Vineyard Enigma (5 page)

I held his gaze. “There was no sign of a break-in at the house.”

My impression was that Al’s sense of morality was pushing him in ways he didn’t want to be pushed, toward a decision he didn’t want to make.

He frowned. “Barbara and I know a lot of island people involved in the arts, and most of them knew Matthew Duarte. I can’t imagine any of them being criminals, and I’m reluctant to give you their names. I’d feel like an informer. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Of course it does, but I have no reason to think any of your friends is a killer or a thief. I’m just trying to get a line on the two stone eagles.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, J.W., but I just can’t do it. You don’t remember Joe McCarthy, but I do. If I give you names I’ll feel like one of those people who played rat in front of McCarthy. I won’t do that to my friends.” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his brow.

Joe McCarthy was before my time, but I’d read about him and his investigations.

“All right,” I said. “One Joe McCarthy was enough. I don’t want to be another one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. Thanks anyway. I’ll ask around somewhere else.” I stood up.

“I hope you find your eagles, but I’m not sure I want you to find out anything else. I’d hate to see our friends’ names spread all over the papers.”

“I’m not a cop and I don’t work for the newspapers,” I said, “so I won’t be making any arrests and I won’t be publishing any stories. The best scenario I can think of is that somebody will know something about the eagles. The next best is that nobody will know and Mahsimba can go on out to California and hunt his eagles there.”

Barbara Butters came into the room. “I’ve talked to the police. They didn’t know where Connie was. They’ll try to contact her over on Nantucket.”

I thanked them for their time, gave Jake a goodbye pat on the head, and went out into the early-summer sunlight. A light breeze was beginning to stir the leaves on the oak trees around the lawn. I wondered if Al would go sailing today or whether his mind would be on other things. He had looked happy when I’d arrived, but he hadn’t looked that way when I left.

I drove home and opened my phone book. Al hadn’t supplied me with any names, but Barbara had given me one. I found it: Mauch, first name, Charles.

Charles Mauch lived in Vineyard Haven, out toward the lighthouse on West Chop, where there are a lot of large old houses. I knew that some rich and famous people summered in Vineyard Haven, but I had little knowledge of them because their lives and mine were lived in different air. Mauch was one of them.

I made a sandwich for lunch and had a Sam Adams to go with it. Then I phoned the Mauch house. After three rings a woman answered. “Mauch residence.”

I gave her my name and told her that I’d like to talk with Mr. Mauch about some artwork.

“J.W. Is that you? This is Rose. Rose Abrams.”

Quel
surprise. “Rose. It’s been a while.”

“At least a while. I didn’t know you were interested in art.”

“And I didn’t expect you to answer this phone.”

“I work for Charles part-time. I’m sort of a combination assistant and housekeeper. I’m afraid Charles is busy right now. He’s working in his study.”

“Tell him I was just discussing some artwork with Al and Barbara Butters, and Barbara gave me his name. I won’t take up much of his time.”

“He doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working, J.W., but since it’s you, I’ll ask him if he can see you. What is it you want to discuss?”

“Some African stonework. Pretty rare pieces, I’m told.”

“Hold on, please.” I listened to the silence. Then she came back and said, “Come at two o’clock. He can see you then. He hopes your business won’t take too long.”

“I hope it won’t,” I said.

“See you at two, then. How’s the family?”

“The kids are both in school now. Joshua is five and Diana is almost four. Time flies.”

She didn’t seem to notice that I’d said nothing about Zee. Instead, she said, “Yes. Things can change quite a bit, can’t they?”

Like the change from Rose Shaw, island kid with little education and no prospects, to Rose Abrams, assistant to Charles Mauch.

I’d read of Mauch in the local papers, usually in regard to artistic events and fund-raisers for worthy causes, and had been told by Barbara Butters that he’d hosted a party attended by the Butterses and Matthew Duarte. It wasn’t much knowledge, and I thought I might benefit from having more, so when I drove to Vineyard Haven, I stopped at the library.

The Vineyard Haven library had recently undergone major renovations, including the addition of a controversial columned entrance. I’d thought the new entrance was just fine, but letters to the editors of the island papers had clearly indicated that not everyone agreed with me, the writers’ principal criticism apparently being that the columns were just not Vineyardish. The critics had prevailed, the controversial columns had come down, and Martha’s Vineyard had survived yet another assault on its aesthetic traditions.

I got a copy of
Who’s Who
from the shelf and sat down at a table.

I was once again not listed, but Charles Mauch was. Yale; philanthropist; board member of major museums, ballet companies, and symphony orchestras; lecturer; author of several books on art; expert on pre-Columbian art in particular; married to Elaine, daughter of a shipping magnate even I had heard of; grown children.

I left the book on the table and drove on out Main Street toward the lighthouse.

Mauch lived on a side street leading down toward the outer harbor. His house was at the end of the lane. It was a big place in the style of the early 1900s, when stucco was in vogue. There were flower gardens around the house and along the front and side fences. A lawn rolled down to the beach, where a boathouse anchored a dock that led out into the harbor. A motor yacht about fifty feet long was tied along one side of the dock and a day sailer, a dinghy, and what looked like a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler were tied to the other side.

There was a circular drive in front of the house, and I parked there, figuring that an old, rusty Land Cruiser with rods on a roof rack would not be too shocking a sight to anyone used to Vineyard vehicles. Even the rich fishermen I knew usually drove their trucks until they rusted out, as a matter of pride and frugality. Mine, of course, was driven out of necessity, since I couldn’t afford anything better.

I knocked on the door and Rose Abrams opened it. She had a smile on her face and was wearing comfortable, informal clothes. They were well tailored, but something about the lines and material told even me that they weren’t too expensive, so I figured that although Rose was functioning on a higher social plane than when we’d dated long ago, she still didn’t really have the big bucks. On Martha’s Vineyard, rich people often wear sloppy, old, ratty clothes, but they are clothes that had once cost a lot. You can spot a rich girl a block away.

“J.W. Come in, please. Charles is in his study.”

Charles. Not Mr. Mauch. “You’re looking good,” I said, meaning it. “I ran into Miguel this morning. Old home week.”

Her lips formed a smile. “It’s a small island. Follow me, please.”

We went down a corridor hung with paintings and into a room lined with books and decorated with small, exquisite
objets d’art.
There was a couch against the far wall, under a window overlooking the harbor. A tall, lean, white-haired man stood up from an ornate desk as we came through the door. The desk was covered with books and papers surrounding a computer. I must have been the only man in America without a desk with a computer on it.

“Mr. Jackson is here,” said Rose.

“Thank you, Rose.”

She inclined her head and went back past me into the hall, closing the door behind her.

“I’m Charles Mauch,” he said, putting out his hand, which I took. He smiled a warm, personal smile, and I thought he was probably a very successful winner of confidences and extractor of donations for the artistic organizations to which he belonged.

“J. W. Jackson.”

“How may I be of assistance? Rose said you mentioned works of art. Please, sit down.”

I sat in a leather chair with a high back topped by a gilded crest. “I won’t be long. I see that you’re busy.”

He smiled again and made a small, graceful gesture that indicated he was indeed busy but he was more than pleased to give me all of his attention for as long as I needed it.

“Someone once observed that the graveyards are full of indispensable men, Mr. Jackson. Similarly, if my indispensable paper never gets written, the sun will rise anyway. Tell me how I can help you.”

“I’ve been asked by a friend to try to locate two art objects from Africa. I went to see Al and Barbara Butters. They couldn’t help, but your name came up, so here I am.”

“African art is not my specialty, Mr. Jackson. What is it in particular that you’re looking for?”

“Two soapstone carvings from Zimbabwe. Birds.”

He studied me for a long moment, then said,

“That’s rather vague. Can you be more precise?”

“I’ve never seen them. I know they’re old. They’re carved eagles that were originally found during the early excavations of what’s now known as Great Zimbabwe and became part of a private collection. Just before the Ian Smith government of Rhodesia lost power, the birds apparently disappeared from the private collection. The Zimbabwean government has been trying to find them for years. There’s evidence that a former mercenary brought them to America and that they possibly ended up on the Vineyard.”

“Indeed?”

I told him about Brownington’s efforts in California and Mahsimba’s belief that Matthew Duarte might have handled the sale. “I got involved because I know the island fairly well,” I said, “and because a friend asked me to help out.”

He nodded. “May I ask who that friend might be?”

“His name is Stanley Crandel. He summers in Oak Bluffs and got interested in the eagles as the result of a trip to Africa, where he met Mahsimba. I’m working for Mahsimba.”

“I believe I’ve met Mr. Crandel.” Mauch’s expression was thoughtful. “Is the United States government involved in this matter?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Because a great deal of stolen art is being transported over international borders. It’s a thriving trade involving millions of dollars, and various nations, including ours, are interested in stopping it.”

“I’ve read about it. I’m not sure who legally owns these eagles. They were taken from Africa thirty-five or so years ago, and before that their ownership was debatable.”

His voice became professorial. “There’s an art-loss registry that has lists and pictures of items stolen or missing, but I don’t remember ever seeing a reference to your eagles. Aside from stolen art, there’s the issue of museums having acquired materials from other countries that now want them back. Greece’s battle with Britain for the return of the Elgin marbles is probably the best-known example of that.”

“I’ve read about that.”

“It’s a contentious matter because the museums often purchased the materials long ago or at least were not discouraged from taking them from their native lands. It’s also arguable that had they not taken them and preserved them, the materials would have long since been destroyed. Did you know, for example, that before the British government began protecting Stonehenge, tourists were given hammers and chisels and encouraged to chop off souvenirs from the stones, or that locals used the monument as a stone quarry for building materials for their houses and barns?”

“I remember reading something about it.”

“You apparently read a great deal, Mr. Jackson. Are you involved in archaeology or the arts yourself?”

“No. I’m a fisherman. That’s why I need your help. You’re well-known in your field and you know others in it. I’m trying to find out if you or anyone you know might have seen or heard about these Zimbabwe eagles.”

The phone on his desk rang, but he ignored it. “Rose will get that,” he said. “She takes my calls and filters the ones I need to answer. Well, you’ve taken a logical first step in coming to me. I know of the eagles in the African museums, of course, but I’m afraid I personally have heard nothing of the ones you seek. Al Butters probably knows other islanders with an interest in African art, but you’ve already talked with him and Barbara.”

He frowned and was silent for a moment. “Perhaps your best bet would be to talk with Matt Duarte. His father, Dan, who you say was interviewed by that fellow Brownington, was a notable art dealer. Dan and I went way back, all the way to Yale. He died just last December, as you may know. Auto accident. A tragic loss. Matt lives in West Tisbury. The East Coast rep for the firm, as it were. I’d go see him, if I were you.”

There was a rap on the door and Rose Abrams came in just as I said, “I’m afraid Matthew Duarte won’t be telling me anything. He’s dead.” I glanced at Rose, saw the color fade from her face, then looked quickly back at Mauch. His eyes were wide. I hesitated, then added, “Apparently it was murder. He was shot in the head.”

Behind me, Rose gave a small cry. I turned, then leaped up and ran to her just in time to keep her from slipping to the floor. I half carried her to my chair and eased her down into it.

“I’m afraid I’ve given her a shock,” I said. “Where’s your kitchen? I’ll get some water.”

“Down the hall to the left.” Mauch began to massage her hands. He looked at me. “She’s not the only one who’s shocked! Hurry with that water.”

I went down the hall into a large, modern kitchen, found a glass and filled it from the faucet, and came back to the study, where I heard Rose Abrams say, “I’m all right, Charles, really.”

I handed the glass to him and he put it to her lips.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be fine. It’s just that…”

Mauch looked angrily at me. “You might have been discreet, man! Did you have to blurt it out like that? Before a woman?”

His, apparently, was an old-fashioned chivalry, wherein women were perceived as delicate creatures who needed to be sheltered from the hard realities of the world.

“Sorry,” I said to Rose. “I should have stopped talking when you came in.”

She reached down into herself and found strength and will enough to straighten herself in her chair. “It’s not your fault, J.W., I…” She paused, then looked at Mauch. “I almost forgot. Mr. Harper from the Smithsonian is on the phone. You wanted me to put him through if he called. Oh, dear, how long has he been on hold?”

“Never mind that, Rose. Harper can wait a few minutes. How are you feeling?”

She sipped more water and took the glass in her hands. “Much better. Please talk with Mr. Harper. I’ll be fine.”

“You sit there, then,” said Mauch. “I’ll take the call in the bedroom. Stay with her if you will, Jackson. I’ll be right back.”

He strode from the room. I looked down at Rose and thought that she wasn’t as all right as she’d said. Her face was snow-white and the water glass was trembling in her hand.

“I’m sorry I shocked you,” I said. “I take it that you knew Matthew Duarte quite well.”

“I worked for Matt when I wasn’t working here.” She looked at me with stunned eyes. “He was murdered?”

“It looks that way.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. In his own living room.”

I caught her as she slumped forward and carried her to the couch. The glass had fallen from her hand.