Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (5 page)

CHAPTER
EIGHT

"Sergeant,”
I said to a familiar voice. "I need to speak with Detective Chamberlain."

"I'm sorry,
the detective isn't in. Can someone else help you."

"No,
Sergeant. Tell Chamberlain that Jay Leicester needs to talk with him. I'll be
at the Navigator Inn."

"Yes, sir.
As soon as I hear from him, I'll give him your message."

"Thank you,
Sergeant." I hung up. A loud horn blew outside my balcony door. Must be
the ferry arriving, I thought. Peering over the railing, I saw that the ferry
was preparing to leave the dock. Cars were scurrying aboard like tiny ants.

Sitting down at
the small table beside the bed to make a few notes, I remembered Chamberlain
mentioning that his wife had a book on Rockwell Kent. Maybe I could borrow it,
increase my knowledge of the art world, and see how big this Kent collection
truly is. Nat Rinaldi was familiar enough with the collection to bring four
hundred and fifty thousand in cash to buy it. He was certainly sure a handsome
profit could be made, or he wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to travel to
Port Clyde, Maine.

Reading about
Rockwell Kent would not further this case. But anything I learned about him and
his work couldn't hurt.

My phone rang.

"Jay, J.L.
here. I got your message. What's up? Sandy alright?"

"Yeah,
she's fine,” I said quickly, throwing the note pad on the bed. "Resting in
her room. I was wondering if I might borrow your wife's book on Kent?  My
ignorance in this area embarrasses me.

"Funny you
should ask,” he laughed. "I'm home, doing the same thing. Look, I have an
idea; Kathleen's feeling real good today, why don't you both come over for
dinner. It would do her a lot of good to talk to Sandy about the art
world."

"Not a
great idea, J.L. Sandy's taking her brother's death pretty hard. She seems to
want to be left alone. I'll check on her and see if she's okay. If so, I'll
come out alone. It's important I look at the Kent book."

"You're
right. I should have thought of that myself. She wouldn't want to visit, especially
today. Insensitive of me. You come on out to the house. We'll see you at
six-thirty." Chamberlain gave me his address.

Sandy answered
her phone in a sleepy voice. "How are you feeling?" I asked, watching
the ferry sail toward Vinal Haven. "Hope I didn't wake you?"

"No, I was
just lying here. Did you arrange our flight out?"

"I'm
working on it,” I lied. "Chamberlain called. I'm going to meet with him
later. Can I do anything for you?"

"No,
thanks. I just want to rest. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Chamberlain's
expecting me at six-thirty. I'll check on you when I get back."

Hanging up, I
sat down hard on the bed feeling exhausted. Doing nothing the rest of the
afternoon would be a welcome interlude.

*
* *

Finding
Chamberlain's house was not a problem. It sat high on a hill at the end of a
narrow, winding lane. Located on a promontory south of Rockland called Owl's
Head, the house was a two story Victorian with a square balcony on the roof. A
broad porch ran around the house, adorned with big square columns. Rocking
chairs and swings were spaced appropriately along the wide veranda.

Shutting the
engine off, I got out and looked at the huge water oaks and old growth fir
trees standing thick on the hill. They did not completely hide a tremendous
view of the Atlantic Ocean fifty yards down the slope behind the house. The
view from the rooftop balcony must be breathtaking.

Very nice, I
thought, standing quietly in the silence, not wanting to disturb the
peacefulness.

The house was
brightly lighted and, as I walked up on the porch, a faint, woeful strain of
music wafted on the night breeze. It was hauntingly familiar.

Chamberlain met
me at the door. He seemed rested and relaxed. Standing behind him, at the
bottom of a curved staircase, was a most beautiful lady. She had lightly grayed
auburn hair, a rounded, angelic face with a gracious smile. She wore a blue
suede dress with a soft, pleated skirt. A simple bodice with a rounded neckline
fitting smoothly against her slender neck was accented by her only jewelry, an
elegant, three strand pearl necklace. She was a rather small woman who gave off
a warm aura. J.L. had said she was seriously ill but, at least to me, she
looked the picture of health.

Chamberlain
introduced her with obvious affection and pride. She came forward and extended
a friendly, firm handshake. I complimented her on her dress and pearls.

Kathleen
fingered the pearls with embarrassment. "J.L. gave them to me on our tenth
wedding anniversary," she said, shyly, proudly, looking up at him.
"They've been handed down to the Chamberlain women for generations. His
mother had them last, God rest her soul."

"Well, they
are beautiful, and they look wonderful on you." I patted her hand.

Chamberlain
walked to a small table where drinks were already poured. "Here," he
said, handing us each a small flute-shaped glass. "It's a custom of our
family to welcome you to Owl's Head with a drink of century old sherry from our
own cellar." He raised his glass. "
Saludé
."

The dark, thick
sherry was so good I wanted to get on my knees with my head bowed.

Chamberlain
observed my reaction and told me about the sherry. His great, great grandfather
shipped it over from Spain shortly after the Civil War. A hogshead, a
half-sized barrel of about sixty-six gallons, had been in the cellar of the
house, undisturbed, since it was put there in eighteen sixty-eight. It was
still about half full.

This was
impressive.

Chamberlain
asked Kathleen if he could help with anything in the kitchen.

"I've
already set the table, only thing left is the salad." Then to me she said,
"We don't have much company, Mr. Leicester. I've been excited all day,
since J.L. told me you were coming. It will be nice to have someone to talk
with."

Kathleen
disappeared into the kitchen.

Chamberlain took
me by the arm. "Come, Jay, let me show you the rest of the house."

The elegiac
music still played softly in the background.

"What's the
name of the song?" I asked, pointing at the ceiling, as if that was where
the music originated.

Chamberlain
laughed. "It's part of Owl's Head tradition. The music is original scores
from the Civil War. Lorena is the one playing at the moment."

"Yes, of
course."

Chamberlain
continued, answering the question mark on my face. "You see,” he said,
waving his arm around the room. "Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, my great,
great grandfather, was a Civil War hero. He fought at a small, rocky hill
called Little Round Top during the Battle of Gettysburg. Wounded six times, he
was brevetted Major General for heroism at Five Forks. He was chosen by General
Grant from all other northern officers to have the honor of receiving the
Southern surrender at Appomattox. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of
Honor for his day at Little Round Top. Later, he ran for governor of Maine, and
was elected to three terms.

"After his
political career, he went on to be president of Bowdoin College. He was
president there when he retired. He died in June of 1914, at age eighty-three.
This was his home. So you see, the music must be played."

I did not want
to fight the Civil War again with Chamberlain. But in a slack moment of my
life, I read Shelby Foote's three volume, one million six hundred thousand word
history of that sad war. Nowhere do I remember mention of a Joshua Lawrence
Chamberlain. I would look it up when I got back to Rebel country.

"Well,” I
said grinning, raising both arms in surrender. "Lorena was a southern
song."

"Yes,” he
laughed, bowing graciously. "I'm aware of its origin. But no more of the
Civil War. I only wanted you to know the history of Owl's Head, and why I can
afford to live here. It's all inherited, with a big trust fund to boot.
Wouldn't want you to think I might be in need of an extra four hundred and
fifty thousand to keep it up."

"The
thought had crossed my mind,” I said smiling. "But after meeting Kathleen
I dismissed it. Such a wonderful woman wouldn't put up with a crook."

"Thank
you,” he said seriously. "She's the most important thing in the world to
me."

Chamberlain
showed me the rest of the downstairs. After the tour, we went out back of the
house. The yard was green, with big trees standing like sentinels, guarding the
grandeur of Owl's Head. The sea lapped at a narrow, sandy beach in a small cove
at the bottom of the yard.

"Your wife
looks in such good health, J.L.,” I said, my curiosity getting the better of my
manners. "What exactly is wrong with her? If you don't mind my
asking?"

He looked at me
with sad eyes. "No, I don't mind. Kathleen has melanoma. It has spread to
the liver. She's been suffering with this damnable disease for six years. They
thought it was in check after the first round of chemo, radiation therapy, and
interferon treatment. It was, for three years. Then six months ago it returned
with a vengeance. The second round of chemo isn't working, although we're talking
daily with the people down in Houston, Texas, at the M.D. Anderson Cancer
Research Center. They're mixing up different soups everyday. Anderson is the center
for melanoma treatment in the U.S. They keep giving us hope, not wanting us to
give up."

"There's
always hope, J.L.,” I said, feeling helpless in the company of such despair.

"I'm a
realist, Jay." He leaned his head back, gazed skyward. "It's not
working this time around."

I could see the
hurt in Chamberlain's face, feel the pain in his voice.

"Bill
Reinbold, the doctor you met at the hospital, is a good friend of ours,” he
continued. "We depend on him to tell us the truth. And he does. Kathleen
only has a couple of months."

It was hard,
cold, ugly facts. J.L. and his wife deserved to know the truth. If it were me,
I would sure want to know.

"My
sympathies, J.L.,” I said, meaning every syllable.

We walked down
the slope to the water's edge.

"If it
wasn't for the pain...” Chamberlain said, looking far out to sea. "I can't
bear to see her in pain."

An old saying,
something about death's extreme disgrace, that monster called pain, flashed
through my mine, but it didn't seem an appropriate quote at the moment.
"I'm sorry, J.L. I truly am sorry."

Chamberlain
looked at me. "She has such a determined will to fight that the recurrence
of this disease is almost untenable for me."

There was
nothing I could think of to say. I stared out towards Africa.

Chamberlain
slapped me on the back. "Enough of this. I do appreciate you asking. It
should do her good to have company. Let's go build a fire in the grill. How do
you like your steak?"

"Still
moving,” I said, suddenly having a great deal more admiration for one Joshua
Lawrence Chamberlain, great, great grandson of a Civil War hero.

While the coals
burned down to grilling temperature Chamberlain took me into the basement of
the house. Sitting in the middle of the huge room was the hogshead of sherry.
It lay in old, hand-hewn blocks, shaped like a cradle. The head of the barrel
was elegantly carved with the words: SACAR SANLUCAR de BARRAMELA OLOROSO,
around the edge of the barrel. Grapes and vines and vineyard workers adorned
the center of the carving.

Along three
walls of the brick cellar were square bins filled with wine bottles. There must
have been two hundred cases of wine lying quietly in this old, cool cellar. I
looked in disbelief at Chamberlain.

He smiled and
shrugged. "Most of it came with the house. I noticed you appreciated the
wine we had at dinner last night. Thought you'd like to see this. I try adding
to the cellar from time to time, but it's hard and expensive in this part of
the country. The trust fund is only enough to keep Owl's Head in good repair,
not a lot extra for replenishing the cellar."

It would have
been a pleasure to spend a whole day looking through the wine bottles; some
covered with half an inch of dust.

Chamberlain
picked up a bottle of champagne. "Here,” he said, handing it to me.
"Let's sip on this while we're cooking. I have something special to open
for dinner. We'll decant it about half an hour before we eat."

We took the
already cool bottle of champagne up to the living room. Chamberlain sat it in
an ice bucket and retrieved three champagne flutes from a cabinet full of cut
glass.

Sneaking a peek
at the bottle on the way up from the cellar, I saw that it had no label.

Chamberlain
called for Kathleen. She appeared from somewhere toward the rear of the house.

"Oh,” she
said, seeing the champagne. "You must be a wine person, Mr. Leicester.
J.L. rarely opens the good stuff."

"Well, I'm
flattered, and no more of this mister stuff, okay?"

"Okay,” she
answered, nodding.

The champagne
rated alongside the sherry. It had a deep straw gold color with tiny bubbles
racing to the top of the glass. A yeasty, toasty nose with damp straw odors
indicated great age. Dry and fruity on the palate, it was perfectly balanced
with a good finish.

"Outstanding,”
I said, admiring the wine, holding the glass up to the light. "What is it,
and where can I get some?"

Chamberlain sat
his glass on the table and picked up the dark bottle. "I honestly don't
know what house made this wine. It was never labeled. I do know two things
about it, though. It is from France, and the year 1911 is etched on the
bottle."

"It's a
rare treat,” I said, raising my glass to him. "Thank you for sharing this.
You're not going to do this with the dinner wine, are you?"