Death in Vineyard Waters (15 page)

“I'll pick you up at six.”

We drove down the windy beach. After a while, Zee said, “There's something I want you to know. Ian and I never slept together.”

I felt an irrational surge of happiness and tried to think of the right thing to say. Finally I settled on the truth: “You don't ever have to tell me such things, but I'm glad that you did this time.”

“I wanted you to know. I guess you should also know that it was a pretty close thing a couple of times. He was pretty angry when I left him instead.”

“He call you bad names?”

“Nothing worth repeating. I told him I preferred you. He called you some names, too.”

“Nothing worth repeating, I'm sure. Ian is a jerk.”

“At least. Let's not talk about Ian anymore.”

“Good idea.”

After leaving her at her Jeep, as I drove home, I turned on the radio again. Soon I was whistling, too. I didn't think the combination sounded too bad.

10

I got rid of the fish for the right price and drove home. There I flipped on the weather channel on the scanner and learned that a low had formed off the Jersey coast overnight and had slowed almost to a stop a hundred miles south of Nantucket while it gained strength. It was no hurricane, but it was now drifting slowly north and would give New England a very good whack if it didn't veer out to sea, which it didn't seem inclined to do. Coastal areas were advised to
take precautions against flooding at high tides, and boatmen were alerted to gale warnings.

It was the sort of storm that the locals simply call a hard nor'easter and which would be forgotten by the time the real hurricane season arrived, but John Skye's catboat was on its stake between the Reading Room (where ne'er a book was opened, according to one of its gentlemen members) end the Yacht Club, and John still wasn't back, so I went down and rowed out to check her lines and make sure she was secure.

The wind was strong from the south and the harbor was choppy. Boatmen were heading out to their craft on missions like my own, putting out extra lines, putting over extra anchors, battening things down.

The
Mattie
was a fine old wooden eighteen-footer, built by Manuel Schwartz Roberts long ago and lovingly maintained by several owners before John Skye bought her and brought her up to even better snuff. It was one of my jobs to haul her and paint her bottom every spring and to keep the ice away from her during the winter. For John was of the “keep her in the water so she can't dry out and she'll last forever” school of maritime theory, and he did not haul the
Mattie
in the fall.

She was mine to sail in the spring before John came down and in the fall after he was back at work, and I could sail her in the summertime, too, whenever he wasn't using her. But being a working stiff, I didn't have as much sailing time as I wanted. Only rich people and schoolteachers have time to sail a lot, and schoolteachers can't afford to. Working types own powerboats if they own boats at all. Most of the pleasure boats in Vineyard harbors are owned by off-islanders who only come down in the summer.

So it goes.

The
Mattie
had a stout bowline, but I added another to the stake just in case and checked below to make sure everything was screwed down tight and there was no water in her. She was tighter than a ballet dancer's pants and dry as
the Gobi, as usual. Heavy and beamy, she eased slowly up and down in the gathering wind.

It was spitting a bit of rain as I rowed back to shore. I hauled the dinghy up to the back of the beach and tied the painter to a fence post just in case the tide got really high, as it well might do if the storm and high tides arrived at the same time. Other men and women were busy doing the same thing, and there was that comradely, expectant feeling in the air that you get when a town is faced with a common natural enemy—a storm, a flood, a forest fire. Under such conditions people help out other people whom they would normally actively dislike. It's odd, but consistent with the observation that a common enemy unites people as effectively as a common idol. Hitler understood the dark side of this truth and used it when he named the Jews as being responsible for all the ills of Germany. Had there not been Jews, he said, he'd have had to create them. Hatred ties tighter than love, it sometimes seems.

At home I considered my options while I made myself a smoked bluefish salad stuffed in pita bread for lunch. The wind was moaning through the trees and the water out in the Sound was gray and white under the darkening clouds. A couple of reefed-down sailboats were heading for harbor.

I got a beer and chewed my way through the sandwiches. Delish! Life wasn't bad at all, storm or no storm.

I got out the notes I'd taken yesterday at John Skye's library. Telephone numbers and some initials I didn't recognize. I could afford a few calls, considering what Ian McGregor was paying me. The first number was in area code 209 and had an extension number. I dialed and listened to the ringing at the other end and then heard the click of a connection and the smooth professional voice of a woman switchboard operator.

“Northern Indiana University. May I help you.”

“Extension 172, please.”

More clicks and then another voice. “Library. May I help you?”

Could she? How? “My name is Jackson. I'm calling on behalf of the estate of Dr. Marjorie Summerharp. We're trying to clear up some loose ends following her death, and we find that she contacted you within the month. We're wondering, Do we have something of yours that should be returned? A book or books, perhaps? Can you tell me why she called you? I realize that this is perhaps an odd request, but the estate is a bit tangled and her office is a mess, so anything you might tell me could help us get things straightened out for her heirs.”

“Let me put you in touch with the head librarian, Mr. Jackson. Perhaps she can be of assistance.”

More clicks and then a third female voice. “Dr. Archbold. May I help you?”

I went through my spiel, adding, “I'm calling from Martha's Vineyard, where Dr. Summerharp was working when she died. We've been trying to straighten out her papers . . .”

“Ah, yes. Poor Marjorie. A great loss. I studied under her, you know.”

“I never had the pleasure, I'm afraid.”

She gave a small laugh. “I don't know that I'd say it was a pleasure, Mr. Jackson. Her classes were very businesslike and she brooked no nonsense.”

“So I've heard.”

“So when she phoned last month, I talked to her myself. She hadn't mellowed, I assure you. She has nothing belonging to us, Mr. Jackson, and we have nothing of hers. Does that help you?”

I put bewilderment into my voice. “But then why did she . . .”

“Oh, I can tell you why she called, if that's all you need to know, Mr. Jackson. She wanted copies of two doctoral theses we have in the stacks here. We sent them to her and received her check within the week. Photocopying, Mr. Jackson, photocopying. It's made life a thousand times more simple for the
scholar. Our work has taken quite a modern turn, I assure you, what with microfilm, computers, and all.”

“Whose theses? Do you remember? What were they about?”

“Well, I can't be sure of the subject matter, but I can guess. Seventeenth-century drama, I should say, since both she and Dr. McGregor specialized in that area.”

“She asked for copies of both her own and Ian McGregor's theses?” I hadn't seen any sign of them among her papers. “Where did you send them, do you recall?”

“Of course I recall. We sent them to her office at Weststock College.”

I thanked her and rang off.

There were two more numbers. The first was out of state again. I dialed and listened to the rings. A man's voice answered.

“Hello.”

“My name is Jackson. I'm calling about the late Marjorie Summerharp. Perhaps you can help me. We found this telephone number in her notes and we're anxious to find out its relationship to her work.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Let me try again. Dr. Summerharp was working on a project that is of considerable importance. Unfortunately, she died before she could complete it, so now Dr. Ian McGregor is attempting to finish it alone. There are some gray areas here and there, and I'm hoping that by calling the telephone numbers we found in her notes we might clear up some of the ambiguities. Unfortunately, in your case I don't even know who I'm talking to.”

“I'm her brother, Howard. Howard Summerharp. I'm afraid I can't help you at all. I don't know a thing about Marjie's work. Never understood it at all. I'm a plumber, mister, not a college professor like Marjie.”

“If you're her brother, why do you suppose she wrote your telephone number on a pad of notes?”

“Hell, that ain't hard to figure. We just bought ourselves
this new summer place down on the coast. Just got the phone in. She didn't get the number until a couple of days before she . . . died. I imagine that explains it. She was headed down this way as soon as she was done on that project. She was a Maine girl in spite of all her fancy learning, and she wanted to have a few weeks here before she went back to work at the university.” He paused. “Well, she got here all right. They shipped her up here in a box.”

“I'm sorry. I only met her twice, but I liked her.”

“You and not many others. But thanks.”

“Did you receive her possessions? I know they shipped them somewhere from here, but I don't know where.”

“Yeah, we got 'em. Not much. A suitcase full of clothes is about all.”

“No books? No papers or manuscripts?”

“No books. What do we need with her books? We got to go down to Weststock and clean out her apartment and her office at the college some time in the next couple of weeks, but I don't plan to bring home any books. I'll give them to the college or something, or sell 'em. Matter of fact, I don't know what we're going to do with most of her stuff. Clothes and like that, I mean. I sure don't want to haul it all back up here just to give it away.”

“They didn't send you any books or papers from Martha's Vineyard?”

“That's what I said, mister.”

“Do you know of anybody who might have had it in for your sister, Mr. Summerharp?”

“Why do you ask?”

“There are a couple of things about the way she died that don't add up.”

“Well, I sure don't know what they might be. I always told her that someday she'd drown herself. Nobody in the whole rest of the family ever even wanted to swim. It's unnatural, if you ask me. As for people who had it in for her, I'd guess she had her share of them, from what she
used to tell us. Mad students and deans and all. She always was bristly, even when she was a little kid.”

I thanked him, hung up, and dialed the third number. Almost before the first ring was rung, a harried male voice spoke.

“Limerick Deliveries. Fastest deliveries in town. May I help you.”

I went through my story.

“Sorry,” said the voice, “I never heard of anybody named Summerharp. Wait a sec.” The voice shouted in the distance. “Hey, Morty, Sue, either of you ever hear of some professor named Marjorie Summerharp who had a delivery made in the past couple of weeks?” Distant noises, then the voice came back. “Nope. Nobody remembers any Professor Marjorie Summerharp. Sorry.”

“Could you check your records. She'd have called you from Martha's Vineyard . . .”

A light bulb went on at the end of the line. “Oh! Oh, yeah! I remember that call. She wanted us to pick something up from her office at Weststock College and deliver it to the Vineyard. But I told her we only deliver here in town, so we didn't get the job. When I told the gang about it, I nearly got my butt kicked. Everybody said they'd be glad to go to Martha's Vineyard even for no extra pay. But we didn't do it. Sorry, buddy.”

I put the receiver down, then picked it up again and got the number for Weststock College. I asked for the English Department and got the head secretary. I gave my name and said I was working with Dr. Marjorie Summerharp's partner, Dr. Ian McGregor. I asked her if she could find out if the manuscripts from Northern Indiana University had arrived for Dr. Summerharp.