In-Laws and Outlaws (11 page)

After we finished our tea, Connie announced she wanted a nap. Connie spent a lot of time sleeping; I had to wonder if she'd slept that often during the day before Raymond died or whether it was just escape from thinking that she was seeking. I wandered down to the narrow beach, wearing wonderfully comfortable sandals—which became less comfortable the minute the sand began to work its way in. I slipped the sandals off; it had been years since I'd walked barefoot on a beach. It was late afternoon and most of the shoreline was in shadow, but the sand was still warm from the baking it had taken earlier in the day.

Raymond had been jittery and on edge last month, Connie had said. Something had been bothering him, and bothering him so much that he had to get away from the others for a while. And yet they'd all trooped down after him. Why? What couldn't wait? And why had Raymond wanted to get away in the first place? Connie obviously didn't know.

I scuffed my way through the thankfully clean sand to the boathouse and peered in through the one small window. It was dark inside; I could barely make out the prow of a boat bobbing gently in the water. Next to it was the white hull of a much larger boat; what kind, I didn't know. Both boats had spent the winter in dry dock, undoubtedly, waiting to be moved here by a crew of the anonymous, highly paid folk who took care of Decker property when the family was away. The boathouse door was locked, so I made my way out to the end of the pier and sat down, my legs dangling over the side. I wasn't in the least tempted to slide into the water; early morning is the best time for swimming.

Then something popped into my head, something Rob Kurland had said. It was the night I'd spent at the Kurland house in Sherborn, when he and Michelle admitted they too thought the accidents were no accidents. Rob said Raymond had been the first to suspect that the kids in the family were being systematically murdered.

Raymond had been the first to suspect. Raymond had been nervous about something shortly before he came to the Vineyard. Raymond had been murdered.

Three facts—were they related? Undoubtedly. Raymond was suspicious and edgy and dead, in that order. Conclusion: Raymond had found out something. He knew, or thought he knew, who was responsible for the deaths of Bobby Kurland, Ike Henry, and Lynn Ferguson. And that's why the killer had interrupted his plan of murdering one youngster a month and had gone after Raymond instead. The killer
knew
Raymond knew.

I felt a tremor of excitement. Raymond had known! But how had the killer found out? Had Raymond let something slip? Not likely; Raymond wasn't a careless man. Perhaps he'd confronted the killer directly … no, that would have been foolish. When you think you have evidence that X is a killer, X is the last person you tell about it.

Whom would you tell? You'd tell the police. Or the detectives you've hired. Or your spouse. Or some other member of the family. Did Raymond really have any material evidence, or had he just put two and two together and come up with the right answer?
And how did the killer know?

I stood up and began to pace back and forth along the pier. Raymond had been burned to death because he'd figured out who the killer was. And if I could figure
that
out—why hadn't the rest of the family done the same? Or was that just something else they were keeping from me?

Wait a minute—maybe Raymond did tell the rest of the family. Perhaps he hadn't been avoiding them at all when he took off for the Vineyard so early in the year; perhaps he'd called the family conference himself. That would mean that everyone in the family except Connie knew what Raymond had known … but none of them had been murdered. Oh boy, talk about getting nowhere fast. I couldn't make any sense out of this mess. I stopped my pacing and concentrated, going over it again. What had really happened?

After a while the welcome roar of a motorboat cut across my speculations, which were getting more and more convoluted. I looked up to see a tiny craft speedily growing larger as it headed toward the pier where I was standing. As it came nearer I could make out Joel Kurland in the cockpit and Michelle reclining gracefully on the bench behind him like Cleopatra on a motorized barge; they were both smiling and waving. The two were so obviously mother and son, with their dark good looks and identical happy expressions, that I found myself smiling and waving back; I was glad to see them. Joel throttled down and eased the boat alongside the end of the pier.

“Aunt Gillian—hello!” he said at the same time his mother called out, “Gillian! You're here!” Michelle raised both arms in dramatic greeting; she was wearing a white top with voluminous pleated sleeves that made her look like some exotic butterfly poised for flight. They both wore big smiles that told the world they'd been having a good time.

“Hello—I'm here!” I laughed; their good mood was infectious. “We got in a couple of hours ago. Connie's taking a nap.”

“Was it difficult for her? Coming to the house.”

“Yes, but she's handling it a lot better than I would have expected. I think Connie's going to be all right.”

“Terrif!” Joel said with a grin. “Aunt Connie's a lot tougher than you guys give her credit for.”

“Oh, is that so,” his mother said, tapping him playfully on the shoulder. “Gillian, you don't want to cook your first night here—come over and eat with us.”

“Thank you, but we've already told Elinor we'd eat at their house. Where's Rob?”

“He had to go into town to pick up a few things.” A breeze lifted Michelle's short hair and dropped it back into place again, perfectly. “What on earth were you so wrapped up in a few minutes ago? You were as still as a statue when we first spotted you.”

I stared at the word
Switzer
painted on the hull of their boat and shrugged. “Things.”

She caught on. “Well, we'll have plenty of time to talk—about everything under the sun. No hurry. What are your plans for tomorrow? Do you have any?”

“Not yet.”

“Take Connie sailing. It'll be good for her.”

“I'm afraid Connie would have to take me,” I said ruefully. “I can't handle a boat.”

Michelle made a small grimace. “That's right, I forgot. You're not as crazy about boats as we are.”

Joel made a show of clearing his throat and proceeded to announce somewhat theatrically, “Fear not, Aunt Gillian, for I have just the answer to your problem. I will gladly teach you how to windsurf.”

Michelle groaned and laughed.

“How to
wot
?” I said in my best unbelieving Joan Greenwood manner.

“Windsurf—it's cool,” Joel went on enthusiastically. “And it's a good way to get started with sailing.”

“You mean ride on one of those surfboards with a sail stuck in the middle?”

“Yeah, that's it! It's the closest to walking on water you can get without actually being Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, dear—I think I should probably reprimand you for that,” Michelle remarked lazily. “Joel, my love, your Aunt Gillian has more sense than to go out on one of those flimsy things. Perhaps something a little more stable would be better.”

“They're not flimsy, Mom—and she'll love it.”

Somehow I doubted that. “Why don't I just watch you,” I suggested brightly.

“Because you're not a watcher.” He grinned at me impudently and gunned the motor. “Tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

Michelle lifted her hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. They roared off the same way they'd arrived, smiling and waving.

I watched them go, marveling at the change that had taken place in Michelle. The tightly controlled tension so much in evidence in Boston had all but disappeared. She was relaxed, comfortable with her son and her surroundings, and obviously enjoying herself. Getting away from the city's funereal gloom had made one whale of a difference. An amazing difference, in fact: she looked like a woman without a care in the world. What she did not look like was a woman whose only remaining child could still be number one on some unknown killer's hit list. She didn't look like that at all.

The psychology eluded me. Here was a woman who'd lost a son, a nephew, a niece, and most recently a brother—all within the past four months. But perhaps the only way to deal with so much tragedy was to keep it at arm's length. Michelle may have feared she'd lose her self-control if she let herself mourn too deeply. After all, she'd watched Connie go off the deep end right after Theo's death, so seriously disturbed that she had to be hospitalized. But Michelle had the inner resources to draw on that poor Connie lacked;
Michelle
would never end up in a hospital looking to strangers with hypodermic needles for peace of mind. It would never happen to her; she wouldn't allow it to happen.

So I guess it made a kind of sense after all. Michelle's way was healthier than giving in to despair, more sensibly resilient and recuperative. And she was keeping Joel healthy too—that alone was justification.

The beach was now completely in shadow. Time to collect my sandals, go wake Connie, and get ready for dinner with the Fergusons.

8

Of the entire Decker clan, I think Elinor Ferguson loved Martha's Vineyard the most. As a Congressional wife, she was on display every waking minute of her life except for the times she and Oscar managed to slip away to the island. Aunt Elinor honestly enjoyed the display aspect of her life; she'd chosen it, after all, thereby revealing that Decker streak of theatricality that was so much more noticeable in Michelle and Annette. But even people like Elinor who thrived on public life needed a hideyhole on occasion. As for Uncle Oscar, he'd once said the Vineyard was the only place in the world he could take off his shoes and put his feet up without being stared at as if he'd just grown a second head.

I didn't see how they did it. Knowing you were constantly being judged—not only on what you said but how you said it, on the way you looked and the way you handled a dinner fork, on where you put in an appearance and where you didn't … it would drive me nuts. They were never allowed to have bad days, or feel tired, or even look as if they did. All that on top of their real work: Oscar's helping make the country's laws and Elinor's running the Decker Philanthropic Foundation. Within the family, Elinor's was considered the more important job.

Elinor met us at the door, announcing that Oscar was in the kitchen. She gave Connie a warm hug and me a polite peck on the cheek. She looked good—relaxed and strong and elegant all at the same time, even in her casual summer clothes. She'd be around sixty now, or close to it; Oscar was a couple of years younger, I remembered. “Oscar still likes to cook?” I asked, mostly to help the conversation along.

She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, and I don't want either of you doing a thing to discourage him! He doesn't often have the time to indulge and it does give me an excuse to stay out of the kitchen. So brag on everything. Please!”

“That won't be difficult, from what I remember of Oscar's cooking.”

We'd reached the kitchen. “Did you hear that, dear?” Elinor asked her husband. “Gillian remembers your cooking.”

Oscar was standing at the stove with a ladle in his hand, handsome and imposing even in this setting; he managed a bow in my direction without dripping any sauce on the stove. “I always knew Gillian was a woman of taste and discernment. Connie—come say hello.”

Connie went over for a second hug. “What are we having, Uncle Oscar?”

“Lobster. Plucked live from the trap just this morning.”

Connie made an
ugh
face. “I don't want to hear about that part of it.”

What would we do without food—not to eat, but to talk about. Oscar used his rich actor's voice to hold forth on one of his favorite subjects. Lobster, clams, the right sauces, the wines to go with them, the proper amount of time to marinate fava beans, when to serve white asparagus and when green—all that kept the talk carefully neutral until we were seated at the table and tasting Oscar's latest culinary wonder. He really was a good cook.

When Oscar had finished a short disquisition on the proper way to select melons, Elinor turned the conversation to me. “Don't you miss working in the theater?”

One of the twins had asked me the same thing. “Yes and no. Mostly no. Except on the days when it's yes.”

She laughed. “Do you think you'll go back to it?”

“No, I'm pretty sure I won't. I have a museum to run now. That's where I belong.”

Oscar smilingly threw me an oh-yeah? look. “What about all that
once it's in your blood
et cetera?”

“Well, it is a
theater
museum I'm running. I'm still in the business, in a way.”

“You never did any acting, did you, Gillian?” Elinor asked.

“A little, when I was first starting out. It wasn't very satisfying, I found. Actors have so little control over what the audience sees on the stage—they don't even control their own roles, not completely. I'd rather run the show than be in it.”

Elinor nodded, understanding.

“I'd be scared to go out on a stage,” Connie offered. “In front of all those people? Whoo.”

“Well, I'm glad you have work now that you find satisfying,” Elinor said to me. “But I have to admit I've never understood the mystique surrounding theater myself.”

Probably because there was so much theater already in her life. Oscar announced he'd done something marvelous with apricots for dessert, and we were back to food again.

When dinner was finished, Elinor hustled Connie off somewhere—to do a little mothering, I suspected—and Oscar suggested we take our after-dinner drinks out on the deck (he called them postprandial libations). From the deck I could look left and see the lights we'd left on in Connie's house, but the Kurland place on the other side was behind a little spit of land that hid it from view. I looked in the other direction and saw one light in the next house. “How's Tom doing?” I asked.