Dead in Vineyard Sand (18 page)

I changed my redheaded Roberts for metal, put my back into a cast, and sent my lure far out into the dancing sea. Maybe there was a stray blue chugging along out there and I'd hit him on the nose. Fishermen spend a good amount of time changing lures, usually to no avail. Sometimes, however, the trick works, and instead of reeling in empty lines, you start to catch fish.

Not this time.

I made another half dozen casts in vain, and walked back to the truck.

“No fish, huh, Pa?”

“No fish, Diana.” I put the rod on the roof rack and got a Sam Adams out of the cooler. It was still morning on Martha's Vineyard but somewhere the sun was over the yardarm. The beer was cool and good and I once again considered the idea that God is, among other things, a brewer.

I admired Zee as she lay, bikini clad, eyes closed, on the beach blanket, and with my imaginary camera took an imaginary photo of her and stored it away in the mental file that held many other such pictures. Then I finished my beer and took a quick swim as a substitute for a cold shower.

Family-loaded SUVs moved along the beach, and gradually, to the north and south of us, umbrellas went up, blankets and chairs came out, and the water filled with old and young bodies. By noon the beach was lined with worshippers of sun, sand, and water much like ourselves.

Lunch was chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, and half-sour pickles, with homemade chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Drink was sodas or beer. My children, superior specimens though they might be, had the soft drinks. At home they'd long since had sips of beer and wine upon request, but neither fancied alcohol when sodas were available.

Afterward I lay beside Zee, pleasantly full-bellied and feeling lazy. I took her hand and held it, listening to our children's voices as they played nearby and feeling Highsmith's tragedy slip away as I slid into a semi-sleep.

But then, in that sleep, I half dreamed of Highsmith's killer and wondered if Neptune's great oceans had washed clean his hands or if those hands had turned the oceans red; if he smiled or groaned during his days; if his murder had murdered his sleep.

I woke up feeling discontent, with sweat covering my body. I had another swim and felt better, and started thinking about the Willets.

In spite of Manny Fonseca's confidence that Ed Willet couldn't be a killer, if the reports I'd gotten were true, both Ed and his wife were logical suspects in the shootings of the Highsmiths. They had broken off relations with the Highsmiths, and had forbidden Heather to have any more to do with the Highsmith children. Heather Willet's drowning had occurred when she had gone off with Gregory and Belinda Highsmith; someone had run Abigail Highsmith off the road shortly
after the drowning, and soon after that both Henry and Abigail Highsmith had been shot; Ed Willet owned and practiced with a .22 pistol, the caliber of gun that had been used to shoot both Henry Highsmith and his wife.

The motive would be revenge, with one or both of the Willets blaming the Highsmiths for their daughter's death in the forbidden company of the Highsmith children. The irrationality of that idea didn't make it less possible, because murder is often an irrational act triggered by next to nothing: a spilled drink, the last piece of pie, an imagined slight. Cain killed Abel; Smerdyakov committed patricide; Abraham would have killed Isaac as a religious duty. It doesn't take much to provoke a killing.

Zee's voice recalled me to the present.

“It's almost two. I think we've had enough sun for the day, and if we leave now there shouldn't be much of a line at the ferry.”

Her words made me conscious of my heated skin and that the temptation of paradise is to linger in it too long.

We sent the kids into the water for a last swim as we packed up, then wrapped them in their big towels as we drove home. We returned by the Chappy ferry, where, sure enough, the waiting line was short since most people were still at the beach.

Two of the little three-car On Time ferries were crisscrossing between Chappy Point and Edgartown, and sail- and powerboats were going in and out of the harbor through the channel. To our right the beach at the foot of the Edgartown lighthouse was alive with sunbathers, and far out on distant Cape Pogue, the tiny white lighthouse could barely be seen. It was a scene distantly removed from murder.

At home, I chose to be last in the outdoor shower. While the others washed off their salty skins and Zee washed her long black hair, I made a call to Dom Agganis and asked if I could come by in a half hour or so.

Dom said yes, and that Olive had some news for me.

Dom was putting papers in a file cabinet when I entered his office.

“I'd like to get my hands on the guys who said computers were going to do away with paperwork,” he growled.

“You'll get no sympathy from me,” I said. “My kids and wife use our computer more than I do, and my only paperwork is paying bills once a month.”

“I can't interest you in a job as my secretary, eh? Not that the state would ever spring for a secretary.”

“If they did, do you think I'm cute enough to qualify?”

“Absolutely not. You been out in the sun, or have you been drinking more than usual?”

I touched my hot red nose. “My noon nap on the beach is responsible. If I get skin cancer I plan to sue the guys who made the beer that put me to sleep.”

“You can't sneeze without getting sued these days,” said Dom. “You want to hear a lawyer joke? No? I don't blame you. How about a blond lawyer joke? What's the definition of gross ignorance?”

“I'm afraid to guess.”

“One hundred forty-four blond lawyers.” Dom sat down behind his desk. “What brings you here? I think this is the first time you ever called first, so it must be something you want me to tell you about the Highsmith business. Before you ask, the answer is no comment.”

“Don't be so hasty. I'm not looking for secrets. Besides, I may have some information to trade. First, though, how's Abigail Highsmith doing?”

“A little better.”

“Anybody talk with her yet?”

“Not that much better. What's this information you think I might want?”

I told him of my conversations with the Shelkrotts and my speculations about the Willets. As I did, Olive Otero wandered in from somewhere out back.

Dom leaned back and cupped his head in his big hands. “We've already interviewed the Shelkrotts and we got the same stories except for the part about the girl going to a Swiss school. And your bright idea that the Willets should be on the usual list of suspects is old hat to us. Too bad for your info-trading scheme, but what you have is worth zilch.”

“What do you make of the split between the Willets and the Highsmiths?”

He shrugged. “I'm not a shrink or a sociologist. Spats happen for no reason at all sometimes.”

“But sometimes there's a good reason. Do you know what it was this time?”

He hesitated, then said, “Not yet. We plan to ask the Willets when we see them.”

The hesitation interested me. “Do you know where the Willets were when the Highsmiths got shot?”

“It's none of your business, but they were out in Michigan, where he came from originally. Getting away from home for a while, I guess.”

I could understand the desire to get far from the scene of a tragedy, to some place where grief could burn itself out.

“Are they still out there?”

“I haven't heard that they're back in New Haven.”

I asked him what he thought of the vengeful-professor theory.

His smile was sarcastic. “It's pretty rare for some pointy-headed professor to blow a colleague away. They're all talk and no action.”

“I think we used to call that sort of comment a sweeping generalization. How about the Webster-Parkman case?”

“Exception to the rule. Besides, that happened a hundred and fifty years ago when the West was still wild and young men were going there anyway. No wusses in those days, not even at Harvard. Not like now.”

“What about John Skye?” I said. “You know him. He punched cows in Colorado when he was a kid and he still goes out that way every year or so to camp and chase brook trout. He's no wuss.”

Dom feigned a yawn. “Another exception to the rule.”

“Your rule has a lot of exceptions.”

Dom brought his hands down and leaned on his elbows. “If you're trying to find out if we're getting cooperation from the police in Connecticut, I'll save you some time and tell you that we are. There's no evidence that anybody at Yale wanted to off Henry Highsmith. All the tempests there were the teapot kind. And the same goes for Brown. The Rhode Island police have been to Brown and haven't found a single rumor about anyone who might have wanted to murder Abigail Highsmith or her husband. Is that what you came here to find out? If so, you got a lot out of me and I got next to nothing out of you, so you should be happy.”

I touched my nose again. Still hot. When I got home I'd smear it with green slime. “I'd be really happy if I knew that your ace investigators actually are ace investigators
and got everything right when they nosed around.”

“It's an imperfect world, J.W. Maybe they missed the confession written in blood on the college president's door, but I doubt it. Besides, until we find the shootist, the case will stay open and our people will keep asking questions. If there's somebody out there in university-land who packs the right twenty-two under his academic gown, we'll get him eventually. Hell, he'll probably confess. A lot of those sensitive, intellectual types think they're Raskolnikov and want you to know it.”

I leaned over and peered at his mouth. “You know, I think that with a little more rehearsal you could be a contender in the International Curled Lip Championships.”

He laughed. “You think I need more practice, eh?”

“Not a lot, but some.”

“I've got some news for you,” said Olive. “One of the guys in that car that followed you couldn't keep the story to himself in the Fireside last night. I found him this morning and persuaded him that it won't be in his best interest if he and his pals try it again. You won't be surprised to learn that they're some of the hotter heads in the cycle crowd.”

“Why, thank you, Officer Otero,” I said. “I'm in your debt. I don't suppose you'd care to give me the young man's name.”

“No, I don't suppose I would, but I don't think you'll have any more trouble with him or his pals. If you do, let me know.”

“Olive thinks I should watch
Tarzan and the Leopard Woman,”
said Dom. “She's been in a cheerful mood ever since you mentioned it. Maybe you've finally won her heart, J.W.”

“Ye gods,” said Olive.

“Since you're in a talkative mood,” I said to Dom, “what can you tell me about Gabe Fuller?”

“Why should I tell you something about Gabe Fuller?”

“Because he's close to Jasper Jernigan and there was no love lost between Jasper and Henry Highsmith and because Gabe Fuller was carrying some sort of long gun in his golf bag the last time I saw him.”

Agganis's eyes narrowed. “Was he now.”

“I take him to be Jasper's bodyguard. Don't tell me you missed the gun.”

Agganis looked more than annoyed. “I didn't look in his golf bag and he didn't mention any gun when we interviewed him. Come to think of it, when we asked him about his job, he just said he was Jernigan's assistant, and Jernigan never said anything different. I guess I'll be having another talk with those gentlemen.”

“There's no law against having a bodyguard or being one.”

“Yeah? Well, this is a murder case, and I don't like people holding out on me! Especially people with guns!”

Had I ever seen him so openly irked before? I fed the flame by giving him my thoughts about Gabe as the possible murderer.

“I don't know enough about Mr. Fuller to go that far,” said Dom, “but I damn well plan to find out all there is to know. Now, unless you have some other tales to tell me, thanks and good-bye.”

“One other thing. Just when was Highsmith killed? He hadn't been in that sand very long, from the looks of him.”

“It'll probably be in the papers anyway, so I guess I can tell you. He was plugged the evening before you found him, according to the ME. His wife claims that
he was out on his daily bike tour and never came home.”

“If he was on his bike tour, where's his bike?”

“You're smart. You tell me.”

He was reaching for his telephone when I went out the door.

At home, Zee was making black beans and rice for supper. It was an excellent, simple meal. I inhaled appreciatively.

“Your nose is red,” she said, accepting a kiss. “You'd better put some green slime on it.”

I went into the bathroom and did that and my nose immediately felt better.

The kids were still outside, playing in the long summer dusk. I went back to the kitchen and poured two vodkas on the rocks. I handed one to Zee and leaned on a counter.

“Cheers,” said Zee, lifting her glass. “What did you learn from Dom?”

“That the Willets were in Michigan when the Highsmiths were shot, that there are no professorial suspects at the moment, and that Dom didn't know Gabe Fuller kept a gun in his golf bag.”

“And what did he learn from you?”

“That Gabe had a gun in his golf bag and that I think he's Jasper Jernigan's bodyguard and a possible murder suspect.” I gave her my Gabe-as-murderer scenarios.

She stirred the rice and beans. “If Dom didn't know that Gabe had a gun, he probably couldn't tell you much else about him either.”

“I'd like to know more than I do.”

“And Jasper Jernigan's a mystery too.”

“I'd like to know where he was when Highsmith was killed.”

“I imagine that Dom already has that information.”