Vineyard Enigma (2 page)

John Skye owned a farm off the West Tisbury road, complete with barn, outbuildings, and a corral. He and Mattie and their twin daughters summered there when they weren’t in Colorado, where John had grown up.

The girls were two of the island’s many horse people. They rode Eastern when on the Vineyard and Western when out on the old Skye place on the Florida Mesa, south of Durango. John had been smart enough early on to buy the Vineyard farm even though his limited professorial salary made the purchase much beyond his means. He had pinched and borrowed and gone without for years before inflation and his improving income transformed the farm into an unbelievably great bargain.

It was the reverse of a more common Vineyard tale, which turned on the theme of “I could have bought such and such a piece of land for five hundred dollars, but back then I didn’t have five hundred dollars, so I didn’t buy it, and look at the price of it now!”

I was the beneficiary of a tale like John’s. My father, before I was born, had bought the place where Zee and I now lived. At that time it was land nobody wanted, so he’d bought as much as his fireman’s wages allowed and now the place was mine and, like John’s farm, the object of many a developer’s eye. Someday, if I got hungry enough, I might sell a piece of it. But not yet.

I drove up our long sandy driveway, took a left on the paved road, and went into Edgartown. It was still early in June but already the giant seasonal A & P/Al’s Package Store traffic jam was in evidence. Later, during the height of summer, it would clog the road for half a mile in each direction, thanks to people trying to make left turns for food or booze. When I’m king of the world, I’m banning all left turns.

I slipped smoothly on down past Cannonball Park, took a right on the West Tisbury Road, and was soon pulling into John’s driveway. There, I parked in front of his big white house, waved at a twin with a horse down by the barn, and knocked on the front door.

Mattie opened it and gave me a hug and a kiss. “The place looks fine, J.W. You even got that sticky window in the kitchen to slide up and down. Come on in. John’s in the library.”

“You look great,” I said, leering. “If I wasn’t married already, I’d propose.”

“And if I wasn’t married and didn’t know you as well as I do, I might accept.” She waved toward the library. “Go on in. They’re waiting for you.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Mahsimba is a hunk!”

Hunkiness is a quality best understood by women, so I wasn’t as enlightened by the remark as Zee might have been. It was, I knew, a statement of physical and psychosexual approval, but why some men were hunks and others weren’t was a mystery to me.

John Skye’s library was a large room with ceilinghigh shelves filled with thousands of books. It was furnished with leather chairs, reading lamps, and Oriental carpets. Against one wall was the huge, ancient, carved table that John used as a desk. It was piled with books and papers and held a computer, printer, and scanner. Above the desk, high on the wall, hung a battered fencing mask centering a rusty triangulation of épée, saber, and foil, tokens of John’s long-ago collegiate career as a three-weapon man.

It was one of the finest rooms I knew, and when opening or closing the house for the season, I often got distracted there and only later realized I was reading instead of working, in the thrall of books.

John and another man were bent over the desk, looking at a book. They straightened and turned as I came in.

John, tall, lean, and the possessor of a slight potbelly of which he was unashamed (“security rations in case of atomic attack”), smiled and met me in the middle of the room. “J.W. Good to see you.”

I took his hand and nodded toward the desk. “Still at work on
Gawain,
I take it.”

“If
Beowulf
can become a bestseller,
Gawain
can, too. Fame and wealth will at last be mine.”

John had been working on a definitive translation of
Gawain and the Green Knight
for as long as I could remember. Recently a translation of
Beowulf,
another epic usually read only by English majors, and reluctantly at that, had, to the astonishment and delight of medievalists, made the top ten on the
New York Times
bestseller list.

John turned. “Let me introduce you two. Mahsimba, this is J. W. Jackson, the man Stan Crandel told you about. J.W., this is Abraham Mahsimba.”

Our hands met. His grip was both gentle and sinewy.

“How do you do, Mr. Jackson?”

“My friends call me J.W.”

He smiled. “And I am called Mahsimba. I have other names, but most people find them long and unpronounceable.”

“Mahsimba it is, then.”

“And J.W. it is.”

Mahsimba was of medium height and looked to be about a middleweight. His skin was smooth and the color of coffee with a tablespoon of cream. His hair was short, dark, and lay close to his skull, and his eyes were golden brown. He had high cheekbones, and his nose was slightly curved beneath a high, clear brow. His teeth, as he smiled, were white and flawless. He was wearing canvas and leather shoes and casual clothing that could have come from anywhere. A curious ivory carving hung on a gold chain around his neck.

“Stan Crandel put me in touch with Mahsimba here,” said John, “and Stan and I both think that you might be just the guy to help him out.”

I nodded. “Stanley said as much, but he didn’t say how. Just that it was a long story.”

John waved us all to leather chairs. “It’s the medieval connection that’s got me interested,” he said. “But it’s your story, Mahsimba, so I’ll shut up.”

Mahsimba nodded and turned to me. “Are you familiar with the history of Africa?”

“I know about Egypt and the pyramids, and I know there are diamond mines down south. I’ve read that the Queen of Sheba may have come from there, and I’ve seen movies about Tarzan, King Solomon’s mines, and the Zulu wars. But that’s about it.”

“Unfortunately, many Africans know less than that. I am searching for two stone birds.” He paused, then saw something in my face that made him smile. “No, neither of them is the Maltese falcon. I leave the search for that black bird to others, though the birds I seek are also works of art. They are fish eagles carved from soapstone perhaps seven hundred years ago. Are you familiar with the ruins now called Great Zimbabwe?”

I thought back. “A very large, very old circular stone enclosure with some sort of tower inside it? I remember reading about it and seeing some photos. In
National Geographic,
maybe. It was a while back.”

“Your memory is correct. When I was a child, my village was in what was then Rhodesia but is now Zimbabwe. The ruins were not far away, and I visited them from time to time.

“The original structures were built between 1100 and 1500
A.D
. and were part of the principal city of the kingdom of Monomotapa. For four hundred years its citizens raised cattle and mined gold, copper, and iron. By 1500 they were trading with Arabs and the Portuguese, who came inland from the east coast.

“Then Monomotapa declined and was forgotten by the outside world until its rediscovery by Europeans in the nineteenth century. A German, Carl Mauch, visited the ruins in 1871 and speculated that the buildings had been erected by the Phoenicians.”

Here Mahsimba allowed himself a wry smile. “It is an interesting footnote to African history and politics that as recently as the 1970s it was illegal in Rhodesia for any official document to advance the thesis that Great Zimbabwe had been built by black Africans. Egyptians were a more acceptable explanation, or a lost tribe of Israel.”

I thought of how the Nazis’ refusal to use what they called “Jewish science” may have caused them the loss of a war they perhaps could have won. Racism is an odd and often self-destructive vice.

“In any case,” continued Mahsimba, “with the discovery of the ruins came European treasure hunters and so-called experts on ancient cultures. One of the treasure hunters was a man named Willi Posselt. In 1889 he discovered four eagles carved from soapstone and traded for what he considered the best of them. Over the years, a total of ten eagles were found in Great Zimbabwe and shipped elsewhere, to museums and private collections. The whereabouts of eight of them are known, and my country is working very hard to have them returned to their homeland. I’m here on your island in search of the two missing ones. I think they may be here, and Stanley Crandel thinks that you may be able to help me find them.”

John leaned forward. “Stan Crandel and I both think you’re the guy for the job, J.W. You were a cop and you know the island as well as anyone and better than most.”

I said nothing.

“If it’s a matter of money,” said Mahsimba, mis-reading my silence, “I have been authorized to spend whatever is reasonable to find the birds, and I will be pleased to employ you at a figure that is agreeable to us both.” He mentioned a sum that was very agreeable indeed.

“That’s a fair amount of money,” I said.

“You may earn it, if you accept the work. There is an element of danger in the job. Millions of dollars are being made in the international art trade, and many people who are not scrupulous are involved in the illegal aspect of it. Those people can be quite dangerous, and some of them might be right here on your lovely island.”

“I don’t mind a little trouble,” I said, “but I’m not sure I can be of help to you. I know nothing at all about the illegal art trade, other than that a lot of people make a lot of money at it, and I only know two people who’ve been to southern Africa or know anything about the art that comes from there.”

“Vineyarders travel all the time,” said John. “I’ll bet dozens of them have been to Africa.”

“Who are the two people you mentioned?” asked Mahsimba.

“Al Butters is a retired guy who spends all summer sailing,” I said. “I met him because we both have cat-boats about the same size, and we both go out and float around in the annual catboat race. He worked for some outfit that sent him and Barbara to southern Africa for five or six years. Now they have a house here full of African baskets and carvings. But I’ve never seen anything there that looks like a soap-stone eagle.”

Mahsimba’s eyes looked into mine. “When was he working in Africa?”

“I’m not sure. I think he retired about five years ago.”

“Ah. The eagles disappeared years before that.”

“But it’s a place to start, J.W.,” said John. “Go talk with Al Butters. Maybe he knows somebody who has a couple of stone eagles.”

I could feel temptation tugging at me. I wanted distraction, even at the risk of some degree of danger.

“I don’t think you need to know too much about art,” said John. “This island is crawling with artists and people involved with galleries, museums, and the like. You can tap their brains if you need to know more than you already do. What Mahsimba needs is someone who knows his way around this island and who has some experience asking questions.”

“I only hope the Zimbabwe eagles are actually here,” said Mahsimba, raising a cautionary hand. “It has been a hundred years since their existence was first reported, and the two I seek have not been publicly seen since then.”

“But you’re here,” I said, “on this particular dot in the water, eight thousand miles from your home country. You didn’t come here just by chance.”

“Very true.” Mahsimba took a small notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it, and scanned several pages. My impression, however, was that he knew the contents so well that his reading was not really necessary. “During the 1960s, an American adventurer named Ronald Parsons was in Rhodesia, working as a mercenary in one of the irregular units the Ian Smith government was employing to combat the revolutionaries.

“Foreseeing earlier than most that the white government was not going to prevail, Parsons took what he could find in the way of loot, which was considerable, and departed. Included in his booty were two stone Zimbabwe eagles taken from the farm of an Englishman whose grandfather had been a cohort of Cecil Rhodes himself.

“These birds were ornately carved and had originally been part of the grandfather’s private collections. Eventually, they became the property of his grandson, Crompton, who owned the farm from which Parsons took them. The Crompton family diaries and journals make reference to the carved birds, and some contain photos of them. Here is one of those photos. Keep it.”

I looked down at a none-too-clear photo of a collection of baskets and wood carvings in the center of which were two pale stone stelae ornamented with what appeared to be carved crocodiles and topped with sculpted hawks or eagles. I looked back at Mahsimba.

“And Parsons brought these birds to America?”

“Yes. Our organization eventually traced him to California. Last November David Brownington, one of several agents hired to find the birds, went there to talk with him. But many years had passed, and Parsons had fallen on hard times and had sold the birds to a private collector specializing in Africana. Parsons would not give his name. However, a woman who had been hired by Parsons to help write his memoirs, but who had then had a falling-out with him, was eager to take what revenge she could. She learned of Brownington’s interview with Parsons, contacted him, and gave him the name of the dealer who had arranged the sale of the birds, a Daniel Duarte. Is the name familiar to you?”

“There are a lot of Duartes on this island, but I don’t know of any named Daniel. Should I?”

“Daniel Duarte was born on Martha’s Vineyard but had been living for many years in San Francisco, where his firm was located, so Brownington went there. Although he was unable to persuade Duarte to reveal the name of the buyer of the birds, Brownington did learn that Duarte’s son, Matthew, who is a junior partner in the firm, manages a branch of the family business here. His office is on the old family farm, in a town called West Tisbury. Have you heard of this Matthew Duarte?”

“I may have heard the name, but I don’t know the man. Fourteen thousand people live on the Vineyard, and I don’t know most of them.”

“Very understandable. In any case, Brownington learned that Matthew Duarte might have been involved in the sale of the birds and so informed his principals. Nothing has been heard from Brownington since.”

Mahsimba’s golden eyes were fathomless. “Other matters kept me occupied for several months, but now I’ve been given the task of finding the birds. I sent a message to Matthew Duarte’s Web site and told him I was coming here in hopes of interviewing him. If that interview proves unhelpful and if other efforts to find the birds here fail, I’ll go on to San Francisco to try to trace them from there.”

“You must want them pretty badly.”

“They are worth a fortune to collectors, and middlemen and dealers can therefore make small fortunes of their own by arranging their sale and delivery. But they are priceless symbols to my country, and we want them back.”

“Describe Brownington,” I said.

Mahsimba raised a brow. “Describe David Brownington? David is in his early forties, about six feet tall, very fit, blond, a Zimbabwean of British descent whose people have been in Africa for generations. Well educated, well spoken. A very able fellow. We met at Oxford.” He tipped his head slightly to one side as he stared at something he saw in my face. “Why do you ask?”

“Because David Brownington may be dead.” I told him about the Headless Horseman. “Brownington dropped out of sight in California about the time the Horseman’s body was discovered. If Brownington came here to interview Matthew Duarte, chances are the authorities knew nothing about it, so they’d have no reason to link this body to a foreigner last seen three thousand miles away.”

Mahsimba frowned. “David Brownington is not the sort of man who’s easy to kill.”

“Tough people get killed when they least expect it,” I said, thinking of the gunman Zee had shot.

Mahsimba nodded. “That is true. I’m more eager than ever to talk to Mr. Matthew Duarte.”

“If Brownington actually is the Horseman,” I said, “it doesn’t mean that Duarte killed him. Someone else may have wanted to keep Brownington from talking to Duarte and may have stopped him before they met.”

“And who might that have been?”

“It could have been someone who didn’t want Brownington to learn the name of the person who bought the birds. Maybe it was the buyer himself.”

Mahsimba drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How would he have known Brownington was coming?”

“Duarte might have told him. Or Duarte might have told someone else, who then told the killer.”

John, whose profession made him reluctant to jump to conclusions, frowned. “I think this is all a stretch,” he said, “but maybe we should contact the police and put this bug in their ear.”

Mahsimba’s face was without emotion, but his fingers continued to tap lightly against his chair while John rose and went to the phone.

I thought for a moment, then got up and followed John to his desk, where I found and opened the Martha’s Vineyard telephone book.

There, listed for all to see, was the name and address of Matthew Duarte, dealer in art and antiques.

John took the phone from his ear. “The police would like to talk with you, Mahsimba. They’re interested in anything you can tell them about David Brownington.”

Mahsimba nodded. “Of course.” He rose as John spoke again into the phone and hung up. Then the three of us climbed into my truck and drove to the Edgartown police station.

The chief was in his office. He looked at me. “You, of course. I should have known you’d be involved in this.” He shook Mahsimba’s hand. “Sit down, Mr. Mahsimba, and let me hear what you have to say. John, why don’t you and what’s-his-name here take a walk so Mr. Mahsimba and I can have some privacy.”

I turned toward the door. “You’re absolutely sure you don’t need me here, Chief?”

“I’m absolutely sure,” said the chief.

Outside, John and I leaned against the truck. “Someday you may razz the wrong guy,” said John.

I held up two fingers pressed together. “The chief and I are just like that. We’re blood brothers.”

Half an hour later, Mahsimba came out and we all got into the truck.

“The chief is contacting your state police,” said Mahsimba. “They apparently handle all murder investigations.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” I said. “I think we should go up to West Tisbury and have a chat with Matthew Duarte before some cop or lawyer tells us we can’t do that.”

John nodded. “Good idea.”

“Yes,” said Mahsimba.

West Tisbury is set right in the middle of Martha’s Vineyard and has always been an agricultural town rather than one devoted to the fruits of the sea. The town center consists of the general store, the town hall, the art gallery with its field full of dancing statues, the library, and not much more. The people who live in West Tisbury think it’s the best town on the island and only leave it when they drive to Oak Bluffs or Edgartown to buy liquor. When you’re driving the roads of West Tisbury, it’s more like being in Vermont than being on an island.

Matthew Duarte’s house was off South Road, just before the Chilmark line and not far from the little house where Zee lived before we got married and she moved in with me. The house was one of those old but well-maintained farmhouses that you find all over the island, which once was much devoted to pastures and the raising of sheep. If you look at photos of the Vineyard taken around 1900, you’ll see a lot of stone walls, but there’s hardly a tree in sight.

We passed through the gateway in Matthew Duarte’s stone fence and went along the sandy driveway until we got to the house. There was a car parked in front of a barn that was fronted by both double doors and a single door, over which hung a sign:
DUARTE AND SON
,
DEALERS IN FINE ART AND ANTIQUES
. The place had that air of emptiness that you feel when there’s nobody home.

We went up onto the porch and I knocked at the door.

Nothing.

I knocked again. More nothing.

“He’s probably in the office,” said John, and started toward the barn.

I walked a few steps along the porch to a window, where I put my head against the glass and peeked in. There was a body on the floor.