Vineyard Fear (29 page)

The following morning was gray and cool, with spats of rain blowing in on a southwest wind. I hauled anchor and beat out to sea, taking a bit of a pounding as I cleared the harbor entrance, but then having a better time when
I headed north to clear Sandy Point, and finally having a fine following wind as I swung up toward Martha's Vineyard.

I sailed all day and into the night, because the
Shirley J.,
for all her many virtues, is not too swift. In the last of the light, I dropped the hook outside the entrance to Cuttyhunk, that tiny, westernmost member of the Elizabeth Islands. The people on Cuttyhunk live there partly because they like to be alone. I understood that desire, and did not go ashore.

At first light, I pulled anchor. In light morning breezes, I loafed along on the Buzzards Bay side of Nashawena and Pasque, then cut through Robinson's Hole, and caught the east tide past Tarpaulin Cove toward West Chop. The late morning wind came up and I had a fine sail. I rounded West Chop, crossed to East Chop, noted that the bonito fishermen were still at work around the Oak Bluffs ferry dock, and headed for home close-hauled.

I was back on the stake by mid-afternoon, and ashore a half hour later. I put my gear in the Toyota and walked down to the Navigator Room for a beer. When I came out, the chief was drinking coffee across the street in front of the Dock Street Coffee Shop. I walked across.

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea,” he said.

“As the general said, ‘I have returned.' ”

“Your millions of fans will be greatly relieved,” said the chief. “Your boat's been gone for eight days.”

“My, Grandma, what big eyes you have.”

“The Law never sleeps. I've been trying to get hold of you for a couple of days. The harbormaster told me the
Shirley J.
was gone. Where you been?”

“Sailing, sailing, over the bounding main. Block Island and points between here and there. Why do you want to see me?”

“The DA is going to convene a grand jury.”

“I figured as much. I guess I would, too, if I was the DA. A man's been shot to death, after all.”

“I imagine he's going to make as much as he can about that second shot after Cramer was down.”

“I'll testify that Cramer seemed alive to me and that I was in fear of my life.”

“The doctors will testify that he was probably dead.”

“I'm no doctor and neither is Geraldine Miles. I thought he was still alive.”

“Geraldine told us that you said he was dead.”

“She was confused. She only wanted to save my life. His pistol was still in his hand.”

“When we got there, it wasn't.”

“I kicked it out after she shot at him the second time. I was in fear of my life. I'll testify to that.”

“You spent a lot of that time in fear of your life. You got a lawyer?”

“No. I don't trust lawyers.”

“Maybe you'd better get one. Perjury is a bad rap.”

I spread my arms. “Perjury? Me, commit perjury? What are you talking about? I'm a fisherman! Would a fisherman lie?!”

The chief stared up the street. His mouth was kinking, almost as if he wanted to laugh. Instead, he drank some coffee.

“I don't think a grand jury will bring an indictment against her,” he said, “but you never know.”

“They won't, if I have anything to say about it.”

“So I gather. There's another thing. The Sheriffs Department in La Plata County, Colorado, say they've found a car rented in Jackson, Wyoming, by one Gordon Berkeley Orwell, but carrying the New Jersey plates that are supposed to be on Orwell's New Jersey Jeep Cherokee. They wonder if you know anything about that.”

“I'm the one who told them to look for that car. Where'd they find it?”

“How should I know? At the foot of a trail that goes up some cliffs or other. They want to know if you know where Orwell is. Seems that they talked to John Skye and
he said he saw you and Orwell at the top of those cliffs. The sheriff hasn't talked to anybody who's seen Orwell since. Wonders if you know where he is.”

Where was Orwell? Was he smiling down at me from heaven? Frowning up at me from hell? Floating disembodied in the primal fluids of the universe? Had he been reabsorbed into the World Soul? Had he seen the white light of Truth? Were the energies that once had taken the form of his earthly life been recycled into some new shape? A flower? A fish? A cancerous cell in some smoker's lung?

I told the chief about how I'd taken Orwell up to the top of the cliffs so he could talk with John. Then I said, “After he and John talked, I talked to John on the walkie-talkie. John told me that he had convinced Orwell that he was after the wrong man. I stayed there on the cliffs for a while, then came down. The last time I saw Orwell, he was near the top of the cliffs. The last thing he said to me was that he hoped I had no hard feelings.”

“You didn't toss him off the cliff, then?”

“I have acrophobia,” I said. “I get sick if I get too close to the edge of high places. Ask John Skye. Ask Mattie. Ask the twins. Ask John's niece. They'll all tell you.”

“He was scheduled to return to duty, but he didn't show up. Apparently very unlike him. Do you think he was suicidal?”

“I think you have to be a little off center to do some of the things he did. I don't know if he was suicidal.”

“They say he was on special leave. Stress syndrome, or some such thing. Do you think he might have jumped?”

“I don't read minds.”

He finished his coffee and dropped the paper cup into a refuse disposal container. Edgartown is a neat town, and the chief would never drop his cup in the gutter.

“I don't read minds either,” he said. “Glad I don't. I wouldn't want to know what a lot of people are thinking.”

“How's Geraldine Miles?”

“Women are tough. I just hope this doesn't make her
too tough. It's not good to be too tough.” He walked up Main Street.

I went home, showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and dressed up in my fancy clothes—Vineyard Red slacks, a blue shirt with a reef anchor over the pocket, boat shoes without socks, my belt with little sailboats on it, and called Iowa's house. Jean answered.

“I want to take your niece out on a date,” I said. “Do you think she'll go?”

“I don't know, J.W. Why don't you ask her?”

“Put her on the line.”

Geraldine's voice said, “Hello?”

“J. W. Jackson here,” I said. “I want to take you to dinner. I just got back from a week at sea, and I need to look across the table at a real, live girl and talk to her instead of to myself. Can I pick you up at six?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure . . .”

“Great! I'll see you at six. You have a white dress?”

“Well . . .”

“A white blouse will do. You look terrific in white. See you at six. Wear your dancing shoes.”

I rang off and made myself a martini, wondering if I knew what I was doing.

At six, I picked up Geraldine. She was wearing low heels, a dark skirt, and a white blouse. Her hair was combed so that it partially covered the side of her face that was most hurt.

“Very nice,” I said. “The Veronica Lake look.”

“Who's Veronica Lake?”

“A woman in my father's world. Let's go.” I gave her my arm.

We ate at the Navigator Room, which not only has excellent food, but also has the best view of any Ed-gartown restaurant. She ate with little bites and had white wine. Afterward I talked her into having coffee and a cognac. Everything went on my plastic card. I had so much on there already that a bit more didn't hurt at all.
When we were through with our cognac, I walked with her down to the town wharf and we went up to the balcony and looked at the boats. The stars were just beginning to come out. There was a soft wind from the south.

After that I took her to Oak Bluffs.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, with a small smile.

“We're going to dance,” I said.

“Oh, I don't know. I . . .”

“Anytime before last year, you'd have been taking a chance if you danced with me,” I said, “because I was terrible. I never knew where my feet were, or what I was supposed to do. But Zee Madieras has made me into a new man. She showed me how to dance any kind of dance, and now I'm going to show off with you. Come on.”

We went into the Atlantic Connection. It was crowded and the music hurt my ears, but the dance floor had space for two more, and I led her there. I put my arm around her waist, took her right hand in my left one, and stood there, holding her gently against me.

After a while she looked up at me. “This is it? This is the way you dance?”

I smiled down at her. “Great, isn't is? As long as I don't move my feet, I can dance any kind of dance.”

“And this is what your friend Zee taught you?”

“A terrific teacher. She changed my life. Isn't this fun? God, when I think of the years I was ashamed to step out onto the floor!”

Geraldine put her head against my chest and began to laugh.

We danced until pretty late, and then I took her home. That week I took her fishing and clamming and qua-hogging. I took her out dancing two more times. We danced at the Hot Tin Roof and again at the Connection. Toward the end, I began to shuffle around a little, just to show I was willing to experiment. When I took her home that night, she pulled my head down and kissed me.

“Thanks,” she said. “Uncle Dan says that Zee Madieras is due home tomorrow. I guess that means you won't be taking me out anymore.”

“There are a lot of nice guys who'll want to take you out,” I said. “Just give them a chance.”

That night I didn't sleep too well.

Zee's ferry came in mid-afternoon. I had spent the day doing things that needed doing around the house. I was under the Toyota trying to find an irksome little oil leak when I heard a car coming down my driveway. I suspected that I needed a new gasket for my oil pan. On the other hand, maybe I could get away with just tightening a couple of bolts that had loosened up. The car stopped and a door opened. I slid out from under the Toyota and looked up at Zee.

My heart turned over.

I brushed at some grease on my shirt, then looked up again. Zee was walking toward me. She was wearing a pale blouse and skirt that emphasized her dark loveliness. She walked in beauty, like the night, right up to me.

“Well,” I said. “You've come back.”

“Yes.”

“Were your conferences enlightening?”

“Yes.”

“Have you made any decisions?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a lot to talk about?”

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“I have a lot to talk about with you, too,” I said, “but first things first. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”

THE MARTHA'S VINEYARD MYSTERY SERIES BY PHILIP R. CRAIG

A Beautiful Place to Die

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #1)

Death in Vineyard Waters

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #2)

Vineyard Deceit

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #3)

Vineyard Fear

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #4)

Off Season

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #5)

A Case of Vineyard Poison

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #6)

Death on a Vineyard Beach

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #7)

A Deadly Vineyard Holiday

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #8)

A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #9)

A Fatal Vineyard Season

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #10)

Vineyard Blues

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #11)

Vineyard Shadows

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #12)

Vineyard Enigma

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #13)

A Vineyard Killing

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #14)

Murder at a Vineyard Mansion

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #15)

Vineyard Prey

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #16)

Dead in Vineyard Sand

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #17)

Vineyard Stalker

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #18)

Vineyard Chill

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #19)