A Case of Vineyard Poison (2 page)

“No left turns, no traffic jams. Put a traffic circle around Cannonball Park and another one around the Square Rigger, so people can reverse direction, and everything will be fine. But does anyone listen to me? No.”

Zee rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear.”

“Dear,” I said. “I like that. It sounds like we're already married.”

The Vineyard Haven National Bank's ATM booth was at the triangle, near the post office. I pulled into a parking place and Zee jumped out. While Zee dodged cars on her way to the ATM booth, I eyed the parking plan of the plaza, convinced once again that whoever had designed it had psychological problems. Cars were obliged to park or drive every which way, and everyone I'd ever talked to agreed that it was not only the worst parking design they'd ever seen, but that, since nobody could look in all the directions people were parking, walking, and driving, it was only a matter of time before somebody got run over trying to get to the P.O.

Zee made it to her ATM booth safely. I watched her enter with her magic card and punch buttons inside. She collected her money and looked at her receipt, then looked at it again. Then she looked at it some more. Then she put her card back into the machine and got another receipt. She looked at it. Then she put her money into her purse and came out of the booth.

“Guess what?” she said, climbing into the Land Cruiser.

“What?”

“You're looking at a wealthy woman.” She smiled and waved her two receipts.

Nurses don't normally get wealthy so fast. “I want you to know,” I said, “that it's your dear, sweet heart that has drawn me to you, and that your millions mean nothing to me.”

“In that case,” said Zee, “I'll just keep the hundred thousand to myself.”

“A hundred thousand? Dollars?”

“Look,” said Zee, handing me the receipts. “I have about fifteen hundred in my checking account, but look at these.”

I looked. Each receipt said that Zee had a hundred thousand more than that in her account.

“I got two receipts, just to make sure,” said Zee. “Both times it said the same thing. Maybe I should go right to the tackle shop and get myself a hundred thousand dollars' worth of leaders and lures. What do you think?”

“I think Rio might be a better plan, because I have a feeling that banks, being banks, probably have laws that protect them when this happens and put people like you in jail if you run off with the hundred thousand.”

“Rio it is, then. They'll never catch us.”

“We have to get rid of these fish before we go. And now that I think of it, I don't have a passport. You'll have to go alone, I'm afraid.”

“Rats. Well, in that case, let's go get me some tackle instead.”

“Remember. Long leaders this time. No more of those eighteen-inchers.”

“I really hate it when people just can't let something go. You know what I mean?”

I did. We nosed into the traffic jam and stayed in it until we got to Chase Road, then cut up to Coop's, where Zee got herself two Roberts, two Missiles, and enough forty-five-pound test leader makings to keep her in business for a while.

“Tell you what,” she said, as we left. “I'm going to give your friend Hazel Fine a call on Monday, and see what she says about this mistake in my account.”

Hazel Fine worked at the Vineyard Haven National Bank. I had met her the year before. She was the only banker I knew very well, for I had lived a sheltered life.

“Good idea,” I said. “Maybe we'll find out it isn't a mistake. Maybe we'll find out that you have a secret admirer who has decided to slip a hundred thou into your account every now and then in a vain hope of winning you away from me.”

Zee grasped my arm and fluttered her lashes at me. “If you get his name, pass it on to me, and I'll make sure you get your grandma's ring back before the guy and I head for Cannes.”

Zee's hundred thou was the first unusual thing that happened that week. It wasn't the last.

On Sunday morning Zee got a receipt from yet another ATM and still had her hundred thou. But by Monday morning it was gone. The Vineyard Haven National Bank informed her that she had just her fifteen hundred in her checking account.

“Sic transit gloria mundi.”
She sighed, as she told me this over the phone. She was at work in the emergency room and had just called the bank and gotten the bad news.

“Did they give you any explanation?”

“They said they'd been having trouble with some of their machines.”

“I told you you should have withdrawn the money while you had a chance.”

“You did not. Oh well. No French Riviera again this year.”

“Riviera schmiviera. You're already on the blessed isle of Martha's Vineyard. The Riviera holds no comparable charms. Besides, I'm here, not there. Think about that.”

There was a silence at the far end of the line. I hummed into my phone. “I'm thinking, I'm thinking,” she said, laughing. Then, “Oops, there's some business coming through the door. It has the appearance of the first moped spill of the day. Gotta run.”

She hung up.

Another fortune slipped through our fingers. Oh well.

It was a lazy day, warm and sunny. I was wearing shorts and Tevas, my usual at-home garb during the summer. I put on my shades and went out to the garden and weeded and watered flowers and veggies for an hour. The lawn needed mowing, so I put in some more time doing that. By then it was time for the day's first beer, so I got a Sam Adams from the fridge and had that on my balcony, while I looked out toward the beach on the far side of Sengekontacket Pond, where the cars belonging to the June People were already lining the highway between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs.

The beach beyond the highway is a favorite one for young families, because the parking is free, the prevailing offshore wind and gently sloping shore create safe waters for small children, and the water is only a hundred feet or so from the road, making it easy for Mom and Dad to tote their armloads of gear and children from car to seashore.

On the beach, the bright umbrellas were up, and in the water beyond the sand the surf sailors were riding their multicolored sailboards back and forth across the gentle southwest wind. In the air, kaleidoscopic kites were flying. Although I could not see them, I knew the young mothers had their beach chairs facing the water so they could watch their children playing on the edge of the water. Their babies' cribs were beneath their umbrellas, their beachbags were stuffed with towels and toys, food and drink, sunscreen and lotions, diapers and books. Their husbands were flying the kites or reading or letting themselves be covered with sand by their children.

My Sam Adams was so good that I had another one, accompanied by some bluefish pate, cheese, and crackers. Life was not bad. The sky was pale blue, and in the
woods around the house the birds were talking. More birds were at the feeders I had hanging here and there. I wondered if they'd still come after Zee moved in and brought her cats, Oliver Underfoot and Velcro. I gave that some thought and decided that I could probably rig the feeders so Oliver and Velcro couldn't get at them. Of course the birds would have to watch out for themselves, cats being cats, but that was okay since both were God's little creatures. I wondered once again whether there were birds in cat heaven or cats in bird heaven. Once again, I really couldn't guess.

At eleven-thirty I phoned the Vineyard Haven National Bank and asked to speak with Hazel Fine.

Hazel's voice sounded musical as always.

“Let me take you to lunch,” I said.

“Well, thank you, but I imagine that Mary has already fixed something at home.”

“She can come, too.”

“Why don't you join us instead?”

“I want to ask you some bank questions. Nothing serious, but if you eat my food, I won't feel guilty. If I eat yours . . .”

“I don't imagine you'll feel very guilty about that either, J.W. You're not the guilty type. Come by the house at twelve-thirty.”

“I'll bring white wine.”

“You and Mary can drink it. I'll have to go back to work.”

“I think Mary and I can manage that.”

She laughed. “I'll give Mary a ring so she'll be forewarned. See you in an hour.”

Hazel Fine and Mary Coffin lived together in Vineyard Haven, a short walk from the bank and an even shorter
one from the library. They were attractive women, both fortyish, who had been together for years. They were fond of early and baroque music, and were members of an island choral and orchestral group that I had hired to play at our wedding. Hazel had an excellent voice, and Mary played recorders, the oboe, and other wind instruments. They were also good cooks, so I made sure I arrived on time.

Mary was wearing a light green housedress and Hazel was in banker lady's clothes—blue suit and white blouse, low-heeled shoes, and some gold at her throat and wrist. I told them they both looked smashing, which was true as well as being politically correct.

Lunch was vichyssoise and thin ham and cucumber sandwiches. My bottle of vino verde was just right with it. Mary and I poured glasses for ourselves and iced water for Hazel, and we dug into the soup and sandwiches.

“Now what is this bank business you want to know about?” asked Hazel, touching her lips with a napkin.

I told her about Zee's hundred thousand dollars.

She smiled and shook her head. “We're installing a new computer system, and there are still some bugs in it. Our ATM's have their share of those bugs. I imagine that it was probably just a printing error in the machine.”

“But Zee got the same information from another machine the next day. Could the same mistake occur in two different machines?”

“I wish I knew more about computers, but I imagine two machines can make the same mistake, just like two people can.”

“I can make enough mistakes for two people all by myself,” I said.

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” said Hazel. “I'll look up Zeolinda's account myself, and check the balance.”

“She called the bank this morning and the hundred thou was gone.”

“I'm glad to hear that. All right, I'll double-check the balance and also check all transactions on her account for the last month. If there was an error during that time, we should catch it.”

“If you find the hundred thousand and it doesn't belong to anybody, will you just slide it over into my account? I'll split it with you later.”

“There are very few hundred thousands that don't belong to somebody, J.W.” Hazel glanced at her watch. “I've got to get back. I'll call the bride-to-be at the hospital when I've checked her account.”

She went out, and Mary and I finished the wine and sandwiches.

“Well,” said Mary, “in a month you'll be a married man. How do you feel about that?”

“Fine. Anxious. Worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“Worried that she'll change her mind. If she does, I'll have to start courting her all over again, and I may not be able to con her into this another time.”

“I don't think you conned her, J.W.” She smiled. “Relax. The wedding will be a great success and you'll live happily ever after. It's good when people find a partner to live with. I don't think we were meant to live alone.”

“I've done more of it than I want to. How's the music shaping up?”

“It's well shaped.”

We cleared the table and took the dishes into the kitchen. Then I found my hat—a baseball cap advertising CV 60, the USS
Saratoga
—and gave Mary a kiss on the cheek. “If Hazel can't get through to Zee at the hospital, have her give me a ring at home. I'll relay the message.”

On my not-too-good truck radio, I got the classical music station in Chatham, and listened to the end of something by Bach on the way home. Bach often bores me, but this time he was okay. It's too bad he had so many children and so much work to do. If he'd had more time, maybe he could have spent it on each piece of music and would have written fewer that sound so much alike. When the station was through with Bach, they played a Beethoven piano concerto performed by David Greenstein, the latest winner of the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow, and Zee's current musical passion. Better than Bach. Ludwig Van is the world's heavyweight music champion, and David Greenstein could really pound the ivories. He was still at it when I got home.

There, having had enough classical music, I switched to the C and W station that comes out of Rhode Island, and listened to Reba and Tanya and Garth and the other guys and gals sing their songs about love betrayed or gained. I like classical and C and W music, but you can have most of the other stuff, especially the current noise that kids listen to. Too hard on my ears, and too juvenile. C and W music may not be profound, but at least it's written for grown-ups.

I was fixing up a giant salad for supper when the phone rang. I thought maybe it would be Hazel, but it wasn't. It was Quinn.

“Coming down this weekend,” said Quinn. “You got room?”

“I've got room.”

“Bringing a guest.”

“She's welcome.”

“Not she, he.”

“He's welcome. How long you staying?”

“Week?”

“Sounds good.”

“How are the fish running?”

“So many they're standing on their tails so they'll all fit in the ocean.”

“Dynamite! See you Friday night. We're bringing the pizzas and beer. Tell that sweetheart of yours to cheer up because a real man is on his way!”

“I'll try to keep her calm.”

Quinn hung up.

Quinn was a reporter for the
Globe.
I had met him when I was a cop for the Boston P.D. and we had hit it off. After I'd taken the bullet that still nestled next to my spine, and had retired to the Vineyard in search of a more peaceful career, Quinn and I had kept in touch, the touch being mostly in the form of my going up to Boston once a year to catch the Sox in Fenway and have a few beers at the Commonwealth Brewery, makers of America's best bitter, and Quinn's coming to the island to have a go at the wily bluefish. Next to nailing a good story, Quinn liked nothing better than nailing the blues.