A Case of Vineyard Poison (19 page)

“How much trouble are you going to be in?” I asked Dave.

He shrugged. “Some people will be pissed off, but that's why I have a manager. I pay him a lot of money to handle problems, and he's good at it.” A wry look appeared on his face. “I will admit, though, that I never did anything like this to him before.”

“Maybe it's a good precedent,” I said. “Maybe people will get used to the notion that every now and then you need to disappear for some R and R.”

“Yeah,” said Quinn, nodding. “The right PR and it
could become part of your professional mystique. You know: brooding pianist famous for unexplained disappearances. We could take some sort of shadowy photographs of you in unidentified places and slip them to the papers. I think you might get a lot of mileage out of it.”

“What I want to get right now is a bunch of fillets from these fish,” said Dave.

“You know where the filleting table is,” I said. “I'll get you a couple of knives. One of the rules about fish is: if you catch 'em, you clean 'em.”

“That sounds like a rule you just made up,” said Quinn, taking one handle of the fish box while Dave took the other. They went off to the table behind my shed, and I went through the house and collected two filleting knives. At the table I watched the two of them work on the fish until I was sure that Dave wouldn't cut off one of his valuable fingers, then went back into the house and filled a pan with water and the salt and sugar combination that I use to soak fish in overnight before smoking them.

When Dave and Quinn brought in the fillets, we put them in the water and found a place for the pan in the fridge, which by then was getting pretty full.

While Quinn was showering, I got a surprise from Dave. He went out to the Land Cruiser and came back with an electric keyboard.

“Look at this,” he said. “We found this in the thrift shop downtown on our way home. It may not be a Steinway, but you can play it.” He took it into the living room, plugged it in, and ran his fingers over the keys. The room filled with music. “I need practice,” said Dave, flexing his fingers. “My surf-casting muscles are getting better, but my piano playing ones are out of shape.” Again, he touched
the keys and again the room was filled with better music than anyone had previously made there. “Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all.”

“Now here's what I have in mind. Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast . . . or is it savage beast? I can never remember . . . Anyway, I thought that if I contributed some background music or maybe even a little pre- or post-dinner entertainment, maybe Zee's mom might cool her fires a little. What do you think?”

“You know any soothe-the-Portuguese-mother-in-law-to-be music?”

“Leave it to me. I can probably come up with a few tunes that'll do the job.”

“Maybe some of those moon songs.
Clair de Lune
and the
Moonlight Sonata,
and like that.”

“Yeah,” said Dave. “That's the idea. Or maybe I'll serve up some fados. Just leave it to me.”

Quinn came in, wrapped in his towel, and Dave headed for the shower. “Don't worry,” said Quinn. “I know this is a big night for you, so I'm going to put on a clean shirt and I won't spit on the floor.”

Things didn't look too bad. Good food, good drink, Quinn, who, if he wished, could charm the ladies, and the world's champion pianist to provide entertainment. I went into the kitchen to attend to the final details: first, the bread. I put it in the oven. If all else failed, the smell of fresh cooked bread should win Maria's heart.

While the loaves baked, I opened the littlenecks and cherrystones and prepared the casinos. I finished just as the bread was done. Perfect timing.

Quinn, Dave, and I ate most of a loaf as soon as the bread was out of the oven. We cut thick slices and
slathered them with butter, and wolfed them down. Yum! We had some more, and washed them down with beer.

“How many of those have you had?” asked Quinn, looking at my Sam Adams. “You don't want Maria to think you're a boozer.”

“Just the right number,” I said. I felt good.

I brushed my teeth one last time, and slid into another shirt. In the mirror I looked as passable as I ever get. I put martini glasses in the freezer to chill, and looked at my watch. Waiting time. I noticed that I was nervous.

Right on schedule, Zee's little Jeep came down my driveway. Dave and Quinn, decked out even more nicely than I was, went out with me to greet Zee and Maria.

Quinn and I got kisses from Zee. Then I introduced Maria to Quinn.

“Just Quinn?” she asked with a little smile. “No first name? Like in
Shane?”

“I always thought Shane was his first name,” said Quinn. “Quinn is a last name, like Spenser.”

“I always thought Spenser was his first name,” said Dave. “That's what inspired me to be only Dave.” He gave Maria a small bow. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Dave.”

“No you're not,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I know who you are. You're David Greenstein. Zeolinda gave me a tape of yours and there was a picture of you on the case. Besides, your face has been all over the Boston papers. You're a missing person!”

He spread his hands. “Not for long, I'm afraid. I'm headed back to civilization in a couple of days. Then it's back to work.”

Maria studied him approvingly, and I saw some deviltry in her eye. “You are a wonderful pianist. Are you married?”

Dave looked surprised. “No, I'm afraid not.”

Maria turned to Zee. “There you are, dear. Another eligible man. Jefferson isn't the only one left, after all, in spite of what you've been telling me.”

“Mom!” said Zee.

“What do you say, David?” asked Maria. “My daughter here wants to get married. Are you interested?”

“Gosh, Zee,” said Dave. “This is so sudden.”

“She's a great find, Dave,” I said. “Beautiful, a steady job, has a sweetheart of a mother. You could do a lot worse.”

Zee tugged at my hand. “You
do
have my triple vodka martini waiting for me inside, of course.”

“This may be your last chance, Dave,” said Maria. “Once he wraps that martini around her, I'm afraid she'll never be able to leave him.”

“Actually,” said Dave, running his eyes over her from face to foot and back again, “I've always been attracted to more mature women. Let me see your left hand. Rats. Still married, I see. Is there any chance of winning you away from whoever it is who has you now?”

“You don't want to marry a musician,” said Quinn, stepping in. “I know he seems like a romantic figure, but he's away in some foreign country most of the time, being chased by dark-eyed beauties such as yourself. What you want is an honest, hard-working member of the fourth estate like me. I'm adoring and absolutely dependable, exactly the kind of man you really need. I'd like the two of us to get off to a proper start, so what can I get you to drink?”

“White wine,” said Maria, flicking her dark eyes at first one of the men and then the other.

Dave took her arm. “You get the drinks,” he said to
Quinn. “I'll escort Maria up to the balcony. Come along, madam. We'll let the servants attend us.”

“I think this evening may work out all right,” whispered Zee, her smile flashing.

And it did. At the end of the evening, after the drinks and the food and the music and the talk, I got my first kiss from Maria as she and Zee were leaving for home. When they were gone, I poured three last glasses of cognac, and Dave, Quinn, and I sat in the living room. Dave was back to the keyboard and let his hands run over the instrument. Some gentle air I'd never heard. It sounded just right.

“Background music,” said Quinn, sipping his drink. “Too bad we can't have it all the time. Did I ever tell you my theory that the trouble with life is that there's no background music?”

“You mean the one about walking past some girl and not realizing that it's a potentially romantic situation because there aren't any violins playing, or not realizing that you're about to get mugged because there's no ominous music?”

“Yeah. Well, did I ever tell you about my theory that the trouble with life is that there's no plot?”

“Is that like the telephone directory theory? That it has a tremendous cast, but no script?”

“It's nice to know that at least you've been listening,” said Quinn.

Dave looked up from his keyboard. He smiled. “I saw that kiss from Maria,” he said. “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

I was up early to get started on smoking Dave's and Quinn's fish. I rinsed them to wash off whatever salt was on the surface of the fillets, then I set them to air-dry for an hour on racks. After that, I put the racks in the smoker that sits out behind my shed, beside the filleting table.

My smoker is an old metal refrigerator salvaged from the town dump in the good old days before the environmentalists seized control of it and banished dump picking from the list of approved island activities, and I heat my hickory chips with an electric stove-top unit found, where else, in the dump of the golden age.

I put the chips in an old cast-iron skillet (found guess where), put the skillet on the heating unit, and turned on just enough juice to smolder the chips. By that time, Dave and Quinn were up, and I told them how to keep the smoke roiling until the fish were done.

“You should be done about noon,” I said. “Then take the racks out and let the fillets cool. Then take the skins off, wrap them in plastic wrap, and stick them in the fridge.”

“After sampling them to make sure they're okay, of course,” said Dave.

“Of course.” Quinn nodded. “And we should still have time to hit the beach for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Ah, the Vineyard life.” He looked at Dave. “What do you think? Should we move down here permanently?
You could probably get a job playing in a bar, and I could maybe go to work at the
Gazette
or the
Times.”

Dave arched a brow. “And I could woo Zee while I was here. That would probably make Maria very happy. This idea deserves some thought.”

“Maybe you could woo Maria, too, while you're at it,” said Quinn.

“Good-bye, you bozos,” I said.

I climbed into Quinn's car and drove to the farmhouse where Beth Goodwin and Peter Dennison lived. Beth still had sleepy eyes when she came to the door. She hadn't even been to the photo place to see if her film was ready. So things go. “I'll come back tomorrow, just before noon,” I said, and drove on to Oak Bluffs.

The Hy-line passenger ferries run between Oak Bluffs and Hyannis, and between Oak Bluffs and Nantucket. The
Island Queen,
another passenger ferry, runs between Oak Bluffs and Falmouth. Between them, they haul a lot of day tourists back and forth, and keep Oak Bluffs harbor pretty busy.

I parked the car over on the beach side of the parking lot. I was early, so I sat and watched the harbor traffic. Oak Bluffs has a very small harbor, but there are usually interesting boats there, and like many other people, I never get tired of looking at boats and the sea. Today I particularly admired a nice little folkboat that sailed out of the harbor on a following wind. Several folkboats have crossed the Atlantic and at least one was sailed around the world single-handed by a woman who had a lot more skill and courage than I have. There's something in human beings that draws them to water. They build houses beside streams, rivers, lakes, and the sea. They like to look at water, wade in it, fish in it, swim in it. They like the way it
sounds, and the way its appearance changes with the weather. They even like its fearful power, when flood or storm changes it into a great destroyer. They like to float leaves on it, and to make toy and real boats, and to build bridges over it. It fascinates them and that fascination never leaves them. No wonder that in the Koran, paradise is often described as a garden where lovely waters flow.

“You are looking quite philosophical,” said Helen Fine, sitting down beside me.

“Boats,” I said. “Just messing around with boats. There's nothing like it, nothing at all.”

“Rat said something like that, as I recall.”

“I only know enough to misquote. You're early.”

“Not too early. There, I believe, is our boat.”

True. We watched the Hy-line ferry grow larger as it churned toward us across Nantucket Sound. It came into harbor between the stone jetties, turned and made fast to its dock. Tourists wearing dark glasses and loaded with cameras and bags streamed off, and when they were all ashore, we and the other mainland-bound passengers went aboard. At eleven-fifteen, we were cast off and on our way.

With only a gentle following wind to stir up the waves, we had a fast, smooth passage across the sound, and were soon tying up at Hyannis, which is famous for its Kennedys, among other things. In spite of its many attributes, Hyannis is not my favorite place. Too many people in too small a place. I wondered how long it would take Edgartown to get that way.

More people had been going from the mainland to the island than from the island to the mainland, so there weren't many of us to unload. The opposite condition would prevail on the evening boat, when the Vineyard
day trippers came back to America and a few islanders headed back for home.

We walked ashore at one, and a youngish-looking guy wearing a summer suit met us. Helen did the honors.

“Matthew, this is J.W. Jackson; J.W., this is Matt Jung.”

“Jung as in famous psychiatrist,” said Matt, “but I am a mere banker.” His hands were very clean, but his grip was firm. “Have you had lunch? No? Well, let's do that. We can talk and eat at the same time. I'm starving.”