Vineyard Stalker (21 page)

“The weed of crime bears bitter fruit,” said Olive. “When Dom gets back I'll mention our conversation.”

I drove down into Edgartown and spent some time looking for a parking spot before finding one right on Main Street, of all places. Who can explain the whimsy of the gods?

I walked among the tourists who crowded the brick sidewalks, cameras around their necks, maps in hand, eyes flitting here and there, looking happy. Downtown Edgartown is lovely, so it's no wonder that visitors are impressed. However, some Edgartonians, including me, think it's too bad that the village's one-time pharmacies, grocery stores, and other shops selling useful things, have now become T-shirt shops, gift shops, and pricey clothing stores catering to tourists and the yachting crowd. On Martha's Vineyard these days, you have to go to Vineyard Haven if you want to buy anything you actually need.

Ah, the dreams of yesteryear.

Of course, in forty years, people will look back at this time as a golden age, when you could buy a house on the island for only a million dollars, and just fifteen thousand people lived here year-round.

I went into Gull Realty and found Jordan and Carole Cohen in their office. I thought Carole looked a little ragged. Jordan waved me to a chair.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“The eternal quest for truth. What can you tell me about Alfred Cabot?”

He put his hands behind his neck. “He's rich. His principal home and his business offices are in Boston. He owns property in Aquinnah and a hotel in Oak Bluffs, and probably a lot of other properties in a lot of other places. He speaks only to God. Just kidding about that last part.”

“I imagine Cabots have gotten used to the joke over the years.”

“Why are you interested in Alfred Cabot?”

I looked at Carole. “Because I think he may be the guy behind the vandalism at your brother's place.”

Her eyes widened then narrowed. “Alfred Cabot? Are you sure?”

I told them about Fred and Angie living at the Noepe, about their admission that they were the vandals, and about the report that Cabot had been seen entering their room. I didn't mention the incident at my house, but told her that Fred and Angie had left the island and probably wouldn't be back.

“They're the ones who did the actual vandalizing?” asked Jordan.

“Yes. But somebody hired them and Cabot looks like the someone. You're in the real estate business; do you know if Cabot wants to buy Roland's property?”

“If he does, he never told me.” Carole tapped a pencil on her desk. “I think you should talk with cousin Sally. She's the one who's hot to sell the place. Cabot might have contacted her.”

“Why would Cabot be interested in that piece of land? He's already got a hundred acres in Aquinnah.”

“You can ask Sally. Maybe he told her.” She leaned forward, frowning. “Have you heard anything about a connection between the killing and the vandalism? I'm worried that there might be one.”

“A lot of people, including the cops, are probably wondering about that.”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I know my brother didn't kill her.”

Eve was probably just as sure that Cain hadn't killed Abel. “I don't believe he did,” I said. “Melissa was a woman who liked men and made no bones about it. She and your brother were lovers.”

She sat back. “Roland lives like a monk. Do monks have lovers?”

I thought of Abelard and Héloïse, and of Alexander X. “I imagine some do,” I said.

“Melissa Carson was engaged to Alfred Cabot,” said Jordan. “Doesn't that make him a suspect?”

“The jilted lover syndrome? He wouldn't be the first guy to murder a woman for stepping out on him. The cops probably have him on their list.”

“If not him, then who?”

“It could have been a chance encounter. The killer just happened to be there as she walked out to the road. They call them murders of opportunity.”

Carole looked wearier than when I'd come in. “I suppose. Do you really think that's what happened?”

“I think it's unlikely.”

She frowned. “I know my brother didn't kill Melissa, but if they don't find out who did it pretty fast, I'm afraid that somebody will dig way back and discover that he deserted in Vietnam.”

I got up and glanced at my watch. I had about a half hour before the parking cops gave me a ticket. “I'll talk with Sally Oliver and see what she can tell me about Cabot.” At the door I paused and looked back. “It might be best for everyone if Roland turned himself in. After all this time I don't think the army will be very interested in putting a decorated soldier like Roland Nunes in jail, especially after the life he's lived since then.”

“I hope you're right.” Carole smiled wanly. “Well, protect yourself at all times when you talk with Sally. She's got a bit of a temper and right now there's a lot of tension in the air.”

“I'll keep my dukes up,” I said.

I went directly to Prada Real Estate and was lucky again, because Sally Oliver was in her office. If it had had a back door, I think she'd have used it when she saw me come in the front one, but such was not the case. I walked past the receptionist and shut the lone door behind me.

Sally Oliver settled back behind her desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”

“Did Alfred Cabot ever try to buy Roland Nunes's land?”

A wary look appeared on her face. “What's Alfred Cabot to you?”

The wary look interested me. “I met him today,” I said. “I've learned that he had some sort of relationship with the two guys who vandalized Nunes's property. If he was interested in buying that land, he might be the one who hired them. So, do you know if he ever tried to buy the land?”

She looked at me for what seemed a long time, and then she said, “A lot of people have expressed an interest in buying that land. He may have been one of them. I don't believe he ever made a formal offer. What makes you think he knows the vandals?”

“They were seen and overheard talking together.”

“By whom?”

“Nobody you know. Someone with no interest in the vandalism. How well do you know Cabot?”

A small fire appeared in her eyes, and her cheeks reddened. “What's that supposed to mean?”

I said, “I mean just that. How well do you know him? Have you ever met socially? Have you ever talked with him? Do you have an opinion about what sort of person he is? Is he the sort of person who would hire vandals to frighten Nunes into selling to him?”

She seemed to withdraw into herself, and I had the sense of someone donning armor. “I'm sure I wouldn't know. I've only met him casually.” She looked at her watch. “I'm very busy, Mr. Jackson. I'm afraid I can't give you any more time right now. Perhaps you can come back later.”

I looked at my own watch. I was about to become a target for the dreaded parking police.

“I have to go anyway,” I said. “Thanks for seeing me.”

I left and walked up the street to my truck. A half block behind me a young summer cop was cheerfully sticking tickets behind the wipers of cars parked overtime, and even though I'd escaped from her this time, I wondered once again about the wisdom of one-hour parking limits in the village during the summer. How could you ever go to a movie? How could a tourist enjoy a leisurely lunch? How could a visitor take a slow stroll through the shops and galleries? Of course I never did those things during the summer, but other people did. Where was the logic?

Maybe I should become a city planner.

I drove down Main and then took a left onto North Water Street, inching along to avoid hitting any of the tourists who habitually use Edgartown's streets as sidewalks and are sometimes actually offended when a car intrudes upon their sightseeing. I took another left onto Winter Street and creepy-crawled along while tourists reluctantly stepped up on the sidewalks as I approached them. I had paused to give a young man and woman time to move aside from in front of my truck when I saw Sally Oliver, driving a Mini Cooper, come out of the Prada Real Estate parking lot and turn onto Winter in front of me.

Hmmmm.

By the time I'd worked my way through the sightseers, the Mini was out of sight. I went on to Pease's Point Way and followed it to Main Street, but didn't see the car. I turned right and drove out of town. I saw another Mini, but it wasn't Sally's. There was no telling where Sally had gone, and, anyway, her trip probably had to do with business: a meeting with a client. A tour of a property.

Or maybe not.

I drove home and sat down in front of our computer, trying to remember how to make it do what I wanted it to do instead of what it wanted to do. My ignorance obliged me to keep it simple: I got online and typed in ‘Mini Cooper photo.' Lo, another miracle in this best of all possible worlds: Up popped a photo of a Mini Cooper. I printed it out, admired my work and my genius, put my old Boston PD shield in my wallet, then got back into the truck and drove to Delia Sanchez's house.

When I knocked on the door, the man I'd seen earlier on the porch opened it. The top of his head was about even with my shoulder but he didn't look like he felt overmatched. He looked up at me with unfathomable eyes.

“I'd like to speak to Delia,” I said.

He said something I didn't understand.

I shook my head. “I don't speak Portuguese.”

Behind him I sensed the presence of many people listening. The man considered his words, then said, “She sleeps.”

I dug out my wallet and flashed the shield. “I must ask her one or two questions.”

He didn't like the shield but he was also afraid of it. I felt again like a bully, but stood my ground.

“You stay,” he said and went away. I heard the murmur of voices; then he came back with Delia, whose face was full of worry.

“Don't be afraid,” I said. I showed her the photo of the Mini Cooper. “Have you seen a car like this one in the hotel parking lot?”

She studied the photo and then nodded. “
Sim
. Yes, I have seen a car like that.”

“Have you seen it often?”

She shrugged a small shrug. “Sometimes. I do not count the times.”

“Two more questions, and I'll go. Was this car ever there when Senhor Cabot was not there?”

She took her lower lip in her teeth and flashed a look at the man. “I don't want trouble,
senhor
.”

“You're not in trouble.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Only the truth.”

She pushed the photo at me. “O.K. I think this car comes only when Senhor Cabot was there.”

“Did you ever see the driver of this car?”

She shook her dark-haired head. “No. I never see him. Never.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I won't bother you again. Go back to sleep.”

I sat in the truck remembering seeing a Mini Cooper at Alfred Cabot's place in Aquinnah and was sure that Sally Oliver was lying about only having met Cabot casually. They were more than casual acquaintances; the question was, How much more? Were they lovers? Business partners? Both? Neither? A combination of the two? Who would know?

Martha's Vineyard Hospital is one of the island's major recyclers of gossip, but my main contact there, Zee, was out of town, so that source had to be scratched. I thought of everyone I'd encountered since I'd first become involved with Roland Nunes's problems and could think of no one who could tell me what I wanted to know, with the exceptions of Cabot and Sally Oliver themselves and, possibly, Fred McMahan and Angie Vinci, and none of them was going to talk to me.

I thought of Cabot's guard, who'd come up to the fence on his ATV. Maybe if I took his shotgun away from him and threatened to shoot him with it if he didn't talk, he could tell me something about Al and Sal. The servants always know the family secrets, it's said. If I was in a movie, I might be able to pull that off, but I was in real life, so I didn't pick up the option.

Who, then?

There were only a couple of people I could think of who might know: Babs Carson and Roland Nunes.

I drove to West Tisbury. I had done so much driving lately that I was single-handedly keeping the gasoline companies in business.

Robert Chadwick opened the door of Babs Carson's house and looked at me with tired eyes.

“You were here earlier. Must you bother her again?”

“Maybe not, if you can tell me something.”

He stepped out and pulled the door mostly shut behind him. “I don't understand why you're doing this. Why don't you leave everything to the police? Why are you still at it?”

It was a fair question, but I ignored it. I was so involved now that I couldn't become uninvolved. “I want to know whether Sally Oliver and Alfred Cabot have more than a business relationship. Melissa mentioned Cabot having a mistress, but she didn't mention the woman's name. Do you know if it's Sally Oliver?”

His mouth hardened. “I don't like spreading gossip.”

I said, “If you don't tell me, I'll have to ask Babs. If you try to prevent me from doing that, I'll go to the police and they'll ask the same question.”

“Do you always deal in scandal?” He leaned toward me and his voice was angry and touched with contempt. “I thought more of you when we first met.”

“I'm dealing with murder and vandalism,” I said, “and crime is a dirty business. You're an educated man. You know that.”

He hesitated, then sighed and straightened as the fire slowly went out of his eyes. “You're right about crime, of course. I apologize for my outburst. When I was teaching I prided myself on my objectivity. But this business has brought my emotions to the forefront.”

I nodded. “Of course your feelings are powerful. It's because of your concern for Mrs. Carson. She's fortunate to have you for a friend.”

“I wish I could do more for her.”

“You may be doing something for her by telling me if Alfred Cabot and Sally Oliver are lovers. Do you know if they are?”

He still hedged, reluctant to be a rumor monger. “What difference could it make?”

“Sally Oliver told me she doesn't know Cabot well. I think she was lying, but I'd like to know for sure.”

He rubbed his bald head. “She told you that, did she? Well, I was once here when Melissa told her mother that Sally had been Cabot's mistress for some time. You know how Melissa talked about such things. She told Babs that it didn't make any difference to her if Cabot had a mistress because she didn't plan on giving up her own lovers just because she and Cabot were engaged and might even get married.”

That sounded like Melissa to me. I said, “The only time I talked with Melissa, she seemed more interested in Roland Nunes than in Alfred Cabot.”

He nodded. “Yes, life was like a game to her. Sex was fun and her rules allowed for a lot of it, with no hard feelings when the game pieces moved on. It's not the way I've lived or would want to live, but it was her way and I could never bring myself to condemn her for it. I liked her. She had more of the
élan vital
than most of us do.”

I nodded agreement. “You've told me what I wanted to know. Go back and stay with Babs.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have to talk with some people.”

“Do you think they'll ever learn who killed Melissa?”

Statistically, the odds of solving murders aren't too good, but I said, “I think so. I think the noose is tightening.”

His smile was sardonic. “I hope that's an appropriate metaphor.”

I drove back to the murder site and walked down to Roland Nunes's house. He wasn't home. The only indication that a woman had been in his house was that faint scent of perfume on the double cot. Back at the paved road I looked across at the narrow trace that was all that remained on that side of the road of the ancient way that led through Nunes's property.

I crossed and walked along that track between the oak brush and small pines that were crowding it from either side. It was about the same width as the path leading to Nunes's house. It ended, as Carole Cohen had told me, in a small clearing beyond which was another of those gates that increasingly cut off access to the ancient ways.

Bent grass showed where some sort of traffic—a motorcycle, perhaps? a small car?—had passed in and out again, and I wondered if this hidden spot was a place where teenaged lovers escaped from their parents' world while they tried to discover their own.

I walked back out to the truck and drove to the building site overlooking Menemsha Pond. Nunes was working there as calmly, it seemed, as if nothing unusual had happened in his entire life. When I reached him, though, I sensed that his face was bland through an act of will; that his eyes only appeared to be beatific; that his movements were under steely control.

He put down the air-powered nail gun he was using and pulled the hearing protectors from his ears.

“J.W. What brings you here?”

I sat on my heels beside him. “Did Melissa ever mention any enemies while she was with you?”

His voice was leaden. “Never.”

“Did she ever talk about Alfred Cabot or Sally Oliver?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say about them?

“She said they were lovers.”

“She was engaged to Cabot. Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you were lovers. Did she plan to leave Cabot?”

“She never said so.”

“What did you want her to do?”

“I wanted her to be happy.” There was no expression in his face or voice.

“Do you think she was considering leaving Cabot?”

“What does a man know of a woman's thoughts?”

“What did you think?”

“I thought she was beautiful and desirable.”

“Did she want to marry you?”

“I wanted to marry her.”

“Did she accept your proposal?”

“No.”

“Did she refuse you?”

“No.” He paused. “She only laughed and kissed me.”

“Did you believe that she would later say yes?”

“I neither believed nor disbelieved. I only cherished her.”

I looked out over Menemsha Pond. There were boats, power and sail, crossing the water. To my right I could see Menemsha Bight, and beyond that, across Vineyard Sound, the small island of Cuttyhunk where thirty or so hardy souls lived year-round and were happy when the summer tourists went away in the fall.

“They call you the Monk,” I said, “but you've not lived a totally spiritual life, have you?”

“No. I've tried to live simply and so as not to injure others, but I've not managed that, and I've achieved no cessation of desire.”

“Has your life been an atonement?”

“I wanted it to be. When I was a young man I did much harm. I didn't want to do more.”

“Have you found peace?”

His answer came late. “No. I knew I would make a very poor monk. My best hope was to be a harmless man, but I'm not.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes pulled at me. “I know that death means nothing and that we should accept it when others cause it or we cause it, but I can't.” I saw one of his hands squeeze into a fist before he too noticed it and willed it back into a hand. He saw that I had seen the fist and nodded slightly. “My life has been a failure. I can't be what I know I should be.”

“No one can be what he knows he should be,” I said. “Would you have married her?”

He nodded slowly. “Oh yes, but I would have made a poor husband. My wife could never be sure that the police wouldn't come knocking at my door.”

“Have you considered turning yourself in to the army? I'm sure you could survive any penalty they might impose, and then you'd be free.”

“Perhaps I'd get out of jail, but Melissa is dead, and now I have to decide what to do with myself.” His eyes were staring at nothing. “I'm hollow. I have a headpiece full of straw. My life is a whimper.”

I looked into those eyes and saw emptiness. “You're not thinking of harming someone, are you?” I asked.

His face was unfathomable. “Who would I harm but myself, and what would be the harm in that?”

“You've spent your life atoning for the harm you did during war,” I said.

“Do you know the story of the saint and the cobra?” he asked. “The cobra was trapped by rising floodwaters, and the saint took pity on him and carried him to safety. When they reached high ground, the cobra struck him fatally. The dying saint was astonished. ‘Why have you killed me?' he asked. ‘I just saved your life.' ‘You cannot help being a saint,' said the cobra, ‘and I cannot help being a cobra.' ”

I'd heard variations of that tale before, but they had been told in tones unlike his. “I think you have a choice,” I said. “Your life proves that you have.”

He said nothing. I thought I saw a tear form, but he wiped it away. His despair was tangible. He had spent his life climbing out of the Void, but was now back in it. I was familiar with the place.

“I don't want to rehash Philosophy 101,” I said, “but even if life has no meaning, you can create it. You can live and be happy.”

He picked up the nail gun, pointed it at a beam, and pulled the trigger. The nail buried itself in the wood.

“I was happy a week ago,” he said. He lifted the gun and nodded toward the embedded nail. “These are wonderful tools, but people get killed with them fairly often, usually because they're careless. Right now I have to concentrate all the time to avoid being careless. It takes all of my energy.”

I tried to move us both away from his despair. “Melissa never mentioned anyone who was angry with her?”

“Only one. Alfred Cabot. She said he was unhappy when she told him she was seeing me. She thought it was comical. She thought a lot of things were comical.” His eyes became hooded.

I had a sense of what he must have been like in Vietnam: tough, wary, centered, lonely.

“What did Melissa say about Sally Oliver?”

“She said Sally should get a life of her own and stop playing second fiddle in Cabot's. According to Melissa, Sally was his mistress during both of Cabot's marriages and still is.”

“Did Melissa see her as a rival?”

“Melissa never worried about rivals. She laughed at them.”

“What do you think of Sally?”

He shrugged. “She's my cousin. Like they say, you can choose your friends, but not your relatives. I know she wants me to agree to leave our land. Maybe I will, if I decide to turn myself in to the army. I won't need the land if I'm in jail.”

“I don't think you'll be in jail very long, if at all. Why do you dislike your cousin?”

“She likes people too little and money too much. Like me, she has too much temper.”

“She can be charming when she wants to be.”

“Truly charming people don't turn their charm on and off. She does.” He made a small gesture. “I shouldn't be criticizing her. I'm worse than she is.”

“Is she cruel?”

“Everyone is cruel.”

“Is she vindictive?”

He shrugged. “She's been spiteful to me ever since she learned that I planned to keep this land, but her spite just made me dig in my heels. Maybe if she'd been more loving, I'd have given in.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “I'm a fool for love, after all.”

“Don't berate yourself for being susceptible to love,” I said. I was not good at giving love, but I knew its value. My wife and children were worth more to me than the universe.

I stood up. “Don't do anything rash. I'll see you later.” I walked away and after a few moments I heard the sound of his nail gun as he went back to work.