening two interesting things happened. The first
was an anonymous phone call. The calling voice was muffled and male.

“Mr. J. W. Jackson?”

“Yes.”

“I've been trying to phone you all day. You don't know me, but I hope you will listen carefully and take what I say seriously. There are some people on the island who are making plans to harm you. Seriously harm you. They are of foreign nationality, and the attack, should it come, will come soon. Within days. Be on your guard, Mr. Jackson. The best advice I can give to you is to leave the island for a week or so. By that time, I believe the danger will be over. Do you understand me, Mr. Jackson?”

“Yes. The only foreign nationals who might be mad at me just now are from Sarofim. Are they the ones? And who are you?”

“You have a friend, a Mrs. Madieras. I have been trying to telephone her with the same warning I've just given you, but I cannot contact her. If you know where she is, please tell her what I've told you.”

“She's off-island right now.”

“She is in danger, just as you are.”

“She's been gone since Saturday and won't be back until tomorrow. Do you have a name?”

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then the voice said, “It would be better if she stayed away longer. I suggest that you make that recommendation if you can contact her.”

“I don't know how to contact her. Who are you?”

Another silence. Then, “Well, do advise Mrs. Madieras of this warning when she returns. Meanwhile, Mr. Jackson, you be careful. Leave the island if you can.”

The phone clicked.

The second interesting thing was a shooting on the bluffs overlooking the bathing beach just west of Wasque. The victim was Willard Blunt. The shootist was good at his work. Willard Blunt died instantly.

11

I got the news the next morning by phone from Amelia, who had gotten it from her sister.

“I almost fainted,” she said. “I had to sit down.”

“You never struck me as the fainting type. Are you okay?”

“I'm all right. I think that it was just that everything has piled up so. The robbery, then Zee being gone, and now this. Besides, I'm probably still tired from being up so late. I'm usually asleep by nine, you know, so I can be up with the sun and have a little peace before the cars start going by.”

“What happened?”

“It's not completely clear. Willard was at the Damon place. Early in the evening he borrowed Edward Damon's Jeep and he and Colonel Nagy drove to town. A meeting with the FBI man in Edgartown, apparently. Then he came to visit me. I never guessed it was the last time I'd see him. I . . . Willard had originally planned on flying to Boston with the Padishah's party yesterday afternoon, but those plans changed because of the theft. The Padishah's party flew up there by helicopter this morning, instead.

“When Willard didn't return to the house last night, the Damons got worried. He was elderly, after all, and had been under considerable strain. They called the police. Then this morning when it got light the Trustees of Reservations people found the Jeep in the parking lot there on reservation land. They found Willard in the driver's seat.”

“Shot?”

“Once in the temple. The gun was in his hand.”

“Suicide?”

“I guess his wallet was there and nothing was missing, so suicide seems the best bet.”

“Any note?”

“No.”

“Where'd he get the pistol?”

“I don't know.”

“How are you doing?”

“I'm all right. No, I'm not; but I will be.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“That would be nice.”

“Have you heard from Zee?”

“No.”

“I'll be right over.”

So I drove over, picking up the Boston Monday papers en route.

We met at her door, and I put down the papers and held her in my arms. Strong Amelia looked almost frail. We sat in the living room, and she talked about what a wonderful man Willard Blunt had been, while I listened. After a while she suddenly took a deep breath and got up.

“All this time and I haven't even offered you tea. Now where are my manners?”

While she was in the kitchen, I wandered her living room, feeling nervous, picking up this, looking at that. Her mail was lying on an end table, waiting to be taken to the post office. A package lay with three letters. One of the letters was to her son out in western Massachusetts. The package was being sent to Professor Hamdi Safwat at Weststock College. I remembered the name.

Amelia came in as I was looking down at the package. She set the tea tray on the coffee table. “Hamdi Safwat. You saw his book the other day before all this dreadfulness took place. I met him after the war when he was an undergraduate studying in Boston. Wonderful man.
About to retire now. We've kept in touch. He's very knowledgeable about the riddles of the Near East. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to mail the package and those letters for me. It's on your way and it will save me a trip to the post office.” She sat down a bit heavily. “I'd appreciate it. I really don't want to go into town today.”

“Of course.”

“Have you heard from Zee?”

“No.”

“It's surprising that she hasn't called . . .”

“She'll be home today and tell you all about it.”

“Yes. She's very sensible. Dear me, what a weekend.”

I offered her the only distraction at hand: “Let's see what the papers have to say.” I gave her the
Globe
and took the
Herald.

For some reason the
Herald
gets more late-breaking news into its morning editions than does the
Globe,
which otherwise I'm prone to favor. This morning not even the
Herald
had much to say because no one really knew anything. The paper compensated in
Herald
style by having a blazing front-page headline over file photos of the Stonehouse emeralds and various celebrities.

We traded papers.

I realized that my mind was only half focused on the newspapers when I found myself rereading what I'd just read. At that moment, Amelia put her paper down and got up.

“I'm going to phone the hospital and find out when Zee is expected back.”

She went into the den and I heard her voice. I couldn't catch the words, but after a minute the tone changed. Some quality in it brought me to my feet. A moment later she came back into the living room. Her face was gray. I stepped quickly forward and took her arm.

“What is it?”

She gave me a haunted look. “The hospital doesn't
know anything about her. There was no emergency on Saturday. No patient was flown off-island. No one at the hospital telephoned me. What's happened to Zee?”

A coldness clamped on my heart. I sat Amelia down on the sofa and went to the phone. The voice at the Martha's Vineyard hospital repeated the message it had given her. I rang off and phoned the police. Whoever was at the desk was no, doubt caught up by the death of Willard Blunt, compared to which a woman unaccounted for for a couple of days was not of primary concern. He told me what I already knew: that missing people usually showed up and that it was too early for me to be really worried, but that they'd get on it right away. Had anyone checked her home?

I hadn't and felt like an idiot. I gave him her number, then hung up and dialed it myself. It rang and rang. I hung up.

I needed something to do with my hands. Choke the policeman on the desk, perhaps? I picked up Amelia's mail.

“The police are on the case. I'm going to drive up to her place. Will you be okay? I'll stay longer if . . .”

She shook her head. “No. You go. I'll be fine. Call me from her house.”

“Yes.” I saw Zee lying on the floor of her own house. Dead? Hurt? Lying there for three days while I hadn't even had the sense to go up to her place and see if she was okay?

I drove away, thinking of the times I'd taken Zee home and dropped her off at the little house she rented amid the green foliage on the line between Chilmark and West Tisbury, the Vineyard's prettiest townships. I had often invited Zee to live in Edgartown with me, but she had declined just as she had declined my several suggestions that we marry. On the other hand she had never told me not to darken her doorway again, so she lived up island and I lived down island and we visited a lot. For me, it
had been better than it might be, enough for me to keep my hopes up. Now my hopes were not so high.