Vineyard Deceit (16 page)

“I'll be fine,” said Zee.

“Keep the windows and doors locked.”

“I will.”

“Maybe I should stay the night.”

“Not tonight. Sooner or later I have to be on my own. I may as well start tonight.”

“Maybe I'll park out in the yard all night.”

“If you do, I'll call the cops. Go home, Jefferson.”

“If anything odd happens, call me right away.”

“Good night, Jeff.”

Outside, I walked around the house once in the gathering darkness and then drove home.

I was doing the dishes when the telephone rang.

“Hello,” said the caller. “Mr. Jackson? My name is Jasper Cabot. I'd like to talk with you.”

Jasper Cabot. My brain clicked and whirred and photos in Amelia Muleto's album appeared. Jasper Cabot, one of the young men in Amelia's life when she too was young and later the coprotector with Williard Blunt of the Stonehouse Emerald Necklace.

“When?” I asked.

“This evening, if possible. I realize that it's late.”

“Where?”

“Your place? I'm in Edgartown. I have a car.”

I gave him directions.

I'd finished cleaning up when I saw lights coming down my driveway. I didn't hear any engine. Jasper Cabot's large car was the sort that muttered powerfully but quietly. It pulled to a stop in front of my porch as I went to the door, and a short, solid-looking man slid from behind
the wheel. He looked to be sixty or seventyish. Nowadays I find it hard to judge people's ages, what with the benefits of cosmetics and exercise being popular and people wearing similar clothing, irrespective of their years.

“Mr. Jackson? I'm Jasper Cabot.” He put out his hand and I took it. It was a medium-sized hand, firm and smooth. No calluses.

“Of StonehoUse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams.”

“Yes.”

We went inside, and Jasper Cabot's lawyer's eyes took the place in. Old, saggy, comfortable furniture. No TV. Bookshelves. Fishing rods hung across the ceiling. A bachelor's house. While he was doing that, I found two snifters and the Cognac bottle and put them on the coffee table. I poured two glasses and handed one to him and gestured toward the couch. He sat down, and I sat across from him. He cupped the snifter in his hand and swirled the Cognac under his nose. I did the same. Good Cognac has a wonderful appley aroma that I love.

“I like your place.”

“The rug came from the dump. My lawn mower and vacuum cleaner and some other of my stuff came from there too. It used to be the greatest store on the island. We called it the Big D. Now you have to pay for everything you take there, and they've got a machine that buries everything as soon as you unload it. No more recycling of good stuff. The environmentalists have seized control of the world and the golden days of dump picking are a thing of the past.”

He nodded. “And the dump had a one hundred percent guaranteed refund policy too. You could always take it back if you weren't completely satisfied. We used to have one of those dumps up in Maine where I summer. It's a rich town, like this one, and the people in the big houses were always throwing away things that were perfectly good. The local folks said they could build and furnish a house with what the summer people threw away. I think
they were right.” He paused and gave a small smile. “We Cabots were summer people in a big house, of course.”

I lifted my glass. “Here's to the summer people. You didn't come here to talk about the Big D.”

“No. Amelia Muleto suggested I talk to you. She thinks you may be the man I need to assist me in an inquiry I'm making.” He swirled his Cognac. The eyes in his smooth, plump face were sharp and evaluative. “Amelia told me that you were a policeman in Boston before you retired down here. She told me that you and her niece are friendly and that you are trustworthy and”—here he dropped his eyes politely before raising them again—“free to do some work if we can agree that you are the man for the job.”

“If you mean that I'm unemployed and therefore have time to do what I please as long as it doesn't cost very much, you're right. What job do you have in mind?”

“You do not live in the style of a man with a great deal of money. I can offer you an honest wage for your work.”

“I can always use an honest wage. Or an extravagant one.”

Again that brief smile. “The Cabots did not accumulate their fortune by paying extravagant wages to their employees, Mr. Jackson. The wage will be fair, if we agree that you're the man for the job. I want to investigate the theft of the Stonehouse emeralds and the death of my colleague and friend, Mr. Willard Blunt. I need an island operative to assist me since I will be working primarily in Boston. Are you interested in the work?”

“I'm not a private detective. Why don't you hire a professional?”

He nodded. “A professional agency is already working on the case. You know of them, I believe. Thornberry Security, an excellent firm.”

“They weren't so excellent that the emeralds weren't stolen.”

“True enough, although there is some question as to exactly when the emeralds were stolen. Perhaps they were
stolen before Thornberry Security was hired to protect them. Your face suggests that that possibility has occurred to you. I advise you not to try making a living as a poker player, Mr. Jackson.”

“It's the face of innocence,” I said. “I am without guile.”

“I certainly hope that is not the case, Mr. Jackson. I want my agent to have a bit of the fox in him.”

“Why not trust Thornberry Security? They're a big outfit. They have the operatives and the money to do the job. Besides, there are a lot of police on the case too.”

“Thornberry Security is working for Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams. You would be working for me. I need an experienced man with local knowledge, one who has time to do the work. The local police have all of their usual responsibilities to occupy them and limited funds, to boot. Similarly, for the state and federal investigators these crimes are only two of the many that will be occupying their time and sapping their resources. Finally, Thornberry Security, for all of the firm's expertise, lacks the local knowledge that I think necessary for a proper investigation of these crimes. I need a man who is discreet, focused upon his work, trustworthy, and—I hope this does not shock you, Mr. Jackson—not tied by official rules of evidence. Do you understand me?”

I sipped my Cognac and looked at him over the brim of my snifter. He mirrored my action. I ran the weekend crimes through my mind.

“You think that the theft and Blunt's suicide are tied together.”

“Yes. If, in fact, it was suicide.”

“Do you think it wasn't?”

“The coroner has not officially announced the cause of death.”

“Why do you really want a private agent working on this case?”

We looked at each other. After a moment, he nodded.

“My interest is more than simply professional. Willard Blunt was not only my colleague, but my friend. I am interested both in his death and in securing the reputation that survives that death. Mrs. Amelia Muleto is also a friend who may be hurt if this matter is not resolved, and I am concerned with defending her interests. Finally, you must understand that I watched over the emeralds for the best part of my life and have a personal interest in their fate. That will have to satisfy you for the moment, Mr. Jackson.”

I was surprised to hear a kind of passion in his voice.

“Maybe it will,” I said. “When did you talk to Amelia Muleto?”

“This morning. I drove down from Boston this afternoon.”

“Did she tell you about her niece being missing for three days?”

“She did tell me that. But she said the girl had reappeared and was all right.'

“Yes. That's what I told her this morning. In fact, her niece was kidnapped.” He looked at me steadily. I told him about the abduction and about the phone call I'd received. “There may be some tie between the things that interest you and the things that interest me, but I have my own agenda. I couldn't care less who stole the emeralds or why or what the consequences may be for relations between Sarofim and the United States. In fact, like a lot of people, I'm inclined to think that people who wear their jewels in public places more or less deserve to have them stolen. I never weep when I hear of somebody's million-dollar bracelet being lifted from her apartment in Palm Springs. I
am
interested in finding out who grabbed Zee Madieras and who wants to hurt her.”

“It is my impression that we may in fact have some common objectives, Mr. Jackson. Perhaps the answers to
your problems will be the answers to mine.” Then he told me what he would pay, and the image of Jeremy Fisher's catboat sailed through my brain.

I sipped my Cognac. I could see no disadvantage to making some money doing what I was going to do anyway.

“Okay,” I said, “I'll take the job.”

14

“If we are to work together, we must be frank with one another,” said Jasper Cabot.

“Yes.” I recalled Dostoyevsky, who believed that even in our most secret thoughts we lie to create images of ourselves that we would prefer to believe.

“What do you know of Sarofim?”

I told him. He nodded. “Very good, Mr. Jackson . . .”

“My friends mostly call me J.W.”

“I do not make friends hurriedly, Mr. Jackson. For the moment we are only business partners. I hope you are not offended.”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard of the SDL?”

“The Sarofim Democratic League?”

“You are more knowledgeable than I'd hoped.'

“What country doesn't have a national liberation front of some sort these days?”

“It is an age of revolution, Mr. Jackson. I believe, in fact, that a few years back your own island threatened to secede from Massachusetts.”

“Indeed. We also tried to save the substandard bump, but that move failed too.”

He frowned, as any off-islander would do. I explained
that years before, the State Highway Department had decided, in its wisdom, that a section of the highway out by the airport, where the road dropped into a shallow dale, was too abrupt in its descent and constituted a “substandard bump,” which was a hazard to motorists and needed to be corrected. Delighted by the phrase, islanders, particularly teenage boys who liked to make their cars temporarily airborne by racing them over the descent at illegal speeds, had immediately issued
SAVE THE SUBSTANDARD BUMP
stickers and launched a campaign to restrain the Highway Department from improving things. The Highway Department had prevailed and the once-interesting substandard bump was now only legend. “Another revolution gone astray,” I concluded.

Jasper Cabot nodded, but was not to be distracted. “The revolution in Sarofim has not yet gone astray, although the issue is in doubt. The SDL is headed by intellectuals and radicals who wish to overthrow the Padishah and replace his government with one of another sort. A democracy with a socialist economy seems to be the choice of the majority of the membership, but others favor a Communist model. Needless to say, the Padishah and the members of the oligarchy controlling Sarofim, wealthy families all, have much to lose if the SDL happens to prevail. The secret police are therefore active. The university in Gwatar is routinely closed for weeks or sometimes months at a time. Writers and teachers and students ‘disappear.' For many years Amnesty International annually listed Sarofim as one of the countries employing torture and murder as part of a national policy of quelling dissent. However, of late the opponents of the Padishah seem inclined to die of natural causes. Heart attacks. An unusual number of them. The government of Sarofim naturally denies any responsibility.”

“Naturally.”

“The Padishah's recovery of the necklace would significantly strengthen his image at home as a bold and
decisive leader able to hold his own with a great power. The disappearance of the necklace this past weekend is an embarrassment to him, and in Sarofim an embarrassment to a beleaguered leader might just be enough to push him from power. For that very reason, the SDL would love to come into possession of the necklace. They would use it as a symbol of their own claims to power, a trinket indicative of their ability to outsmart both the Padishah and a great power such as the United States. A symbol is often more powerful than the truth, Mr. Jackson.”