First Light (19 page)

“I'm looking for Philip Fredrickson,” I said to the woman behind the counter. “He's here at a meeting and I don't want to disturb him, but his colleague, Mr. Martinez, says I can find Mr. Fredrickson here. I must speak with him immediately. Can you have someone slip into Mr. Fredrickson's conference room and give him that message? My name is Jefferson
Jackson. I'll wait for him there.” I pointed to a quiet corner of the lobby.

“Yes, sir,” said the woman, eyeing my clothing doubtfully, as Luis Martinez had done, but like him, not sure what to make of someone wearing worn shorts, Tevas, and a T-shirt upon which was printed a recipe for piping plover pie. “Could you write that down in a note, sir, so there'll be no confusion?”

“Certainly.” She produced a pen and notepaper and I wrote down the message. She took it, waved a young man over to the counter, gave him the note, and sent him on his way.

I sat at a table under a plant that was so realistic that I knew it had to be plastic. In not long at all, a man came down the hall, spoke to the woman at the desk, then followed her pointing finger over to my table.

He was a thirtyish guy with sun-bleached hair and a mouthful of incredibly white teeth. I stood—his handshake was firm and professional—we both sat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”

“I hope you'll forgive my appearance,” I said, “but I just got a call from Jo-Jo Jones.”

He smiled uncertainly. “Jo-Jo?”

“You don't know Jo-Jo? Well, no matter. He's in the Environmental Protection Agency, stationed in Boston. Anyway, I guess it won't hurt to tell you that Jo-Jo is all in favor of the Isle of Dreams proposal to build a first-class golf course here on the island. Jo-Jo's got a place here in Oak Bluffs, and he likes golf.”

I paused and looked at him as though he should understand me.

Naturally, he didn't. “I don't follow you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Sorry. This is the problem. There are some people in the agency—not Jo-Jo, certainly, and not people like the governor, for instance, either, but other people who have some clout and who don't want this deal to go through. They want to stop further development on Martha's Vineyard and a lot of other places. Well, Jo-Jo wants to head them off at the pass, if you know what I mean, but to do that he's got to know some things, and he's asked me to get the information for him. I'm down here on vacation and I really don't want to be doing this, but I got this call and Jo-Jo says it's important, so I talked with Luis Martinez, and he sent me to you. So here I am.”

Fredrickson opened his mouth, but I held up a shushing finger. “Before you say anything, I want you to know that it'll be held in strictest confidence. We don't want certain other people to know what we know or to know that we know what they already know. So here's what I need from you. It doesn't have to be official, you understand, in fact it's better if it isn't. We don't want anything in writing or anything like that. Just some information that will help Jo-Jo and the governor protect the interests of golfers and people trying to do business in Massachusetts.”

I showed Fredrickson a toadeater's face. “I should tell you,” I added, “that I don't know the significance of the questions Jo-Jo has asked me to ask you, and that, frankly, they make no sense to me, although they may to you. Whatever your answers, however, I will transmit them to Jo-Jo. May I go on?”

“Ask your questions,” said Fredrickson cautiously.

“Thank you. The first is: Do you represent the interests of the Mallet Corporation?”

Fredrickson and I both considered his options. If he didn't represent Mallet, there seemed no reason not to say so. If he did, but denied it, there could be complications. Jo-Jo Jones, an apparently powerful supporter of the Isle of Dreams project, might be offended and withdraw his favor. Besides, Jo-Jo probably already had evidence of Mallet's involvement, or he wouldn't be asking for verification.

“Yes,” said Fredrickson after a moment. “I work for Mallet, but I'm also a consultant for Isle of Dreams.”

“Excellent. Jo-Jo has spoken favorably of the Mallet Corporation and the courses and clubs it has built. I'm sure he'll be pleased when I convey your response to him.”

Fredrickson beamed.

I first smiled, then put a slightly confused look on my face. “I really don't understand this one, Mr. Fredrickson, but have you recently lost a golf glove?”

“What? A golf glove?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “Yes, sir. That was Jo-Jo's second question.”

Fredrickson's brow wrinkled. “No. As far as I know, I haven't lost a golf glove.”

“In that case, Jo-Jo wants to know if you know anyone who has.”

“Why would anyone ask a question like that?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps a golf glove has been found in some compromising location such as a married lady's
bedroom, and one of those people who oppose your project wants to embarrass Isle of Dreams by some revelation to the press. I'm only guessing, of course, but perhaps Jo-Jo or the governor is trying to preempt that sort of attack on the project.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I have all my golf gloves. Tell that to Mr. Jones and anyone else who wants to know.” Then he frowned. “At least I had all of them on Saturday. That was the last time I played. I suppose I could have dropped a glove someplace. I could call Farm Neck and see if anyone has found it. Are you saying that someone found one?”

I stayed behind my sycophant face. “I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Fredrickson. I was only told to ask and to report your answer. I have only a few more questions. Again, I don't know their significance. First, do you know a woman named Molly Wood?”

He frowned. “I believe she's a visiting nurse I've seen at the home of Mrs. Sarah Fairchild.”

“Fine. Now, pardon me for seeming to intrude upon your private life, but have you ever socialized with her?”

He grew wary. “I don't think that's anyone's business but mine and hers.”

“I daresay you're right. I'll convey that answer to Jo-Jo, along with your others. Please forgive me for asking these questions, but I'm only doing it at the governor's—that is, Jo-Jo's—request.” I stood. “Thank you for meeting with me, sir. I assure you that it has not been an unimportant conversation.”

I put out my hand, but he didn't take it. “Wait. Yes,
I've gone out with Molly Wood. I had supper with her and we went dancing, but that was almost a month ago.”

“You only dated her that one time?”

“Yes. Actually, I asked her out again, but she was busy.” He looked at his watch. “I really have to get back.”

“I assure you, you've been most helpful. Only two things more. Last summer here on the island, or at any other time or place, did you meet a woman named Katherine Bannerman?”

He shook his head. “I wasn't on the Vineyard last summer, and I don't know any woman by that name.”

“You've been more than generous with your time, sir,” I said. “Here's my final question. Did Luis Martinez date Mrs. Wood?”

Fredrickson seemed relieved to have attention turned to his partner. “Yes, I believe he did. It was just before I went out with her, in fact.”

I thanked him profusely. Our hands finally met, squeezed, and parted, and we smiled and went our separate ways. I got into the Land Cruiser and drove home.

The Mallet Corporation had a big interest in the Isle of Dreams proposal. But was it big enough to countenance kidnapping or worse?

Kidnapping or worse. I was no longer thinking there was a simple, nonviolent explanation for the disappearance of Molly Wood, and I didn't like it.

F
rom the hospital I headed to Edgartown. I was remembering how Nate had accosted me and my intrepid band of Marshall Lea Foundation members with a shotgun, and how, when I told him I intended to speak to Sarah about the matter of bringing potential buyers onto the property, he'd sneered and said, “I doubt that.”

Nathan's response to his mother's stroke was
I doubt that.

Now she was in the ICU, semicomatose, asking for him.

Bastard.

I still had a couple of hours before cocktails on the Jacksons' balcony, so I followed J.W.'s directions and finally found Summer Street and, near the top of the hill, Edna Paul's house. It was a pretty white clapboard bungalow surrounded by a chest-high stockade fence to separate its yard from its neighbors'. Most of the other dwellings on Summer Street were larger than Edna Paul's, but hers was as trim and tidy as any of them.

I parked on the side of the road in front, got out,
and went through the gate. An oldish Volvo wagon was parked beside the house, and potted geraniums hung on the porch that spanned the front. The geraniums had grown a bit leggy but were still bravely producing some late blooms.

I walked around the side of the house and peeked into the backyard, where a clothesline was stretched between a couple of beech trees. A skimpy two-piece bathing suit hung on it. It was neon pink.

J.W. had told me that Edna Paul was a retired grammar-school teacher. I wondered if she wore pink bikinis.

I returned to the front of the house, climbed the three steps onto the porch, and rang the bell.

A moment later, the inside door opened, and an angular woman with steely hair and rimless glasses peered at me through the screen. Definitely not the bikini type. “What is it?” she said.

“Mrs. Paul?”

“It's Miss Paul, young man.”

I smiled. “My name is Brady Coyne. May I talk with you?”

“About what?”

“Your boarder. Molly Wood.”

She pursed her lips, then pushed her glasses up on her nose as if to get a better look at me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Coyne. Brady Coyne.” I took out my wallet and found one of my business cards. I held it up for her. “I'm a lawyer.”

She pushed open the screen door, took the card, and let the door snap shut between us. She squinted at
my card, then looked at me. “I know who you are,” she said. “My friends Millie and Roberta told me all about you. How you stood up to that awful Nathan Fairchild. You're with the Marshall Lea Foundation.” She smiled and pushed open the door. “Please. Come in, come in.”

I went in. “I'm not actually with the Marshall Lea Foundation,” I said. “I represent Sarah Fairchild.”

“Yes,” she said, “that's what I meant.” She took my arm and steered me into her living room. It smelled vaguely of Lysol. “You're arranging the sale of the Fairchild property to the foundation. How wonderful! That is a beautiful property, and the Marshall Lea Foundation is my favorite cause. I'm delighted to meet you. What about some iced tea?”

“That sounds lovely.”

Edna Paul disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me standing in her living room. It was small and cramped with overstuffed furniture. One entire wall was covered with framed black-and-white photographs. They appeared to be class pictures. Each one depicted a couple dozen children lined up in three rows with a woman standing in the middle of the back row, towering over the kids. The woman was Edna Paul. She had been an angular, no-nonsense young woman, and as the photos progressed through the years, she grew into an angular, no-nonsense school marm. She was smiling in none of the pictures.

There were no other photographs—family or otherwise—in the room.

She came back with two tall glasses of iced tea. “My children,” she said, jerking her chin at the wall of photos
that I was looking at. “Forty-two years' worth of children. Nowadays I walk down the streets of Edgar-town and I run into bald men with potbellies and gray-haired women with lined faces. They stop me and say, ‘Good morning, Miss Paul.' I'd like to say I recognize all of them, but of course I don't. I say, ‘My, how you've grown.' And they always tell me I still look the same. I retired three years ago. I wish I hadn't.” She stared at the photographs for a minute, then shrugged and handed me a glass. “Please sit down, Mr. Coyne.”

I sat on a pillowy armchair with dark floral upholstery. Edna Paul took a wingback chair beside me.

“Miss Paul—”

“Why don't you call me Edna?”

I smiled. “Fine. Edna. I guess you know that your boarder Molly Wood seems to have disappeared.”

“Well, that awful Mr. Jackson tried to ask me about her, and then a policeman came by asking questions. They didn't get anything out of me, I'll tell you. I'm not a gossip.”

I smiled and took a sip of iced tea. “Umm, delicious,” I said. I put the glass on a cardboard coaster on the table beside me. “Gossip?” I said.

She shook her head. “Oh, I could tell you stories, believe me. But as I always told my children, if you can't say something nice about a person, don't say anything at all.”

“Is Mrs. Wood a good tenant?”

Edna tightened her lips. “I would've expected a recent widow to live a quieter life, I don't mind telling
you. Oh, she is neat and polite and all, and I suppose she's responsible at her job. She's a visiting nurse, you know.”

I nodded.

“I figured, a widow lady, a nurse. Ideal tenant.” She shook her head. “I don't brook any hanky-panky, Mr. Coyne. Not in this house.”

“Does Mrs. Wood indulge in hanky-panky?”

“Like I said, not in this house. She knows better.” Edna leaned toward me. “She attracts men, Mr. Coyne.”

“She's an attractive woman,” I said.

She frowned.

“Who are these men, do you know?”

“Oh, I try to keep my nose out of where it doesn't belong, don't you know. And they never come into the house. That's against my rules. Don't even come to the door to call on her, the way a proper young man ought to. They pull up in front, toot their horn, and she flounces out of here in her little short skirts, all perfumey and … well, you catch my meaning. Sometimes, she goes off to meet them by herself in her own car. Imagine!” She clicked her tongue against her dentures.