A Case of Vineyard Poison (16 page)

The boats from Hyannis and Falmouth come into the Oak Bluffs harbor and load and unload at the dock by the parking lot, not far from a heavy concentration of moped dealers that a lot of islanders would like to see take their business to some other island. It was a nice
day, and I was quite prepared to laze away some time in the sun, looking at the boats in the little harbor, but as luck would have it the
Island Queen
was just coming in through the channel between the stone jetties. The
Queen
ferries day trippers between the Vineyard and Falmouth, and makes several passages a day. It provides fast, comfortable service to a lot of people, but I had hope that some of the crew would remember a pretty girl like Denise Vale, who took the boat fairly often.

And such, indeed, proved to be the case. The second crewman I showed the picture to even remembered her name.

“Denise. Sure. A dish. We talked. Saw her just last week, in fact.”

“Going to the Cape or coming back?”

He shook his head. “I don't remember. Usually she went over one day and came back the next. I think she had some guy over there. Lucky him.”

“She ever mention his name?”

“If she did, I don't remember what it was.”

“Was it Glen Gordon? Or maybe Gordy?”

“Sorry, pal.”

“Did she travel alone or with somebody?”

“Alone. I don't think I ever saw her with anybody.”

“Did she meet anybody when she got to Falmouth? Was anybody waiting for her?”

He grinned. “I wondered who a girl like that was meeting, so I watched her a few times. She never met anybody. She just walked up the street alone.”

“And nobody brought her to the boat when she came back?”

“Nobody I ever saw. Say, what's this all about?”

It was nice to have an honest answer available. “Her
dad's worried about her. He's laid up for a while, so I'm doing some legwork to try to track her down. I thought maybe she was with her boyfriend.”

“Well, I don't know if I helped you any.”

I wrote my name and number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. “If you see her, tell her I'd like to talk to her. If she doesn't want to do that, give me a call. There'll be a couple of bucks in it for you. Her dad's pretty anxious about her.”

“You a private eye or something?”

“I have a badge, but this isn't anything official.”

That was true. I still had my old Boston P.D. badge, and I was anything but official in my snooping.

“Well, okay. If I see her, I'll have her call you or do it myself.”

The last of the Cape-bound passengers were aboard. The gangplanks were pulled, the whistle blew, and the
Queen
pulled away and headed out across the sound to America.

It was a bit past noon when I got to Denise Vale's house. I wondered how Roy from Princeton was doing. Better, I hoped. Two college-age girls wearing beach robes were getting into a rather spiffy-looking convertible. My friend John Skye, who, between Vineyard summers, teaches things medieval at Weststock College, says that one way you can tell the difference between students and teachers is that students always have newer and more expensive cars. I got out of the Land Cruiser and walked over.

The women eyed me without enthusiasm. It was clear that they were headed for the beach and didn't want to delay their departure.

I put on my best smile. “I'm looking for Denise Vale. Is she here?”

They exchanged looks. Then the nearer one spoke.

“Who are you?”

“J.W. Jackson. Is Denise here?”

A slight pause. “No, she isn't.”

“I talked with Roy yesterday. He said she hasn't been here since before the weekend. Do you know where she is? Her father's worried about her.”

That seemed to loosen them up a little. “We're worried, too,” said the girl. “It's not like her to do something like this.”

“We're starting to think of going to the police,” said the other girl.

“That might not be a bad idea,” I said. “Have you tried to find her? Have you called her mother? Her boyfriend? People she might be visiting? The hospital?”

“The hospital? No, we haven't . . . That is, we did call Glen, but he said he hasn't seen her. He said he'd call if she showed up. Maybe we should call her mom . . .”

“Glen Gordon? Her boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me his number? I'd like to talk with him.”

They exchanged looks, then the nearer girl got out of the car. “I'll get it for you. He lives over on the Cape.”

She went into the house.

“I hear that Glen Gordon attended NYU?” I said.

The girl in the car nodded. “That's where Denise met him. There are a lot of NYU kids down here for the summer.”

“I hear that Denise is twenty-three.”

The girl was too young to be worrying about her age
or anyone else's. When is it that women start lying about how old they are?

“That's right,” she said. “She's going to have a birthday next month.”

“How old is Glen?”

She thought about that. “I guess he must be a little older. I think she said she met him in school when she was a freshman. He's got one of those faces that look about twenty. You know what I mean. Sort of a baby face.” She suddenly grinned. “He's really cute, actually. We kid Denise about him, and tell her that if she ever gets tired of him, to let us know and we'll be glad to take over. She doesn't think it's as funny as we do.”

“That kind of guy, eh?”

She made a little waving gesture with her hand and kept her grin. “Well, you know. . . .”

The other girl came out of the house with a piece of paper in her hand. She gave it to me.

“I don't think Denise is with him,” she said. “I think that Glen would have had her call, if she was.” She put her lower lip between her teeth. “Do you really think we should call the hospital, and the police?”

“It won't hurt,” I said, thinking that I should call the hospital myself. “But unless they actually know something about her, the police will tell you that most missing persons are missing because they want to be, or because it just never occurred to them that other people might even think of them as missing.” I glanced at the sun. “If you two plan on catching some rays, you'd better get going.”

Actually, I was the one who needed to get going, so I thanked them and left.

First I went to the hospital. There was no Denise Vale
there. There was no Zee, either. She was home with Mom, presumably getting squared away for the big wedding. I wasn't sure why it took so much effort to get married, but apparently it did.

I was hungry, but I thought I knew where I could get some lunch and some information at the same time, so I headed for Vineyard Haven.

Hazel Fine generally went home for lunch. Lunch was always very good, so I didn't mind dropping in just as it was being served. Mary and Hazel, being the nice kind of people they were, could hardly just sit there and eat while I just watched, so they would come up with some food for me, too. It was an old bachelor ploy that everybody knew about, but it still worked as well as ever, so I never hesitated to put it into effect. The fact that in a couple of weeks I wouldn't be a bachelor anymore was not disturbing, since it had been my observation that married men whose wives were away could use the same trick to get free meals from women who felt sorry for them. I suspected that it might be possible for an enterprising man to live a long and good life and never have to buy or prepare his own food.

“Well, well,” said Mary, answering the door. “Look who's here. It's the bridegroom.”

“Is Hazel here?”

“You know very well she's here. Come on into the kitchen.”

I followed her and discovered Hazel attending to a bowl of cold broccoli soup and thin chicken and cucumber sandwiches.

She smiled at me. “J.W. How nice. Have you eaten? No? Well, sit down and join us. There's plenty for all. Mary, I think we have a bottle of white wine in the fridge: I'm sure J.W would like some.”

“I'm sure he would,” said Mary. “Perfect timing, J.W.”

“Thank you. Would you believe me if I told you that I really didn't mean to drop in just in time for lunch?”

“No.”

“Well, okay, I'll fess up. But that's not the only reason.”

She poured me a glass of Chablis and set a bowl of soup in front of me. I tried it. Delish! I love cold veggie soups.

“Is the other reason a wedding issue?” asked Mary.

“Nope. A banking issue.” I looked at Hazel. “I've asked everybody I know who knew Kathy Ellis or Denise Vale whether they ever heard of Cecil Jones. None of them know the name.”

“Maybe neither girl knew him.”

“He's the guy who signed the back of their checks. Two hundred thousand worth that we know of. If they didn't give the checks to Cecil, who did?”

Hazel nibbled on a sandwich. “I don't know. That's one of the things about checks made out to cash. Anyone can cash them. But just because Cecil Jones cashed them doesn't mean that the girls gave them to him or even knew who he was. It's quite possible that they gave them to someone else who passed them on to Cecil Jones.” She pointed her finger at me. “That blank expression on your face suggests that you're thinking of something, J.W. What is it?”

I told her about Glen Gordon's link to Kathy Ellis and Denise Vale.

She took another sandwich and nibbled some more. I had one too, and ate it in two bites. “Well, well,” said Hazel. “One boyfriend, two girls. Interesting.”

“A not unfamiliar tale,” observed Mary.

“He met them both while they were at NYU,” I said. “Both girls were freshmen when he met them, and he
was a senior. The interesting thing is that Denise Vale is three years older than Kathy Ellis.”

“Ah,” said Mary. “I see. So Glen Gordon was a senior when Denise Vale was a freshman and was still a senior three years later when Kathy Ellis was a freshman. He had a long senior year.”

I nodded between spoons of soup and bites of sandwich. “But supposedly he's a very sharp guy, not the kind to need three senior years in order to graduate.”

Hazel wiped her lips. “And you say he's an accountant?”

“Denise Vale's mother said that. She really didn't know too much. He works with computers, but that's about all she could say. All of us computer illiterates are pretty fuzzy about what people actually do with those things.”

“J.W.,” said Mary, “the twentieth century is almost over. I think you should try to at least enter it before it's gone.”

“This from a woman who plays eighteenth-century musical instruments,” I said.

Hazel sang and Mary played recorders and other out-of-date instruments in an island ensemble specializing in early and baroque music.

“I know some people over at the Zimmerman National Bank,” said Hazel. “Perhaps I'll take a little time this afternoon and make some inquiries about Cecil Jones and the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company.”

I emptied my wineglass. “Good. Can you check out Glen Gordon too? I'd be interested if there's a tie-in between him and the salvage company. And while you're at it, you might find out something about Frazier Information Systems. I'd like to know what they do.”

Hazel stared at me. “Frazier Information Systems?”

“Yeah. That's where Glen Gordon works, according to Denise Vale's mom. Why the wide eyes?”

The wide eyes narrowed. “Because Frazier Information Systems is the company that's been handling our accounts and is transferring them to our new computer system.”

I felt a little tingle inside. “Then maybe you already know everything you need to know about them,” I said, not believing it.

She shook her head. “No. This bank was doing business with them when I came to work here. Since I've been here, FIS has always done good work for us, but I really don't know much about them.”

We looked at each other. “Then I guess you'll check them and Glen Gordon out,” I said.

“I guess I will,” she said.

Mary surveyed the empty dishes on the table. “Well, J.W, at least we don't have to worry about what to do with the leftovers. There aren't any leftovers. You're better than a vacuum cleaner.”

Because of Vineyard Haven's system of one-way streets, it was faster for Hazel to walk back to work than for me to give her a ride. Instead, I drove home and got things ready so Quinn and Dave could fix themselves some supper. I put out the wok and the cooking oil and the rice, chopped some veggies to go with the scallops and pea pods, and put the soy sauce and Mongolian fire oil on the table. Preparations for a feast fit for a king. It was almost foolproof, too; all they had to do was not overcook things.

While I worked, I ran things through my brain, then stored them away. It was getting crowded up there.

I took an outdoor shower, brushed my teeth and shaved, wondering once again whether I should grow
some hair on my face. A handlebar moustache, maybe, or maybe one of those skinny moustaches and little pointed beards that you see in drawings of old-time Mississippi gamblers and such. The bruises on my face and my fat red ear could use a little cover-up, but I would just have to live with them.

Clean and shining, although black and blue as well, I put on my Vineyard red slacks and a shirt with a little animal over the pocket. I wore my blue belt with the whales on it, and my deck shoes without any socks. A pale blue summer jacket topped everything off. Vineyard chic. If it wasn't for the way my face looked, I could probably get into the yacht club wearing this stuff. And all but the shoes were from the thrift shop, too. Not bad. I wondered if Mom Muleto would be as impressed as she should be.

To fortify myself, I had a Sam Adams, America's finest bottled beer.