Death in Vineyard Waters (30 page)

“What about you?”

“I'll sail on down the beach. When he gets close, I'll tie the tiller and go overboard myself. I had to tie it a couple of times while you were asleep, and it worked like a charm. This little boat holds a course quite well. With us out of the boat, it may even sail faster than Tristan's. If he does catch it, I'll be long gone.”

“You're lying,” she said without hesitation.

“I am not. Now you get ready to go overboard.”

“No. I'm not going to leave you to get yourself killed.”

“It's my fault you're here,” I said, “and I'm not going to let you get killed because of me. You're going overboard if I have to throw you over, so get yourself over!”

“I will not! And if you throw me over I'll scream and make such a fuss that Tristan will find me right away. He'll come for me and you can get away.”

I realized that she had given herself an idea. “Look there!” I shouted and when she turned I grabbed her and pulled her to me before she could jump into the water.

Neither one of us had much zip. She wiggled and shoved at me. “Let me go!”

“No. And you listen to me. If you jump, I'm going to jump with you. And then where'll we be, eh? You sit right here, damn it!”

“Let go!” I let her go and she slid away. We eyed each other.

“Women!” I said, trying to think.

“I'm not going to leave you,” she said, “so get that idea right out of your mind. We're in this together.”

“I should have thrown you over while you were still asleep.”

The lights of Katama were sliding behind us, and Tristan was now between us and them. I felt a sense of doom. “Please do as I ask,” I said gently.

“No.”

Then, ahead in the darkness, I heard a roar different from that of the surf and the waves around us. I instantly knew what it was: the opening to Katama Bay where the storm-driven waves were crowding into the channel in a chaos of pyramiding waves, swirling currents, and flying spume. It was a faint hope, but the only one I could come up with.

I put the tiller into Zee's hand. “Take this.” I went to the centerboard box and cranked up the centerboard. My little boat could sail in incredibly shallow water with her board up. I returned to the tiller and looked for Tristan. I was shocked to see how close he was, but had no choice but to get even closer to him. I hauled the tiller toward me, slacked off the mainsheet and headed downwind for the opening, holding a course that would take me across Tristan's bow.

“Get low,” I said to Zee. “Stay on this side of the center-board box. It will give you some protection when he shoots.” I gave her a push and got low myself. Over the cowling I watched Tristan's boat come toward ours and then saw Tristan raise the shotgun and aim. I cowered down, and his shot came through the frail fiberglass hull and smacked the metal centerboard where it nestled in its box. A second shot tore through the combing and a third plucked at my arm.

Then we were past his bow and into the cacophony of the opening. I heard Zee cry out and saw her looking at the bleeding arm I could not feel as the tidal river absorbed us.

We were surrounded by thunder, and the air was full of water that felt like whips. Our little boat lifted and twisted and smashed down with a crash. White water poured over her side and into the cockpit. Zee washed forward, and only my grip on the tiller kept me from washing after her. The boat lifted and then dropped into a trough and hit hard sand. Something snapped up forward, and the little boat cried out as though in pain. But she lifted and swept forward through the flying spume, and Zee came washing back to me. Then we hit bottom again and the mast snapped off,
carrying away the sails. Still the brave little boat would not die. She lifted herself a last time onto the waves and into the wind-driven water and sand. But her back was broken, and she turned broadside to the surf.

I picked Zee up and went overboard with her just as the boat rolled over. Awash in the wild water, we were saved by our life jackets. Bouncing off sandbars, faces full of sand and water, we clung to one another and were carried by the river of the rising tide into the waters of Katama Bay.

Afloat at last in calmer waters, we looked back into the wild darkness and watched Tristan Cooper die. His boat, like ours, was too frail for such waters. Like ours, it broke its back on the shifting sands and capsized. We saw him leap or be thrown from the boat and then perhaps saw him again on the far side of the channel, struggling toward shore in waist-deep water. A wave knocked him down, but he got up again. Then another wave came, and after that we saw no more of him. The storm and the night closed over him like the lid of a casket.

Side by side, we paddled to the shore of Chappaquiddick and pulled ourselves up on the sand. After a while we were able to get up and go find a house and a telephone.

The Chappy ferry was still running, and after the owners of the telephone had given us hot coffee and dry clothes and wrapped my bloody arm, they drove us there. The chief was waiting for us on the town dock.

“You two okay?”

“Yes, but I don't think Tristan Cooper is.”

He looked at my bandaged arm. “The harbor master and some others are down in Katama Bay right now looking around with spotlights. Some other men are on the beach in case he made it ashore. Let's get you up to the hospital.”

He drove us to the emergency room, where my furrowed arm was properly wrapped and I was given the required shots, then took us back to the station, where we told our tale into a tape recorder while a young cop took notes and
the chief puffed his pipe and asked questions. “So it was Cooper that did Marjorie Summerharp in,” he said when we were done.

“It wasn't hard. He had a fast boat, and if he ran without running lights nobody would have noticed him. He was probably only off Katama for a couple of minutes, long enough to pick Marjorie up and head west again. He could have been back on the dock in Chilmark before seven. I doubt if anybody up there even knew the boat had been out.”

“I imagine the state troopers will ask. You two look done in. I'll have one of the boys take you home.”

The summer rent-a-cop took us first to my place, where I got my extra set of car keys, then to Zee's, where we dropped her off, then to Tristan's, where I found my Landcruiser, keys in the ignition, backed up to the front door. I suggested that the young cop take note of its position.

“He wanted to load the two of you in the back,” said the rent-a-cop, who was very excited to be a part of an investigation of both murder and attempted murder.

“You got it, kid.”

I got into the Landcruiser and drove back to Zee's place. Although it was the very end of June, she had a fire going in the fireplace. I went in and wrapped my arms around her, and we sat in front of the fire for a long time looking at the flames. I made some coffee and laced it with brandy, honey, and lemon juice, and we drank that.

“I've got to go to work in the morning,” she said at last, standing up.

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. Then, “What if they don't ever find his body? What if he didn't drown but is still walking around somewhere?”

“He isn't walking around,” I said, wondering if he was. “And even if he is, he's no danger to us anymore. He'd know by now that we've talked to the police and that killing us would serve no useful purpose anymore. I think I should stay with you tonight.”

“No. Not tonight. I'm sorry. Do you mind?”

I did mind. “No,” I said. I kissed her on the forehead and left.

The next day was bright and sunny, and there were search boats on Katama Bay and outside the beach as well. There were four-by-fours on the Chappy shore and along the bay's south shore as men looked for Tristan Cooper's body. Even as those grim crews sought a corpse, the beach was filling with sunbathers and kite fliers oblivious to the somber work being done almost beside them. It was the first day of July, and pale new vacationers were after tans under yet another beautiful Vineyard sky. Day sailers pushed by gentle breezes moved over the waters of Katama Bay, mixing innocently with the boats of searchers. Along the shore, clam diggers and amateur quahoggers ignored the four-by-fours moving slowly along the water's edge.

I watched for a while from the beach, wondering if he'd washed inside the bay or whether the tide had taken him outside when it changed. I was not in a mood to fish, so I went home and made myself do some gardening, which I was also not in a mood to do. I heard the phone ring and managed to get to it before it stopped. It was Mattie Skye inviting me to supper.

“I wasn't sure you'd be up to cooking, after all the commotion. Besides, we want to hear
everything!
Our feelings are all mixed up about Tristan. We're sad and shocked at the same time. Still, it's a wonderful scandal, far better than Ian and Marjorie being possible academic fakers. Come at six and we'll ply you with rum to loosen your tongue. I phoned Zee at the hospital and she's coming, too.”

“I have fresh green beans in my garden,” I said. “I'll bring a bunch.”

Mattie met me at the kitchen door and steered me right outside again. “J. W., you be good to Zee. No smart mouthing for a while. She just spent a half hour telling me that she thinks there must be something wrong with her because first she married a jerk, then she thought Ian McGregor was
fascinating, then Tristan Cooper enchanted her, a murderer, no less. She needs a man she can trust who won't hurt her.” She looked sternly at me.

I remembered the look on Zee's face when I'd put McGregor's face in the dirt and had my doubts that I was the man she needed. “I'm not sure I'm the guy for the job,” I said, and told Mattie why.

“You men are such fools,” she said. “You and your fists and your guns. Little boys, all of you. None of you deserve a woman as good as Zee.”

“You're probably right,” I said. “I imagine I've added to her hurt one way or another, but if so it wasn't my intent.”

She touched my sleeve. “I know. That's a big difference between you and the other men who've been in her life lately. Just be patient with her. She's too strong to stay down long.”

“My specialty is giving women joy.”

She faked a swing at my jaw, then laughed. “You are a hopeless case, J. W. Jackson. Do be gentle, okay?”

“If you give me a kiss, I'll be anything you want, lady.”

“Kiss, schmiss,” said Mattie. “All right, you wretched man.” She grabbed my hair and pulled my face down and gave me a good kiss. “Dr. Jerk, Ian McGregor, Tristan Cooper, and you. Maybe there
is
something wrong with that girl.”

“There's nothing wrong with John Skye. That man has blue-ribbon taste in women. Maybe you should let him take care of Zee.”

“John Skye has his hands full with just me and the twins. He couldn't handle another woman, too.”

I imagined she was right about that and followed her into the kitchen, where I was immediately put to work preparing the beans I'd brought. Fresh garden beans are one of God's gifts to man. Later, while we ate them and an excellent sole with dill sauce, I told them the tale of our adventure with Tristan Cooper. When we got to the part when Zee was
awake, I turned the story over to her. She finished it, and after we answered as many questions as we could, even the twins seemed satisfied.

“By Jove,” said John. “That tale earns you both another picnic sail on the
Mattie.
What do you say to an overnight trip to Tarpaulin Cove? We can make it up there one day and be home the next evening. Zee, you and J. W. can be the official ship's tale tellers. The girls can bring their guitar and banjo. What do you say?”

Zee looked at me, “Well . . .”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“Fine! I think you two could use a short holiday.”

The next weekend we made the trip, sailing out of Edgartown, around East Chop and West Chop and catching a west tide up Vineyard Sound to the lovely little cove on Naushon Island. A half dozen boats were anchored there already, for it is a favorite stopover for cruising sailors, but we hauled up
Mattie's
centerboard and pulled deep into shallow waters where we'd have little close company.

We took the dinghy ashore and walked the clean, empty beach out to the lighthouse and back. Then, as the others continued their explorations, I swam out to the
Mattie
and prepared supper: fried chicken with my newest secret sauce, accompanied by more fresh green beans from my garden and wild rice, all to be washed down with a Colombard chilled on ice in my cooler.

The chicken was terrific. We ate it all and everything else, too.

“Naturally you all want to know the secret of my sauce,” I said, “because you still have hopes of becoming as good a cook as me. But I don't mind telling you, because I'm a manly sort of cook and have no fear of potential rivals.”

“As a matter of fact, I do want to know,” said Zee. “It was yummy.”

“You are a woman of discriminating taste. It was indeed yummy. Peanut butter is the secret. You mix that and some
oil and vinegar and soy sauce and lemon juice and ginger and garlic and chili peppers all together and blast them with your food processor if you happen to have one, which we don't. Then you smear it over your chicken or beef or pork or whatever and voilà! another masterpiece from the kitchen of J. W. Jackson.”

“I take it you'll be more precise when I copy down the specifics,” said Mattie.

“For you, every detail.”

“Peanut butter,” said Jill. “Who ever heard of cooking with peanut butter? You're not supposed to cook with peanut butter, you're supposed to eat it in sandwiches.”

“You ate your share,” said Jen. “I thought it was excellent.” She licked a finger and gave her sister a curt nod and me a nice smile.