A Case of Vineyard Poison (21 page)

“But it was your gain, whatever his motive.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I'm not a banker,” I said. “Maybe you can tell me how you work with, say, Helen's bank. It might help me think a little straighter.”

Maple Appleyard looked first at me, then at Helen.

“We're working together,” said Helen.

“On something that involves FIS, I take it.” Maple Appleyard was suddenly all business. “That makes it my business, too. Before I go much further, perhaps you'll enlighten me. What is this matter you're both involved in?”

Bankers and accountants, however reluctant they themselves are to impart information, are as eager as anyone else to get it. Maple Appleyard listened while Helen and I told her about the oddly large bank accounts of Kathy Ellis and Denise Vale, of the checks made out to the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company, and of the fact that both Kathy and Denise apparently knew Glen Gordon.

When we were done, she nodded. “I see. You want to talk to Glen Gordon to see what, if anything, he can tell you about those accounts. I'm sorry that he isn't here, but I'll make sure he contacts you when he comes in on
Monday. Meanwhile, I will definitely take a look at them myself.”

“How does the system work?” I asked. “Like I said, I know nothing about banking.”

Again, Maple looked first at Helen. Then she leaned back in her chair and put her fingers together.

“We've done business with the Vineyard Haven National Bank for many years. However, the bank is now going to have its own computerized accounts and will no longer require our services. At the moment, we're transferring the accounts we've handled to the bank's new computer system.

“The system is called DDA, short for Demand Deposit Accounting. Every customer has an account with a particular number. A balance for that account remains constant until a withdrawal or a deposit is made, at which time the amount in the account is adjusted accordingly. Nothing else can change the balance in an account.”

“Even you can understand that part, J.W.,” said Helen, patting my knee.

Maple Appleyard allowed herself a small smile and went on. “The accounts are split up into cycles, and there are about a thousand accounts to a cycle. Everything has to balance. If anyone tries to alter the balance of the cycle by any means other than a legal deposit or withdrawal, the cycle will be out of balance and that fact will be noted instantly.”

I raised my hand like a child who wants to go to the bathroom. “I read somewhere about somebody making a lot of money by stealing the cents from rounding down instead of rounding up. Lots of pennies nobody missed became lots of dollars that the guy really enjoyed spending until he got caught.”

“I know that story,” said Maple Appleyard. “But there isn't any rounding in DDA accounts. In all these years, we've never had any trouble at all with the Vineyard Haven National Bank accounts. They've always balanced to the penny.”

“I agree,” said Helen. “If somebody is stealing money from the bank, they're being pretty clever about it.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but two college girls who can save a hundred thousand dollars apiece while they do summer work on Martha's Vineyard
are
pretty clever, wouldn't you say?”

“Maybe not as clever as you think,” murmured Helen. “One of them is dead, remember, and the other is missing.”

True. I looked at Maple Appleyard. “That's another reason I'd like to talk to Glen Gordon,” I said. “He knew both of the girls personally. I think he may have been dating both of them.”

She sat back. “And one of the girls is dead and the other one missing, you say. Tell me about that.”

I did. She listened and then leaned forward and pressed a button on a speaker. “Bring in Glen Gordon's file, please.”

A moment later, the secretary came in, placed a file on her desk, and went back out through the door. Maple Appleyard opened the file and flipped through it, then returned to the first page, which contained a photo. She turned the file toward us and we looked at the smiling face of a young man.

“That's our Glen Gordon. I can't imagine him being involved in the death or disappearance of anyone. Is that the man you're interested in?”

I decided not to point out that a lot of serial killers are guys most people couldn't imagine being involved in the deaths or disappearances of others. “I'm interested in Glen Gordon,” I said, “but I don't know if that's him. I've never seen him or his picture. All I have is his name. Can I have a copy of this to show to some people on the Vineyard?”

Again, Maple Appleyard pressed the speaker button and gave quick directions to the secretary, who came in, took the photo, and went out again.

“There's a photo place just down the road,” said Maple. “They owe me a favor.”

“Can we look at the file?” I asked, pointing at the folder.

“Our files are confidential,” she said, frowning.

“Then maybe you can give me some information that's in there. When did Glen graduate, and what was his major?”

She looked at the file and gave us the information. There wasn't much that was new. Glen Gordon was a math and computer major, and had indeed graduated five years earlier. We did get the home address and telephone number he'd given when applying for work at FIS. If he was like most young college grads, he'd used his family's phone and address when making his application.

After a bit, the secretary came back with an envelope containing two copies of Glen Gordon's photograph. Maple Appleyard gave them to us, and Helen and I exchanged glances and stood up.

Maple Appleyard came around the desk to shake hands with us. “I'm going to be looking into this matter very seriously. I don't know that anything is wrong, but if there's anything illegal going on, I'll find out about it. If I can locate Glen, I'll talk to him immediately. I'll see
him next Monday at the latest. Do keep me informed, and I'll contact you with any information relevant to this business.”

Helen and I went out and got into Matt Jung's car. Helen looked at her watch. “Let's, drive down to Falmouth and have a look at the P.O. box that belongs to the New Bedford et al. Salvage Company. We can turn up the collars of our trench coats and lean against the wall until somebody shows up to collect the mail, then we can either nail him on the spot or trail him back to his hideout.”

“You're scary,” I said.

We drove down to Falmouth and found the box, but we didn't see anyone come for the mail.

“I wish I had a badge,” said Helen. “I'd go ask some questions about the people who use this box.”

“It happens,” I said, “that I do have a badge. Stand there and try to look like a policewoman.”

Helen beamed and I went over to the window where the mail was handed out. The fact that my badge was the old one I'd used while I was on the Boston P.D. didn't make much difference. A badge is a badge to most people. I let the guy behind the window get a quick look at it, asked him if I could talk to him confidentially, then, in a very small voice, asked him about the people who used the box.

As people do when spoken to in small voices, he lowered his own. The box, he explained, was in the name of the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company. The people who used it were a man he thought he remembered being identified as the treasurer of the company and the woman who was his assistant. Nobody else used the box, as far as he knew. No, he didn't recognize the
name Cecil Jones; no, there wasn't a lot of mail delivered in the box; and no, there wasn't any particular time of day when the mail was picked up.

I thanked him in my small voice and went back to Helen.

“Well?” she asked, as we went out.

“Zero,” I said.

Back in Hyannis, we left Matt Jung's car behind his bank, and tried and failed to find Matt himself. Matt's videotape of Cecil Jones would have to be sent to us later. We ate sandwiches in the same cafe where we'd lunched, and walked to the dock where we caught the Hy-line back to the island. It was a lovely crossing, and I admired the soft summer sea while I wondered what I had learned during the day.

After delivering Helen back to her house in Vineyard Haven, I stopped by Beth Goodwin's place. Beth was still at work, so I didn't get my hands on her film either. More zero: I drove on home.

When I got out of the old Land Cruiser, I could hear the music coming from the house. Keyboard music. I thought I recognized something by Chopin. I wasn't anxious for it to stop, so I sat on the porch and listened.

It was clear that Dave was ready to go back to the world of music that he'd left so precipitously not many days before. The Vineyard can do that to you: revive you and make you well when another world has made you ill.

After a while the music ended, and I went inside.

Quinn was having a cognac and Dave was sipping a beer. There was a plate on the coffee table containing the remains of a fillet of smoked bluefish, some Brie, and some crackers.

“Sounded good,” I said.

Dave flexed his fingers. “Got to get limbered up if I'm going to get out of the bullpen and back up on the mound.”

“Are you ready to get up there again?”

“I am.”

“Yes, he is,” said Quinn. “Me, too, I guess. The first story I'm going to write, and the one that will endear me to my boss again after this disappearing act I just pulled, is going to be the true tale of David Greenstein's escape from the concert stage. It'll be a genuine scoop, and I'll be back in everybody's good graces.”

“Except my manager's, of course,” smiled Dave.

“Hey, my golden prose will even win his hard heart,” said Quinn. “You're going to emerge as a really terrific guy. Your manager will love me. Your fans will love you. The concert organizers will sell more tickets than ever before. The record companies will pay you a fortune for new disks. Women will swoon when they hear your name. You'll be right up there with Elvis. It's going to be terrific, and all because of me.”

“Immortality,” I said to Dave. “And you're still so young.”

“Another god in the celestial hierarchy,” agreed Dave. “When it's destiny, you can't fight it.”

“When are you headed back? When does the triumphal march begin?”

“I have a car reservation on the 7 a.m. boat the day after tomorrow,” said Quinn.

“It's really been good down here,” said Dave. “I'll be back.”

I too had come down to the island to get away from a world taut with pressure. But though the island had cured us both, I, unlike Dave, had no plans to return whence I'd come.

“And what have you been up to?” asked Quinn.

I told them about my day.

“Ah,” said Quinn. “Possible skulduggery afoot. Do you need an ace reporter's inquiring mind and dogged patience to help you figure out what's going on?”

“I thought you were on vacation.”

“That was earlier,” said Quinn. “Like Dave, here, I'm going back to work and I need to warm up first.”

“In spite of your efforts to be lazy, you're a born drone.”

“The fourth estate is my kingdom, and I live to serve. What do you need to know that you don't know?”

“You're serious.”

“Yeah. I'm going to be here one m6re day, you've got a phone, and I've got a card that lets me charge calls to the office. While Dave, here, flexes his fingers and gets his piano muscles back in shape, I can make some calls and maybe get some information you need but don't have. Who knows? I might be able to get a story out of it.”

Quinn was a very good reporter. He was gifted with a nose that could sniff the faintest smells of vice, and claws that could dig up secrets buried deep.

I thought about all the things I didn't know.

“Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow you can make some calls.”

Quinn looked happy. “Good. Now sit down and join me in a snort of this brandy while you sample that blue and Brie. Perfectly smoked bluefish, if I say so myself.” He waved an airy hand at Dave. “Maestro, a little drinking and digesting music, if you please.”

Dave grinned, sipped his beer, then set the glass aside and touched the keys. Music filled the room. I sat down. Cognac, hors d'oeuvres, and David Greenstein at the keyboard. Not bad.

The next morning, early, I wrote down what I knew about the case, then went to Beth Goodwin's house before she could escape again. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and gave me a photograph of a girl and a young man. I recognized the girl as being Kathy Ellis. I recognized the young man, too. Glen Gordon. He looked just like the guy in the picture I'd gotten yesterday from Maple Appleyard.

“I hope that helps,” said Beth Goodwin, yawning and holding her robe together at her throat.

“It does,” I said. “Now I know that this Glen Gordon is the same Glen Gordon as the one who works over at
Frazier Information Systems. It's not much, but it's something I couldn't be sure of before.”

At home, I found Quinn and Dave having coffee and eating smoked bluefish, red onion, and cream cheese on bagels. A world-class breakfast. I joined them. Delish.

“All right,” said Quinn, when he finally pushed himself back from the table. “I'm ready to roll. What do you want to know?”

“I want you to dig up whatever you can about Glen Gordon, Cecil Jones, and the New Bedford, Woods Hole and Nantucket Salvage Company. While you're at it, you might try to find out where Denise Vale is, and the tie-in between her and Kathy Ellis and Glen Gordon and Cecil Jones.”

“You don't want much,” said Quinn. “Have you ever considered becoming a city editor? You have the gall for it. I take it that you want to see how all this stuff hooks together.”

“Correct.” I gave him the notes I'd written. “Here's what I have to get you started. Events, names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Helen Fine will help you out with the money part, and I think Matt Jung and Maple Appleyard will, too, although they may be shy about talking to a reporter.”