Death in Vineyard Waters (5 page)

Her eyes flicked beyond me, and I turned and saw Ian McGregor come out of the kitchen with Jen the disgusting flirt and walk with her back down toward the barn. A moment later, Jill came out and looked at them as they strolled away. Jill had a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She took them to another group of guests, then brought them to us.

“I'm afraid you're right about Jen,” I said. “A really disgusting flirt.”

“I'm Jen,” she said, “and Jill's the disgusting flirt, not me. I already showed him the barn and my rabbits. Now she's making him go back down there and look at the horses. I already showed him the horses.”

“He's probably just trying to be polite,” said John.

“He's really strong, you know?” said Jen. “I showed him where we swing on the ropes in the loft and he swung clear across and back with just one arm, pretending to be Tarzan!”

“He certainly could manage that,” agreed Marjorie Summerharp. “He brought his weights with him when we
came down, and he's usually on his way out for a morning run when I go for my swim. He's very keen on being fit. The ideal advanced by Northern Indiana University, our old alma mater. Stolen from the Greeks—be sound in mind, body, and spirit. That sort of thing.”

“Karate, too, I'm told,” added John mildly. “A belt of some color or other. I never could keep them straight. And that's his surfboard on top of his car over there. Surf sailing is quite the rage, I hear. Marjorie here is no athletic slouch herself, J. W. She swims every morning at six, rain or shine, winter or summer. Right now she's doing it at South Beach, at Katama. Personally, I can't imagine getting into the water when it's cooler than sixty-five degrees or so, but she's still swimming outdoors in December. Not normal, if you ask me, but then Marjorie's not your normal woman.”

Cooper looked at her admiringly. “So, Marjorie, still at your morning swim? You never change. You were a bold woman when first we met and you're a bold woman yet.”

“Swimming is the perfect sport, Tristan, as I've told you many times. You can swim at any age and keep in excellent condition thereby. No fat knees or shin splints or ripped muscles or any of the other wounds you can receive from running or pumping iron. And you don't need anyone else to help you do it as you do in tennis or any of those other games people like to play. You should take it up. Do you a world of good. Probably cure your insomnia. Healthier than that chloral hydrate you take for it, certainly.” She pointed a bony finger at John. “You, too, John Skye. Get rid of that little pot you're developing.”

“Emergency rations in case of atomic attack,” said John defensively.

Zee came out of the kitchen with Mattie, carrying trays of food to the tables on the lawn. After a while she and Mattie joined us, and I lured Zee away with me to get another drink. It was my third or fourth; I couldn't remember.

“Have a beer with me after all this is over,” I said, pouring her a glass of the white wine she requested.

“I can't,” she said. “I already have a date.”

“Ah.” So that was why she had let Jill take Ian McGregor off to see the horses. While in the house, she and McGregor had made plans to get together someplace more private than John Skye's barn.

“Why did you take me up to the house and then leave me there?” she said suddenly.

The thing women complain about more than anything else in their relationships with men is that men don't communicate. I read that in some women's magazine. It was a poll of some sort. I knew why men didn't communicate: When they did, it caused trouble. Nevertheless, I tried it.

“I took you up there because I knew you wanted to talk with him but wouldn't go because of the way you thought I'd feel. So I took you up there myself.”

“You mean you wanted me to see him? I thought you wanted me to be . . . with you. You mean I was wrong? You mean you don't . . .”

“Look,” I said, “I know how you feel about him. It was in your face the first time you saw him this morning on the clam flats.”

“But you and I . . .”

“What's important is how you feel. I don't want you to not feel some way just because you're worried about how I feel.” >From the hors d'oeuvres table I captured a scallop wrapped in bacon—a most excellent goodie—and popped it into my mouth. Normally delicious, now tasteless. “I think I've just rattled off too many ‘feels.' The thing is that I want you to be happy, and it's clear to me that you're taken with him. And why shouldn't you be? He's smart and good looking. You don't owe me anything. We're not tied to each other. You can go where you please and see who you please. I took you up to the door and left you there to show you that I understand that.”

“But how do
you
feel, Jeff? That means a lot to me, too. I don't think I can just . . . And what do you mean we're not tied to each other? There
are
ties between us. . . . At least I thought there were. I thought . . .”

“Don't do this to yourself,” I said, letting my anger crawl into view. “Just take the opportunity and go. You have your own life to live, and you'll be making a bad mistake if you don't do this thing if it's important to you. Do it, if that's what you want to do. Go with him. I want you to do what you feel like doing. I don't want to be the person who holds you back. I won't be that person. I refuse.”

She put a crooked pretend-coquettish smile on her face. “You mean you won't fight for me like the heroes do in the novels and movies when a rival shows up?”

I put my big hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. “If you're ever in trouble, I'll fight for you. If this guy treats you badly, I'll do my best to make him wish he was never born. But if you want to be with him, and I can see that you think you do, then I'll not fight at all. You're a grown-up woman, and you get to decide how you're going to live your life.”

“But you don't want me to live it with you.”

“What I want has nothing to do with this.”

“Yes, it does. I feel like you're just giving me away.”

“I'm not. I can't give away something I don't own, and I don't own you. I don't keep slaves.”

“Damn you!”

“Look.” I nodded toward the barn, and she turned and saw Ian McGregor and Jill come out, laughing and talking. While Zee watched them come up to tables of food and drink, I walked back to John Skye, who had gathered a larger crowd while I'd been gone. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Zee talking to Ian McGregor while Jill, an annoyed look on her face, stood off to one side. Girls often lose out when real women enter the game of love.

“J. W., meet some more guests.” John Skye's tone was
carefully toneless, a sure sign that he was half amused. I turned and met four people.

“Bill Hooperman and Helen Barstone, meet J. W. Jackson.”

Two of many on Marjorie Summerharp's dimwit list, I recalled. Barstone was she of the cleavage and Hooperman was he of the appreciative eyes. As I shook hands with him, those eyes seemed angry. Words apparently had been exchanged between him and someone else. I could guess who. Helen Barstone ran her tongue along her upper lip as I took her hand. Whatever her intellectual deficiencies, she revealed few physical ones. I let my eyes fall upon her famous bosom, then raised them again to meet her gaze. She smiled. Hooperman's eyes fired darts at Marjorie Summerharp and his mouth turned down at its corners.

“And meet Hans and Marie Van Dam,” said John. More handshakes. “Hans and Marie are leasing Tristan's land in Chilmark,” continued John. “They're running the Sanctuary program up there. Maybe you've read about it.”

I reached back into my memory. “I've read things in the
Gazette,
I believe.”

Hans Van Dam smiled a smile full of bright teeth. He wore expensive Vineyard casuals and was tanned and healthy looking. His wife used makeup very carefully and was vaguely ethereal in a longish dress something like a sari. A hearty voice emerged from Van Dam's bright mouth. “It's a spiritual, psychological, and physical retreat for the well-to-do, to put it simply. Our guests receive sanctuary from their everyday troubles, can receive therapy from our counseling staff if they wish, and have a chance to take healthy exercise under the guidance of professional trainers. We offer a private beach, tennis courts, sailing and motorboating, massage, swimming, and private religious services for those who prefer not to attend the regular island churches.” He smiled his gleaming smile down at his wife, who answered with a mystic half smile of her own. “Have I left anything out, my dear?”

She, like her husband, looked to be early or mid fortyish, although what with modern cosmetics and all, it's hard to tell these days. Her voice was sibilant and slightly musical. “You might add that Tristan's land was the most perfect we've found for our work. That it is not only isolated and lovely but ancient and holy as well.”

“Of course, my dear, I should have made that clear. Sanctuary, Mr. Jackson, takes very seriously indeed the ancient stones and temples on the land we are leasing. I believe I would be right in saying that had we taken less interest in those sites, Tristan would have hesitated to lease us his property. Am I right, Tristan?”

“You are,” agreed Tristan Cooper. “A half a dozen developers were begging for the privilege of making me a rich man in exchange for my land, and one of them, as you know, was even willing to name his proposed development ‘Standing Stones' and design his landscape around them. A particularly wretched prospect. But then you arrived and have proved yourself a proper tenant.”

“Our religious services,” explained Marie Van Dam in her dusky voice, “are not denominational in any modern sense. Rather, we attempt to orient ourselves to the cosmos, as it were, and try to treat all creation as sacred. We believe that the religious wisdom of the ancient people who built such monuments as those we find on Tristan's land was akin to our own, and thus we hold services at those sites for whomever wishes to join us in our songs and prayers.” She smiled suddenly, showing small, even teeth. “We also encourage our guests to attend services in the local churches. So we are not so unconventional as you might imagine, Mr. Jackson. We use both modern and ancient methods of therapy and are quite shameless about it.” She put her silken arm around her husband's. “Our guests will testify to our success, won't they, darling?”

“Indeed. Our files contain dozens of letters of appreciation, and many of our guests have returned for second, third,
or even fourth visits. You should come by yourself, Mr. Jackson, and have a tour of our grounds and offerings. Call ahead and one of us may shake free from our schedules and take you around; otherwise, one of our staff will assist you.” His wide, toothy grin sparkled with sincerity.

“Thanks. Maybe I'll do that.”

“Good God,” said Marjorie Summerharp, “next we'll be hearing about flying saucers and Mu. I think I need another drink.” She had been standing beside Tristan Cooper all this time with a sour milk look on her face. To be grouped not only with Hooperman and Barstone but with the Van Dams as well was apparently more than she could bear. She looked disgustedly at Hans Van Dam. “You're an advertising brochure for a brothel, nothing more.”

Hooperman's angry eyes bulged. “By God!” he cried, “you are a bitch!”

“And you are an ass!” she replied, thrusting a finger at him.

Hooperman gave a drunken bellow and plunged toward her with a raised right arm. He was a large man thirty years her junior and moved remarkably quickly. But I had been thinking about his anger and caught his arm as he went by me. He spun and swung blindly at me. I took the blow on my forearm, then held his wrists in my hands. His eyes blazed, and he wrenched in vain to free himself.

I squeezed his wrists. “Stop,” I said. He swore and tried to jerk away, but I held him tighter. “Stop,” I repeated.

As suddenly as his anger had caught him up, it left him. His shoulders slumped and he shook as though chilled. Then Helen Barstone was at his side, and John and Tristan Cooper stepped near and put their hands upon his shoulders. Hooperman took long breaths and his eyes closed. I released his wrists and stepped away.

“Amazing,” said Marjorie Summerharp. “Now I really do want that drink.” She headed for the bar while the Van Dams and Helen Barstone looked coldly after her. Skye's eyes seemed to be laughing. Tristan Cooper's were expressionless.
I glanced around the yard. It had happened so fast that no one else seemed to have noticed anything.

Mattie Skye's voice announced that dinner was ready to be eaten and that if we wanted it hot we'd better dig in now. Our party moved toward the food tables, relieved murmurs indicating that some of its members at least were glad to be extracted from an awkward moment. Helen Barstone held Hooperman's arm. As she led him away, she threw me what might have been a grateful glance.

I ate roast beef beside Mattie and John, and we talked of their upcoming trip to Colorado. Fifty feet away, at a table under a large oak, Jill and Jen and Zee shared the pleasure of Ian McGregor's company. The four of them seemed to be laughing a lot. When I left for home right after supper, they were still at it.

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