Off Season (21 page)

“Fuck you,” said Dom.

A waitress came by and I ordered a coffee, black.

Dom sucked at his coffee. “What do you want?”

“I have a friend who's a reporter up in Boston. He has other friends in other places. I understand that the cops found some kinky stuff up in Chug Lovell's house.”

Dom's eyes were dull and bored. “No comment.”

“I understand that there was some other stuff that the cops didn't get.”

Dom opened his mouth, then shut it when the waitress brought my coffee, then opened it again.

“What are you talking about?”

“Pictures.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“What kind do you think?”

“I think you better tell me what you're talking about.”

“I hear that there were pictures to go along with the other stuff you found. I hear that you guys might have found some cameras, but you didn't find the pictures.”

Dom lowered his voice and pushed his face across the table toward mine. “If you know something, you'd better damn well tell me about it.”

“I just told you. Chug had pictures.”

“Who told you that? I want his name.”

“I'll bet you do.”

“I'll haul you in on this.”

“Sure you will. For what? Repeating rumors? So it's true, eh? You guys don't have the pictures.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

Dom sat back. “But there are pictures? You're sure?”

“So I hear. I never saw them.”

Dom thought awhile. “It would be interesting to see those pictures. You know how that might be done?”

“No. All I know is what I told you. There were pictures . . .”

“Of what went on up there at Lovell's place?”

“Yes. Albums of them, I hear.”

“Albums, eh? And you don't know any more about it than that, eh?” A lazy smile crossed his face. “You know, I think I might just haul your ass over to the office so we can talk.”

“The jail's in Edgartown, if you really want to be a tough guy.”

“You ain't seen tough, yet. Who gave you this information?”

“You're scary. I can see that I'd better tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. All right, I'll confess. I've been kidding. Nobody gave it to me. I just made it up.”

I drank my coffee and we looked at each other.

“We can get this out of you,” said Dom.

“Maybe. But if you lock me up, who's going to do your detecting for you?”

Dom looked out of the window. Out by the breakwater, a fifty-foot schooner hung on her mooring, her bowsprit pointing into the cold winter wind. “You know,” said Dom. “Sometimes I think I should just get on one of those things and leave all this shit behind me and sail south until I find myself a tropic island
with some coconut trees and some wild pigs and some good fishing, and then just stay there.”

“I did something like that several years ago,” I said. “I left all the law and order crap behind and went south to an island. I ended up on this one. There isn't any away.”

“I guess not,” said Dom. He lifted his cup. “Well, here's to crime.”

We drank to that, then walked outside together. Dom's cruiser was parked just outside. He got into it and looked up at me.

“Peace on earth, good will to men,” he said, and drove away.

I went home and fed some wood into my stove, then got out my Vineyard phone book. I found one Kittery. M. Kittery, North Road, West Tisbury. I glanced at my watch and figured that school should be out by now. I dialed and after two rings heard a woman's voice say, “Merry Christmas.”

“Mrs. Kittery?”

“Yes.”

“My name is J. W. Jackson. Is your husband at home?”

She had a cheerful voice. “No, Matt isn't here. He should be home a little after five. Can I take a message?”

“No, it's you I want to talk to. Do you have a few minutes?”

“I've already done my Christmas shopping, and besides, I don't buy things sold over the phone. Sorry.”

“This is about Chug Lovell.”

There was a silence.

“I'm investigating his death, and your name came up.”

The once cheerful voice was strained. “I haven't had anything to do with Chug Lovell for years. I don't know anything about his death.”

“There were some photographs . . .”

“Oh, God . . .”

“Do you want to talk on the phone, or should I drive up there?”

“Oh, I don't know . . .”

“I'll be up. Is your name on your mailbox?”

“I don't want my husband . . .”

“We could meet somewhere.”

“No. The sitter just left, and the baby has a cold . . .” Her voice drifted away.

“This won't take long. I'll leave before five, but I need to ask you some questions.”

“Who are you?”

“We can talk on the phone, if you'd rather.”

“No, no . . .”

“Tell me how to get to your house.”

She did, and I drove up there.

She lived in the woods not far from Fisher Pond. A neat house with a goodly supply of fireplace wood stacked out back beside a shed. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and there were Christmas candles in the windows and a green wreath with a red ribbon was hanging beside the front door. Through the living room window I could see a Christmas tree. I parked in the driveway and walked to the door. It opened before I got there.

Christine Kittery was a pretty woman. Slim, brown-haired, wearing jeans and a green wool shirt. A little Santa Claus pin was fastened to her collar. Her face was strained.

“Mrs. Kittery? I'm J.W. Jackson,” I said.

“Come in. You don't look like a policeman.”

“Policemen don't always look like policemen, I guess. Are you all right?”

“I've got myself glued back together, I think.” She waved at a chair beside the fireplace and I sat down. She sat across from me. The fire danced in the fireplace and its warmth felt good after the long ride in the Land Cruiser, which had a heater that didn't work too well. “My husband will be home soon. He doesn't know anything about me and Chug Lovell. That was all over before I met him. Does he have to know about it?”

“Maybe not. This won't take long. When was the last time you saw Chug?”

Her eyes were wary. “I saw him a month or two ago. At the market.”

“Not since then?”

“No.”

“When were you and Chug together?”

“Four years ago. Just after I came down to the island. The summer before I started teaching, I had a job waitressing. Chug and I met then.”

“How long were you together?”

“Almost a year.”

“What split you up?”

“A lot of things. I'd met some other men. I got tired of some of the things he liked to have me do. And he probably got tired of having me do them. He found a new girl. He was good at that.”

“I'm told that women found him attractive. Something
about him being roly-poly, childish and lovable, and liking women, as I remember.”

“Oh, he liked women, all right. He liked to have them humiliate themselves for him. Part of the time, at least. Usually, he was just soft and sweet and cuddly. You've seen the pictures, haven't you? How many other people have seen them? I imagine that I get to spend the rest of my life wondering who's seen them. What a fool I was.”

“Did Chug Lovell blackmail you with those pictures?”

“Of course he did. He didn't get much, because I'm a schoolteacher and I don't make that much, but he got some.”

“Can you tell me how much?”

“A hundred a month. That was as much as I could hide from Matt. Chug wanted more, but he settled for that.”

“Cash, of course.”

“Of course. I mailed it to him.”

“When you were together, did he ever show you the pictures he took?”

“Yes. At first they were a shock. Then I got over being shocked. He liked them, but I didn't think they were interesting or titillating or anything else. Later, they were just embarrassing. Do you have them?”

“Did you ever see pictures of anyone else? Any other women?”

She nodded. “Yes. He liked to show them to me. I can't say I was very interested in them. Why do men like such things?”

“Did you recognize anyone in the pictures?”

Her face got harder. “If I did, I wouldn't tell anyone.”

“This is a murder investigation. Maybe Chug's
killer was one of his women. I have to talk to everyone who knew him.”

“You mean maybe it was me!”

“Do you know how to shoot a bow and arrow?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn't you. Did you recognize anyone in Chug's pictures? I need to know.”

She looked into the fire, then at her watch, then back at me. “There was one face . . . I was new to the island, you understand. I didn't know very many people . . . But there was one. She works in the bank in Vineyard Haven. I have an account there . . . I see her often. Her name is Hazel Fine.” She gave me a cold stare. “She's very nice. A very nice person.”

“I'm sure she is. Were there a lot of women in the pictures? Had Chug been doing this sort of thing a long time?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “There were a lot of women.” Then she caught on. “You don't have them, do you?” She stood up. “If you had them, you wouldn't have to ask how many women were in them. How did you know about me?”

“Someone recognized your picture. Another woman.”

“And now I've given you another name. And she'll give you another. And she'll give you another. My God!”

“I hope you're right. I want as many names as I can get.” I got up. “If you think of anything that might help me, give me a call. I'm in the book.”

“If you don't have the pictures, who does? Who'll be coming for money next time?”

“I don't know. Probably nobody. But if somebody does, let me know.” I went to the door. “I think it's over as far as you're concerned. I think you can start stowing that hundred a month away in a special
account so you can buy something for yourself that you've always wanted.”

She followed me to the door. “I want you to know something. I want you to know that I was happy when I heard about Chug Lovell. I was happy. It was like a rock had been rolled off my shoulders. I have a good man and a beautiful little girl and I think I'm a good person, and I was glad when I heard he was dead.”

She shut the door behind me, and I got into the chilly Land Cruiser and drove home. I thought I had spread enough good cheer for one day. As I drove, I wondered if Christine Kittery had lied about not knowing how to shoot a bow and arrow. A bit of verse got stuck in my mind:

“I,” said the sparrow,

“with my little bow and arrow,

I shot cock robin.”

That verse went around and around in my head. Finally, to make it go away, I sang Christmas carols. By the time I was back in my living room, good King Wenceslaus had sent the sparrow packing. Good riddance.

I thawed some frozen chowder makings, stirred in milk and cut some thick slices of bread. I found a tape of Pavarotti singing Christmas songs with a Canadian choir, and put that on. I like Luciano's opera arias better, but he can sing a wicked “Ave Maria,” too. That grand voice filled my house while I first had a martini, then washed down the chowder with a couple of bottles of Sam Adams, America's finest bottled beer. For dessert, I sliced up an apple and a pear and some cheese, and poured myself a cognac. I sat in front of the fire and looked at my Christmas tree. Its little
lights glimmered in the round colored balls, and glittered off the other ornaments. Beyond it, in the windows, the yellow candles looked warm and comforting. I let Luciano carry me away into Christmas as it ought to be.

The next morning I looked up Hazel Fine's telephone number. Hazel was a little harder to find than Christine Kittery had been. There were more Fines than one on Martha's Vineyard, and I called two wrong numbers before I got the right one. The right Fine, it turned out, lived on West Chop. Convenient. She could walk to work. A woman's voice said, “Hello.”

“Hazel Fine?”

“No. She's gone to work. Who's calling, please?”

“J. W. Jackson. I didn't think bankers went to work this early.”

“The bank may not be open, but bankers go to work like everybody else. Can I give her a message?”

“it's personal. Would her boss be mad if I went by the bank to see her?”

“That's probably not the world's best idea.”

“it's important.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“J. W. Jackson. What's yours?”

“Mary Coffin. We share this place. Maybe you can give me some idea what this is all about. Hazel and I don't have many secrets.”

“I don't know if this is a secret, and if she wants to tell you what we talk about, she can. I won't have any objection. But I think she should make that decision. When does she have lunch?”

“Twelve-thirty. She eats it here.”

“I'd like to see her then. I'll call her at the bank and see if she's agreeable.”

“Tell you what,” said Mary Coffin, coolly. “Let me call her, so she'll know I'll be here, too. Okay?”

“Sure. Tell me how to find you, and I'll see you at twelve-thirty.”

She told me, and I rang off. So Hazel Fine had a defender. I wondered what she was like.

Hazel and Mary Coffin lived about a block from the library, always one of my favorite places in any town. A little before noon, I drove by their house, then parked in front of the library and went in there to wait.

Libraries are full of lore and people who will help you find it. I had nothing particular in mind, and ended up reading about modern Israel, a place I'd never been nor ever expected to be. The book had lots of pictures and not too much text. It looked to me like the Israelites had picked themselves a tough hunk of dirt to live on. Desert and more desert; buildings built of stone and cement; a shortage of water and trees. What made that hard land so important to so many people that they'd soaked its sands with blood since the beginning of history? I couldn't tell from the pictures. On the other hand, it looked like a place the Navajos and Zunis and Hopis might like, so maybe there was some magic to it that I could not see in the photographs. I decided I preferred Martha's Vineyard.