Death on a Vineyard Beach (10 page)

“For instance?”

“For instance, he might try to punch your lights out. You're more his size.”

“He'd better not try it.” She made a small fist.

True. A thought appeared in my mind of what I might
do if I ever heard that Fred Souza had taken a swing at Zee. The thought had a reddish glow to it. I pushed it away, but the glow lingered. I pushed again and it went out of sight. Barely.

“He's just a kid,” I said. “He probably blew his stack when he heard about my share of the boat, but calmed down later.”

“Yes,” said Zee, who was not a good hater, and rightly figured most other people weren't, either. I hoped she was right about Fred.

The next day was Sunday, and we had breakfast and the
Boston Globe
spread out all over the living room when we got another phone call. Zee, who was closest, put down the crossword puzzle and picked up the receiver.

“Yes. Speaking.” She listened for a minute, then said, “Just a moment, please.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and frowned at me. “It's a reporter from the
Boston Herald.
He wants to talk to you about the shooting up in Boston. It seems that he's dug up your name, and he wants to get your side of the story. I think he has in mind a heroic-citizen-prevents-murder piece. Do you want to talk to him?”

Drat. “No. And ask him not to include our names in his story.”

She did that, listened, then looked at me and shook her head. “He says he's not the only one who's got our names. He wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him I just went fishing.”

She spoke into the phone. “I'm sorry, but he just went fishing.” She paused and listened, then said, “I'm afraid not. No, no comment at all. Sorry. Good-bye,” and hung up.

“Rats,” she said.

“There's nothing we can do about it now,” I said. “It was only a matter of time once some reporter got interested in the story.”

“Maybe he'll decide not to print our names.”

“Maybe.” But I didn't think I'd bet on it.

After lunch, I called the Marcuses to let them know we were coming, and we drove west to Gay Head under white
clouds and blue sky. Another Vineyard beach day, with about a fifteen-knot wind from the southwest in case you decided to go sailing instead.

We found the right driveway, and came to the locked gate.

“Now what?” asked Zee.

“Observe.” I punched the button on the gadget I'd gotten from Thomas Decker the night before, and the gate swung open. We drove through and another button punch swung the gate shut behind us.

“Magic,” said Zee. “What is that? Some sort of a garage door opener?”

“I'm a trusted employee. This is like the key to the executive washroom.”

We drove up to the house, passing a couple of frowning groundskeepers who were clearly unused to seeing as old and rusty a vehicle as my Land Cruiser on the estate. As we passed, one of them took a transmitter from his belt and spoke into it. Two other men were walking toward us when we stopped in front of the door.

As we got out, Thomas Decker came from the house. He gestured at the two men, and they turned and went away.

“Security,” he said. “Next time, they'll know you. Come in.” He nodded to Zee. “It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Jackson.”

Zee was always nice to see. We followed him into the house and there was Angela Marcus. She was wearing old clothes and had a floppy straw hat on her head.

“Welcome back,” she said, shaking our hands and smiling. “I'm just on my way out to my garden, Zee, and you're welcome to join me if you'd like. It bores me to listen to men talk about business.”

Zee didn't hesitate. “I'd love to see your garden.”

I followed Decker down a hall to a closed door. He knocked, and we went in. Luciano Marcus sat behind a large desk. We exchanged handshakes and greetings and he waved us into chairs.

“What can I do for you?”

I got right to it. “I need to know as much as I can about you and your business. You don't have to tell me about
how much money you make or how you make it if you don't want to, but it will help me to know about anyone who might think that you're ripping him off. I also want to know if there's anybody in your past or present who might have it in for you personally. People usually don't try to shoot other people without a reason. If I can find the reason, I might be able to find the people who are mad at you.”

Marcus looked at me without expression. “That is perfectly sensible thinking, and I will tell you what I can. My business concerns are fairly extensive and complex, and Thomas will brief you on them. Meanwhile, as to people who might, as you say, have it in for me, I will tell you that no businessman is without enemies, and I have made my share. However, I am, for all practical purposes, nearly retired, and cannot imagine any business enemy deciding now to take revenge upon me for past actions.” He paused. “As for personal animosity toward me, when I was younger I made my share of enemies, but for many years now I have lived a very private life.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I can think of no one who knows me well enough personally to hate me.” He frowned. “Except for some Wampanoags, that is.”

A lot of haters don't know their victims at all. And vice versa. I thought, but did not speak, of John Lennon and other casualties of fame. I said: “Most violence involves booze, dope, hormones, or stupidity, or some combination of the same. Can you think of any way any of that could make somebody try to kill you?”

Marcus looked at me steadily. “Personally, I like a drink and I have my annual cigar. When I was younger, my hormones were more active than they are now. I suspect that there are a good many people my age and younger who have tried, at least experimentally, illegal drugs and chemicals, but I've never dealt with them personally or professionally. I try not to be stupid or to employ or associate with stupid people. Does that answer your question?”

“Two other reasons to kill people are revenge and defense. People want to get you for what you did, or to prevent you from doing something.”

“My doing to others is pretty much in the distant past, as I've told you. And I have no future plans other than to become increasingly retired, which I cannot see as a threat to anyone.”

“Can you think of anyone who suffered an injury from you long ago, but who's been prevented until now from getting back at you? Someone who's been in jail, maybe, and has only recently gotten out. Or someone who's been out of the country for a long time, and has just returned. Someone like that, with a long memory and a grudge.”

Marcus's eyes widened, but he shook his head. “I can't think of any such person. Thomas?”

“No,” said Decker, after a moment of thought.

“No,” echoed Marcus.

“Another question, then. Who knew you were going to attend the opera that afternoon?”

Marcus's eyes were cold. “Thomas and I have wondered about that. It was no secret, but at the same time it wasn't knowledge that was widespread.”

“Who knew?”

He spread his hands. “Thomas; the staff here at the house; Angela, of course; the people in Boston who sold me the tickets. My family, friends, and acquaintances know I enjoy opera, but I don't recall telling any of them about my plans to see that production of
Carmen.”
He looked at me. “I'm afraid I haven't been of much help to you.”

“You never know,” I said. “One last question. Why do you have a bodyguard?”

The cold eyes stared at me. “I will tell you what I told the Boston Police when they asked me the same question. I'm a wealthy man. When I travel, I sometimes have large amounts of money with me. Thomas travels with me to give protection to my person and property.”

I tried to read his enigmatic face. It was possible that he was telling me the truth. I looked at Decker. “I guess it's time you and I discussed the business end of things.”

“I'll leave you alone, then,” said Marcus, rising. “These days I prefer my books to matters of business. We'll all have a drink before you leave.” He went out into the hall, and shut the door behind him.

“He trusts you a great deal,” I said to Decker.

“And not without cause,” said Decker, walking around to the other side of the desk, sitting in Marcus's chair, and taking a folder from a side drawer. “Here. He trusts you a great deal, too. This is a summary of his business interests. I'll answer any questions that I can.”

An hour later, I looked at the last page of the folder. Marcus had not exaggerated when he'd said his business interests were extensive. They ranged from Marcus Import and Export, headquartered in New York City, to holdings in a variety of companies and businesses. He owned trawlers in New Bedford and Provincetown, a South Carolina trucking firm, a considerable interest in a Gloucester canning factory, shares in several newspapers, a paper mill, and a dozen other enterprises. I handed the folder back to Decker.

“He's got an eye for business. Not many losers listed here. He's had most of this stuff for a long time.”

He nodded. “The canning factory up on the north shore is new for him. And the fishing fleet. He didn't really get interested in that business until he got his own boat and found out he liked to fish himself. And after he got the trawlers, he thought he should have a canning factory, too, to process the fish he caught with his boats. The rest of the businesses he's had for years. He likes to be in things for the long haul, and he's got enough money that he can ride out slumps and wait for things to get better. So far, they always have. Nowadays he's got managers running things, and his two boys are taking over more and more. If they do as well as their father did, things will be fine.”

“And as far as you know, none of these businesses has generated an enemy mad enough to take a shot at your boss.”

“Your boss, too,” said Decker. “No, not that I know of. As you learned yesterday, we have private detective agencies investigating that possibility. So far, they haven't come up with anything. If they do, we'll let you know.”

“Fine. There's another thing. I thought I'd ask you first, and Luciano second, if I need to.”

His eyes became hooded. “Ask.”

“Cherchez la loot,” I said. “Look for the money. Who benefits if Luciano dies? Who inherits?”

He stared at me.

“You usually don't get killed by strangers,” I said. “Your friends and your family members are more likely to do it, and one big reason they do it is because they want your money.”

Decker leaned forward. “Look. I've been with Luciano for a long time. I owe him, and I do what he says, and I take care of him. He trusts you, but that doesn't mean I do. You want to talk about who's in his will, you talk to Luciano, not to me.” His voice was like the ice in his eyes.

For a while we stared at each other. No one blinked. Dueling eyeballs. “You talk with him about it first,” I said, “and I'll come back later to hear what you both have to say.” I got up.

Decker took a breath and sat back. “What will you do now?”

“See if I can find Joe Begay. Luciano seems to think he's surrounded by hostile Indians, so I thought I'd go have a talk with some of them.”

“Ah,” said Decker. He put away the folder, and we went upstairs.

  
9
  

Gay Head is not the easiest place to locate people, but when I stopped at the police station and asked where I could find Joe Begay, a young cop told me where he lived. They apparently didn't get many six-foot Navajos in Gay Head, so Begay had attracted some attention among the locals.

“He just got married to Toni Vanderbeck,” the young cop explained. “I been out with her sister, Maggie, once or twice. Before Toni got married, her and Maggie lived
together. Of course, now Maggie's got her own place.” The idea seemed to please him.

I thanked him and drove until we found the right house. It was down a short, sandy driveway, not far from the sea. The house was a smallish cedar-shingled structure, with gray-painted window frames and eaves. There was a garage out back. In the yard were two cars: a middle-aged Plymouth sedan and a newish Dodge four-by-four with this year's Arizona plates. Joe Begay hadn't gotten around to registering his truck in Massachusetts yet.