Vineyard Chill (18 page)

“Neither was I,” said Verdi. “She was beautiful and she was sexy but she was sweet, too.”

“Did she ever say anything about anyone who was giving her grief?”

They both thought, then Calhoun shook his head. “No, not really.”

“And you two never tangled over her?”

“No. Never.”

Roland and Oliver.

I sat back and drank the last of my beer. “Did you ever see her with anybody else? Besides Reggie Wilcox, that is.”

“A lot of people liked Nadine.”

“Anybody you can name?”

Calhoun waved an arm in a gesture that took in every customer in the room. “Take your choice,” he said.

“Not everybody loved her,” I said. “Somebody killed her.”

Calhoun looked at Verdi. “Now that I know Al got into the bed I was after, maybe I'll kill him.”

“You're scaring me,” said Verdi, looking at his empty bottle. “Tell you what. I'll buy you a beer if you spare my life.”

“Oh, all right,” said Calhoun. “That should make us square.”

I thanked them for their time and went home.

The next morning I drove to John Skye's farm and found Clay putting breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. We don't have a dishwasher at our house, though I'm not sure why since they seem handy things to have. Maybe the reason is the same one that accounts for me driving a rusty forty-year-old truck: I'm too cheap to buy anything I don't really need. As long as my old Toyota Land Cruiser keeps passing inspection and running, I'll probably keep driving it. Why not? If we need a fancier vehicle—if we're ever invited to a presidential ball, for instance—we'll use Zee's little red Jeep, Miss Scarlet.

“Did you find the shotgun?” I asked.

“I did. I loaded it with buckshot.”

“Wyatt Earp always loaded buckshot.”

“I'm not Wyatt Earp, but I thought buckshot was appropriate under the circumstances.”

I told him about my musings concerning Jack and Mickey's car and clothing, and wondered what he made of them.

“All I can guess,” he said, “is that they left California when the weather was warm and drove cross-country trying to catch up with me.”

“If they knew where you were, why didn't they fly, then rent a car?”

“Maybe they didn't know where I was when they left. Maybe they drove to Palm Springs first, then went on from there one step at a time, following those fake clues I left on my way here.”

That made as much sense as anything. But if that was what had happened, when and how had they learned from Clay's friend in Sausalito that he'd shipped Clay's tools to the Vineyard? If they'd gotten that information before they came east, they'd have known that Clay's false trail was false and would have flown directly to Boston and then rented a car. But they hadn't done that; they'd driven east in a convertible and summer clothes.

“Ergo, what?” asked Clay, when I put this issue before him.

“Ergo, maybe they have someone else working with them. A pal who stayed behind and caught up with your Sausalito friend after Jack and Mickey were already headed east. Their West Coast guy gave them the information about the tools, and since Jack and Mickey were already halfway here, they just kept coming.”

“That would explain why they didn't stop in Arkansas,” said Clay. “Lewis sent Jack and Mickey east and had somebody else on the coast check out my friends there.”

He shut the dishwasher door. The machine was far from full and he made no move to add soap since, like most dishwashers, this one served most of the time as a storage space for dirty dishes. When it finally was full, it would be turned on to do its duty. At my house we washed up after every meal and stacked the clean dishes to dry in a rack by the sink.

“I wonder where Mark is,” said Clay. “The money I left in the locker is his, but he hasn't contacted me about the key. Lewis seems to want the money more than Mark does, so why did he give it to me to take to Mark in the first place?”

“Maybe Mark is dead,” I said. “He was in a dangerous profession.”

Clay frowned. “It's possible, but I doubt it. Mark was a careful guy, and he always treated people fair and square so I never heard of anybody who was mad at him. Whoever tried to get that money I was carrying is more the double-dealing type.”

“Lewis Farquahar?”

He nodded. “That would be my guess, although I can't be sure. I only met him a few times, but my gut told me I didn't want to work for him. Of course, Jack and Mickey could be working for somebody else entirely by now. It's a byzantine business and there are a lot of people who'd like to get their hands on three or four million dollars.”

“But you think it's probably Lewis and that he probably figures that you have money he wants to retrieve.”

“It belongs to Mark, if it belongs to anybody.”

“If Mark is dead, it doesn't belong to anybody. Was he married? Did he have children or kinfolk?”

“I never heard about them.”

“Have you tried to contact Mark since you got here?”

He nodded. “The problem is making contact without revealing my position, but I've given it a shot. I know a woman in Vancouver. She's an old friend, and she's smart. I sent her money and had her buy a cell phone, then go to one of those online cafés and send an e-mail to Mark telling him I wanted to get in touch with him and that he'd get a phone call in Palm Springs at a certain time. Then I had her make the call for me on the cell phone. But all she got was the same answering machine I got, so she hung up. I haven't tried contacting him since.”

“Did you tell the woman where you're living?”

He shook his head, smiling a small, ironic smile. “No. She probably looked at the postmark on the letter I sent her, and if she did she knows it was mailed from the Vineyard, but she doesn't know more than that. She's a good friend.”

He'd had a lot of women in his life and not all of them had ended up friends. I hoped he was right about this one. I remembered the book Loretta Aldrich had been reading and thought that Machiavelli would have advised Clay to be less trusting. I saw no point in mentioning that cynical diplomat's views on faith and, instead, told Clay of my guesses concerning Jack and Mickey's search pattern.

“Well,” said Clay, “they can certainly find people who know I used to be here on the island, but there aren't many who can swear I still am, and you're the only one who knows where I'm living, so I don't expect to have to use your shotgun.”

“How do you feel about working on the schooner? I told Zee and the kids to tell the truth about what they know if anybody asks.”

“I'd go wacky if I wasn't working. I take roundabout routes to get there and I don't go to the barn until I'm sure nobody's on my tail. I do the same thing coming home to this house. I park behind the barn at Ted's and I try to avoid using power tools so I'll hear anybody driving into Ted's yard. If Jack and Mickey ever show up, I should hear them in time to hide in the loft or cut and run through the back woods. I feel like some kind of character in a B movie.”

“The hero, I hope. The heroes in B movies always survive and get the girl.”

“That's my plan: to be a star.” He slapped me on the back and got his coat. “Speaking of work, it's time I got to mine. You can follow me if you want to, just to make sure I get there.”

I did that and saw no sign of anyone showing the slightest interest in Clay's blue Bronco as it turned down Ted Overhill's driveway. I drove on into Edgartown wondering just how big a gang was after the suitcases Clay had carried to San Diego and whether Jack and Mickey were just the tip of the iceberg. I parked in front of the police station on Pease's Point Way. To get into the station these days, thanks to Home-land Security policies, you have to punch a button beside the door and have someone at the desk admit you. The someone that day was Kit Goulart, the 250-pound wife of a similar-sized husband. When the two of them walked hand in hand, as they often did when she was in her civvies, they never failed to remind me of a team of draft horses.

“What brings you to this citadel of law and order?” she asked.

“I'm trying to catch up with Tony D'Agostine.”

“Well, you won't find him here. He's off duty today. Try his house.”

“Can I use your phone instead?”

“Since it's you.”

I phoned the house and Tony was actually there. I asked him if he knew the last name of the woman Reggie Wilcox was seeing. “You called her Joyce Something-or-other, but I don't think that's in the book.”

“Smithwick, I think,” he said. “Joyce Smithwick. Or something like that. She lives out on West Chop someplace. Works in a jewelry store on Main Street. My wife likes the store. Wait a minute.” He was back in less than that. “Yeah, that's right. Rita says it's Smithwick. There can't be too many Smithwicks in Vineyard Haven.” He gave me the name of the jewelry store, in case I couldn't find her house.

I thanked him, hung up, thanked Kit for the phone, and asked if I could now borrow her phone book. She said yes and in it I found a lone Smithwick telephone number and an address. I thanked Kit again and left. Outside, the sun was trying to break through a high, gray overcast as March was deciding whether to be warm or cold that day. Someone once told me that the weather was always perfect in San Diego, where Clay's suitcases were parked, but the same could not be said for New England. I drove to Vineyard Haven.

Vineyard Haven is the only town on Martha's Vineyard where you can still buy most of the things you need. Oak Bluffs still has a couple of practical stores, but Vineyard Haven has more. The jewelry store where Joyce Smithwick worked, however, was not one of them.

I actually found a parking place on Main Street, a difficult thing to do in Vineyard Haven even in the wintertime, and went into the store, past windows full of gold and wampum bracelets and earrings. Inside was more of the same. A young woman was the only clerk and I was the only customer. She was tall and slender and was decorated with mostly silver jewelry, which she wore well. She gave me a nice smile.

“May I help you?”

“I'm looking for Joyce Smithwick.”

“That's me.”

I couldn't fault Reggie Wilcox's visual taste in women. She was a beauty. I told her my name and said I was talking to people who might know something about Nadine Gibson, the girl whose body had recently been found in Oak Bluffs.

“Oh,” she said, and her smile disappeared. “I heard about that on the radio. But I don't think I can help you because I never knew her.”

“Actually, I want to talk with you because you've been dating a man who did know her. Reggie Wilcox.”

“Reggie?” Her eyes widened. “Did he know that girl? He never mentioned it.”

“Have you seen him since they found her body?”

She shook her head. “No. I haven't seen him since last weekend. Did he really know that woman?”

“They dated a few times, apparently. I talked with him yesterday and I'm interested in your impressions of him.”

“I don't know what you mean. What impressions? Why are you asking me about my impressions?”

I raised a hand in what I hoped was a calming gesture. “There's going to be an official investigation about the woman's death because it was probably either a murder or an accident that someone tried to cover up. Everybody who knew her, especially during the last days of her life, is being interviewed. The hope is that someone can help the police figure out what happened and who, if anyone, is responsible.”

“Reggie didn't kill anyone!”

Reggie apparently hadn't told her about his life as a policeman in New Bedford. I was tempted to mention it, but didn't. I'd leave that to Reggie himself, or to someone else.

“How long have you been dating?”

Her face had become unhappy. “About six months. Since last fall.”

“What sort of person do you take him to be?”

Her chin lifted slightly. “I don't know what you mean. He's very nice, very thoughtful.”

“Who decides where you go and what you do?”

“Are you trying to find out who's the boss? Well, neither of us is. We decide things together. If one of us really wants to do something, the other one agrees. We don't fight about anything.”

I thought but didn't say there'd be time enough for that later, if their relationship continued. Was I becoming a cynic? Should I write
The Return of the Prince
?

“So he doesn't boss you around?”

“No. He told me he was married before and he didn't want to make any of the mistakes he'd made in the past.”

“Did you take that to mean that he'd tried to boss his first wife around?”

“No. I think he meant he wanted to be different in a lot of ways. He's very gentle and that's always a surprise to me because he's so big and strong. It would be easy for him to use power to get his way, but he never does.”

I remembered how he'd looked down at me. He was at least four inches taller than I am and about fifty pounds heavier. And he'd looked very fit in his deputy sheriff's uniform.

“Women must find him attractive,” I said.

Her face became happier. “Who could blame them? Not me. But I'm the one who's dating him. The others are just looking and wishing.”

“Does he ever lose his temper?”

“Never.”

“Does he ever hold you too tightly?”

“No! What sort of question is that?”

“You mentioned his strength.”

“And I told you that he never uses it!”

I thought I'd learned whatever Joyce Smithwick could tell me.

“The police may come by to ask you similar questions to the ones I've asked,” I said. “Meanwhile, I think Reggie is fortunate to have met you. Thanks for your help.”

I went out and noticed that the sun had won the battle with the clouds. The day was warming and there was a faint promise of spring in the air. But nature is always indifferent to the woes and joys of men. The sun may shine on murder and lovers may reap the whirlwind.