Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (12 page)

"It started
about two years ago. They threatened us in every way possible. They wouldn't
let us alone." She twisted the handkerchief into a tight spiral.

"They
threatened to kill Mother and send her to me a piece at a time,” Ben Barnes
said, shaking violently, spilling the dark, purple liquid on his shirt. "I
got scared, Mr. Chamberlain. I'm a coward. I let Betty down. I gave in to
them." Tears ran down the old man's cheeks.

"It's
alright, Daddy,” his wife said, going over to his side, wiping the tears from
his face and the wine from his shirt. "You did the best you could."

"Why didn't
you go to the police, or call my office?" Chamberlain asked, his face
reddening.

"Because
they said if we contacted the authorities they would kill us both." Betty
Barnes clasped her hands together. "No one could stop them. We were
helpless, don't you understand? Helpless."

Chamberlain did
not press the point. It was useless.

"We're not
rich,” she continued. "We had enough saved to live out our lives comfortably
here on Monhegan Island. We are not wealthy art collectors. All we had was
Rockwell Kent's works. My mother was his aunt. When Rockwell's mother died, she
left my mother all the things she had of her son. We ended up with it, and this
house. Rockwell built it himself for his mother. We added to the collection
during the years."

"How much
were these people from Chicago trying to get out of you?" Chamberlain
asked.

"All we
had,” the old man said.

"It started
with a hundred thousand,” Betty Barnes said. "Then the man told us the
interest on the debt was doubling each week."

We know these
extortionists, I wanted to scream. Instead, I let Chamberlain bring it out in
his own way.

"What did
you mean when you said you ruined your lives?" Chamberlain asked Ben
Barnes.

He did not
answer. Tears ran down his cheeks. His frail hands shook, his mouth quivered.

"He feels
he failed because he couldn't protect us from these people,” his wife said,
patting his shoulder. "That's nonsense. No one could have done anything
about these vultures."

Yes, I wanted to
shout. There is something you could have done.

"What
finally happened?" Chamberlain asked.

"My husband
offered them the art collection if they'd leave us alone."

"Who were
they?"

"The one
killed over in Port Clyde. The Bilotti man,” she said. "His boss had a
funny name. I can't say it."

"Anastasio?"
I asked.

"Yes,
that's it." She looked up at me and nodded.

"What
happened to the art collection?" Chamberlain asked.

"This
Bilotti fellow, he took some of it to show his boss a few weeks ago. Then he
came and got the rest of it the night he was killed."

"How did he
move it?"

"He brought
a man with him who crated it up. They flew it out in a helicopter. It took them
three trips to get all forty-eight pieces hauled away."

Glancing over at
Chamberlain, I said, "The helicopter has a small cabin and the paintings
are bulky." He nodded. "Was the man that Bilotti brought with him
named Rinaldi?" I asked.

"I don't
know. We never heard his name."

"Nat,"
the old man said. "He called him Nat."

Reaching into my
jacket pocket, I took out the photos of Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti. "Are
these the two?"

They both looked
at the pictures, nodding in unison.

"You never
saw or spoke to the boss, the one named Anastasio?" I asked.

"No, only
the one called Bilotti,” Betty Barnes answered.

For some reason,
I felt it necessary to explain to these two old people that Nat Rinaldi was not
a member of a crime family.

"Mr. and
Mrs. Barnes, I just want you both to understand that the man, Nat Rinaldi, did
not work for Anastasio. He was a legitimate art dealer from New Orleans."

"Then why
was he here working with this thug, Bilotti?" Betty Barnes asked, shaking
her head.

It was a fair
question. I explained how Anastasio was going to give the artwork to his wife.
That it was the wrong artist. That Rinaldi was going to buy the entire
collection from him.

"How much
was Mr. Rinaldi going to pay?" She asked.

Another good
question.

"A half
million."

"Ha,” she
muttered. "It was worth twice that amount."

"I gave it
to them, sir,” the old man said to me, tears continuing to flow down his
wrinkled, weathered face. "I just gave it all to them. Our entire
investment we had worked so hard for. I've ruined everything." Heavy sobs
wracked his entire body.

Betty Barnes
stood beside her husband, patting his frail, drooping shoulder.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Chamberlain
guided us through tall, old growth spruce trees, thick with animals and birds,
to the edge of a steep, black rock precipice. The Monhegan Associates had indeed
kept this part of the island in a pristine, natural state.

Out to sea, a
quarter of a mile or so, the headlands, White Head and Black Head, rose more
than one hundred and fifty feet out of the purple ocean. Nearby Gull Rock, one
hundred feet high, stood stark and alone.

We were silent
for a long time, looking, feeling, experiencing the moment. I thought that I
would not mind having to look at this sight forever and that I would not mind
never seeing it again. I would always have the memory. It had indeed been worth
the trip.

"You know,
J.L., maybe Anastasio is telling the truth. Bilotti could have been ripping the
Barnes' off. Anastasio may have given him the money to pay them. At least some
amount he thought fair after deducting their grandson's debt, plus interest.
Maybe Bilotti pocketed the difference. Anastasio found out and whacked
him."

"It's a
thought."

"Yes, but
why kill Rinaldi? Where's the art collection, the money? How was it all done? I
want another face to face with Mr. Anastasio."

Chamberlain
looked closely at me. A grin formed in one corner of his mouth, then spread
across his entire face. "I was hoping you would."

Off in the
distance we watched a ship working against the heavy running sea. She would climb
a wave, fall off and almost disappear, only to emerge again, spray flying like
sparkling diamonds across her bow.

Chamberlain
pointed, "There's your ride, the MOMA C., and young Captain Barstein
making another run. Come on, if we hurry we'll have time for some of Shorty's
smoked cod before sailing for Port Clyde."

Returning
through the forest was as interesting as it had been coming to the headland.
Wind whistling through the tall spruce made a pleasant sound.

Shorty's smoked
cod was outstanding. We washed it down with a bottle of red wine of unknown
origin. It was not Domaine Romanee-Conti, but it was excellent with the hard
bread and cod. When queried, Shorty said he had salvaged six cases of the wine
from a shipwreck more than three decades ago. All the labels had washed off or
fell away years before. The only word he remembered from one of the labels was
Hermitage.

Could be, I
thought. A wine from the Rhone Valley. The bottle was the right color and
shape, but it could have been any one of hundreds.

"Thanks,
Shorty,” Chamberlain said, as we were leaving. "Good to see you again. You
need to come and see Kathleen. I would do it pretty soon."

"I don't
know, J.L." He looked down, scratched the floor with his shoe. "I'm
not too good at that sort of thing. Tell her I love her."

"I
understand, old friend. I'll give her your love."

We shook hands.
J.L. and I walked down to the dock where the MOMA C. was waiting.

Captain Barstein
greeted us at the gangway. "Seas are running good, Gentlemen." There
was a telling grin slanting downward from the ribbed scar. "You're welcome
to ride in the wheelhouse."

"No,”
Chamberlain answered. "We're going to go below. We have some things to
talk about."

"Suit
yourself,” Barstein muttered, disappearing forward.

Once away from
the lee of the island, the MOMA C. rolled, pitched, and yawed violently in the
heavy sea. It was making me a little queasy. Chamberlain seemed unaffected.
There were six other people in the cabin with us who did not seem to notice the
movement of the ship. My smoked cod began to have doubts about staying put.

"You look a
little green around the gills,” Chamberlain said, smiling. "You going to
be alright?"

"Yeah,
always get a little queasy the first couple of days at sea. It's nothing serious."

"Any more
thoughts about Anastasio?"

Steadying myself
with an arm to keep from banging into the side of the bunk we were sitting in,
I said,   "We need to look seriously into Bilotti working his own
extortion scam. Maybe Rinaldi was just an unlucky person."

"It doesn't
explain the bodies being in two different places, though. They should have been
shot together. Where is the art collection? I can see the money vanishing, but
what does one do with the paintings, drawings, prints, and all the other works
the Barnes' said Bilotti took. They had to make three helicopter trips to haul
it off the island."

"It's got
to be somewhere. Maybe Sandy can find out if any of it turns up on the
market." Swallowing hard, I forced the cod out of my esophagus, back down
into my stomach. "Surely there is some sort of a network in the fine arts
world where things are bought and sold. I'll call her tonight."

"Good
idea." Reaching an arm out, Chamberlain steadied himself as the ship fell
off a wave and shuddered.

Suddenly I had
another thought. "You know, J.L., Anastasio's airplane, the G-IV, is
certainly big enough to carry the art collection. We've got to find out who the
helicopter operator was that made all the flights to Monhegan, and where he
took the cargo."

"There are
only two helicopter operators in the area. They are not allowed to land on
Monhegan."

"Yes, but a
chopper could have been hired from anywhere, and ignored the regulations. It
could have been Anastasio's own personal helicopter."

"You have a
good investigative mind." The seat cushion squeaked slightly as Chamberlain
repositioned himself.

"Thank
you." I held on to the MOMA C., swallowing hard. "We might not see
eye to eye on everything, J.L., but at least we're always looking at the same
thing." Grinning, I stood and started for the head. The cod had won their
battle for freedom.

*
* *

As soon as the
MOMA C. docked at Port Clyde we walked over to the chandlery so Chamberlain
could phone to check on his wife. I browsed among the aisles while he called.

The lady who I
met before was working, putting up canned goods on shelves along one side of an
entire wall. Tables in the center of the building held all sorts of goods;
pants, shirts, shoes, rain slickers. Seamen's gear. Picking up a wool cap, I
thought about buying it.

"Get cold
enough where you're from to wear wool?" Asked the woman, with a smile.

"Not
often." I put the cap back and picked up a brightly colored scarf.

"You and
J.L. find out anything more on what happened to those two dead guys?"

"We're
working on it." Putting the scarf back on the table, I was suddenly alert
to her question. "You wouldn't have heard anything, would you?"

"Nah."
She shoved a case of Vienna sausage along the floor with her foot. "If I
had, I would have called J.L."

"Yes, of
course." I glanced around at the other merchandise. Unless you have a
vested interest, I thought.

Chamberlain
walked up. "Bill says Kathleen's doing fine. She's back at the house. You
mind if we stop by on the way in? I'd like to check on her."

"Certainly
not."

"Afternoon,
Annie,” Chamberlain said to the woman. "How's your Mama doing these
days?"

"She's
fine, J.L. How's Kathleen?" She stacked the cans of Vienna sausage on the
shelf beside the Spam.

"Holding
her own, I guess. Business any better?"

"Mighty
slow." She threw the empty cardboard box at a pile of other empties in the
far corner behind the counter. "Season starts next month, thank goodness.
I hope it's a good one. God knows, we need it."

"Yeah,
don't we all. Well, we'll see you, Annie. Keep your husband in line, and say
hello to your Mama for me."

"I will,
J.L. The same to Kathleen."

We walked out to
Chamberlain's car. "In case you didn't know,” he said, unlocking his door
and flipping a switch to unlock mine. "Annie is young Captain Barstein's
wife."

"No, I did
not know. They failed to mention that fact the first time I was here."
Annie and the Captain, I thought. A half a million in cash...

"Annie's
Mama is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s." J.L. shook his head, and
started the car. "That's rough."

Fastening my
seat belt, I said, "Whatever else happens to me, I hope that I do not
outlive my brain."

We drove in
silence to Chamberlain's house. Kathleen was resting in one of the wooden
rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Owl's Head. The wind was calm, but a
chill was still in the air. She was wrapped in a blanket, head tilted to one
side as if asleep. A gray-haired, elderly lady sat in a swing next to her,
reading.

Kathleen stirred
as we walked up on the porch. J.L. went to her and kissed her lightly on the
mouth. She smiled weakly and held her hand up to touch his face. "How was
your trip to Monhegan?"

"Fine,
fine. We saw Shorty. He sends his love." J.L. embraced his wife tenderly.

"Oh, Mr.
Leicester." Kathleen looked at me. "It's good to see you again. I'm
sorry I can't get up. I'm a little weak."

"I
understand." Walking over, I took her hand in mine. "How are you
feeling?"

"Besides
being a little queasy, I'm fine. Bill gave me one of his magic potions."
She attempted a smile. "J.L., please introduce Mr. Leicester to
Nora."

Chamberlain
introduced me to Nora Welsh as a close friend who stayed with Kathleen when he
was away. She had a slender body; its lines long, fragile, and so exaggerated
that she appeared unreal. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long
slits, and a narrow, vicious mouth. There was an air of cold serenity about
her.

Nora Welsh was
reading a book titled, A HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE. I had an inscribed copy by the
author, Ernest K. Gann.

"Great
book,” I said to her.

"Yes."
She held up the book as if seeing it for the first time. Her skin was clear,
almost translucent, and transmitted a faintly crimsoned, peach-glow of health.
"My husband knew Mr. Gann. They both flew for American Airlines, and for
the Air Transport Command in World War Two. Wendall was killed then, Mr. Gann
was not."

"I'm sorry.
We lost a lot of pilots in that war. I read recently where Mr. Gann died."

She looked
strangely at me and smiled. It was not a happy smile; it was not a graceful
one. It was a simple, easy smile and it was amused. "Yes, we all do, don't
we?"

J.L. rescued me.
"We've got to run into town. I'll be back in a couple of hours,
Nora." He kissed Kathleen good-bye. We left.

"Strange
woman, Nora Welsh."

J.L. laughed.
"You don't know the half of it. I'll only say this about Nora; she's a
true genius. A four page resume. Three degrees from MIT, speaks seven
languages. Her field is Computer Science. She was a colleague of Admiral Grace
Murray Hopper, the inventor of computer business language. They worked together
building the first computer ever, for the Navy."

"She should
make for an interesting evening of conversation."

"I used to
leave the room when she and Kathleen got into one of their intellectual
debates. Feelings of inadequacy would flow over me like a tidal wave. I was
forced to leave, or be severely embarrassed."

"Let's stop
by the airport,” I said, changing the subject before Chamberlain asked me what
I knew about computers. "Maybe some of the local pilots could help us with
this helicopter thing."

"Good idea.
We can check with the two local helicopter operators later. They both fly from
the docks, downtown."

The airport was
strangely quiet in the dusk-dark of the late evening. There has always been
something intriguing about lonely airports at night. I've never been quite sure
what.

Chamberlain
stopped in front of the FBO where Anastasio's G-IV had parked. We walked
inside.

In the lobby of
the brightly-lighted fixed-base operation an instructor and student were
sitting at a table going over a flight plan. A lineman sat listening, obviously
a student, also. They looked up as we entered. We were intruders in their
world, a world I had been an intimate part of many years ago. A world I
sometimes missed so desperately it ached.

"Hello,
Gentlemen,” Chamberlain said. "This is Investigator Leicester. I'm
Detective J.L. Chamberlain, Rockland Police Department. We want to ask you some
questions about helicopter operations around here a week or so ago."

The three men
looked at each other and laughed. It was puzzling. They seemed downright
disrespectful.

Then the young
lineman spoke up. "Oh, Mr. J.L., what you trying to pull with that formal
sounding stuff? You helped raise all three of us, coached our Little League
teams. Mr. Leicester, we know about him, the private investigator from down
south, working with you on those two murders."

Small towns...

Chamberlain
laughed. "Bill, Carl, Junior. Last week a helicopter made several trips to
Monhegan. Had to refuel somewhere. We thought maybe it could have been
here."

Junior, the
lineman, stood up and scratched his head. "Last week? Yeah, an old
FH-1100. I fueled him twice. I didn't know he was running to Monhegan, though.
That's illegal."

Jackpot! I
thought to myself.

"How did he
pay?" J.L. asked.

"Credit
card." Junior's young face lit up. "I've still got the original hard
copies. We send this month's receipts in to the Oil Company next week."

"Jackpot,"
I said out loud this time. "Did they transfer any cargo from the helicopter
to an airplane? Maybe to the G-IV that landed here the other day? Did it come
in before and pickup the cargo?"

Junior looked at
us with a blank expression. "I didn't see any cargo. I remember a pilot,
two passengers, but no cargo."

Scratching the
back of my head, I said, "They must have off-loaded it somewhere
else."