Dead in Vineyard Sand (14 page)

“Had she?”

“The ME said yes, although I don't think the girl was officially drunk. Anyway, I thought it was possible that she'd been drinking and had wandered away from the other kids and had fallen and hit her head on a rock and drowned. The abrasions looked consistent with damage caused by the body being tumbled against rocks. The ME came to the same conclusion.”

“No sign of foul play.”

“What's that supposed to mean? What's Henry Highsmith's death got to do with Heather Willet? You should keep your focus.” She gave me a worried look, such as wives give when their husbands go through midlife crises.

“My focus is just fine,” I said. “Here's what we have so far: First, Henry Highsmith tries to start a fight with me in the fish shop for no good reason and then he and his wife both get themselves shot. Then some guys in a car follow me and call me a killer. Today I learn that the two Highsmith kids sneaked out of their house a couple of weeks earlier to attend a beach party where, according to Tiffany Brown, Heather Willet, who has the hots for the Highsmith boy, goes off with him and his sister and another kid and ends up naked and dead. You tell me that Wilma Shelkrott brought her husband to the hospital because she was afraid he was having a heart attack brought on by the party. That's two deaths and two hospitalizations involving the Highsmiths. I'd like to know why Nathan Shelkrott panicked because of the beach party.”

She spread her hands. “Maybe he felt responsible somehow. Maybe the parents left the Shelkrotts in charge of the kids, and the kids escaped and ended up in the middle of a party where booze and drugs were involved and a friend drowned. Maybe he was afraid he and his wife would get fired.”

“How long have the Shelkrotts worked for the Highsmiths?”

“I don't know,” said Zee, going back to her papers. “Years.”

“Didn't you tell me that Wilma Shelkrott has been worried for a long time? What's she been worried about?”

“How should I know? Maybe she and her husband have been worried about getting fired and they were afraid the beach party would be the excuse the Highsmiths needed. Or,” said Zee, “maybe Wilma's just a worrywart.”

“Or maybe she's just one of those people who looks worried but really isn't.”

“Maybe,” said Zee, “but I don't think so.”

I trusted Zee's instincts about Wilma. Full-time fretters are often what I call baroque worriers. Baroque worriers worry in complex, highly convoluted ways about unlikely things that would never occur to most people, and that often depend on a whole series of equally unlikely things happening first. The form and content of their worries are often wonderfully ornamented, like a composition by Bach, and like much of Bach's work they take a lot of time to complete; thus baroque worriers are inclined to worry most of their waking hours, unlike classic worriers, who get through their worries much more quickly and have time left to do other things.

I try not to worry about anything. Although I'm not actually able to do that, the effort itself annoys some hard-worrying people, who view it as a kind of insult to humanity. They may have a point, because not only are people probably the only animals who worry, they're probably the only ones who should.

“Any news about Abigail Highsmith?” I asked.

“I hear that she's stable. I think her sister is up in Boston with her.”

I thought back. “I heard that an uncle is here on the island looking after the kids, and that an aunt is with Abigail.”

Zee finished sorting papers and putting them into separate stacks, and began to put the different piles into different files, thus offering yet more evidence of the false prophecy that paperwork would end forever when computers entered the mainstream of human enterprise. As every clerk or public servant knows, there's more paperwork now than before.

“And Wilma and Nathan are up there at the house with Unc and the kids,” I said. “Do the Shelkrotts live
right there in the main house or do they have a place of their own?”

“I think they have what used to be called the servants' quarters.”

She was only half joking. Of the dozens of gigantic new houses being built all over the island, many included servants' quarters that were elegant in both design and construction. According to a carpenter friend who was making excellent money working on the new castles, there was even a kind of competition among millionaires having to do with who was erecting the most gracious quarters for their maids and manservants. Our friend had taken me and Zee on a tour of his current project and indeed the servants' quarters, in that house at least, were lovely. Not, of course, as lovely as the main house, which, like many of its kin, was gigantic enough to host three generations of the family and sported hand-carved imported woods, Italian marble, and gold bathroom fixtures.

“Do you know the uncle's name, by any chance?”

She tapped the edges of a stack of papers to make a neater bundle. “His name is Brundy, or something like that. He's Abigail's brother-in law. The gossip is that the kids wanted to go to Boston to be near their mother but the adults thought it would be better if they stayed here. I think it was probably a good decision. All they could do up there is sit in a waiting room. Hospitals really aren't very well prepared to care for the children of hospitalized adults.” She put the neat pile of papers into a file and slid the cabinet door shut. “You're going to the Highsmith house, I presume.”

“I'd like to see Nathan Shelkrott, at least. Maybe Wilma too.” I looked at my watch. “But not today. Today I have other obligations.”

“What? To go fishing?” She feigned a pout. “It's not
fair, you know, to go fishing when I have to work! A real gentleman would never think of such a thing.”

“I'm going to babysit the Nelson kids with Joshua and Diana. If all goes well, I'll get some more work done on the rope bridge.”

“You'll need six eyes,” said Zee. “One for each kid and the regular two for your work. Say, why not show the
Leopard Woman
movie again? Kids love to see the same movies over and over, and they may get an even better appreciation of the significance of the work you're doing.”

I put my big hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “You have an excellent mind,” I said.

“I try to be of assistance,” said Zee, “but you're not always easy to help. Happy babysitting.”

No one followed me home.

Naturally, the Nelson kids loved
Tarzan and the Leopard Woman,
and naturally, my own kids loved it even more than before, and after watching it on our tiny black-and-white TV screen all four of them were more enthusiastic than ever about the tree house and the rope bridge and tried to be of help to me, the master carpenter, as I continued to work on the bridge after they'd seen the movie. Unlike Tarzan, Boy, and Jane, who had to do their building with whatever materials the jungle had to offer, I had electricity and modern tools, rope instead of vines, and other modern advantages, so I actually made some progress.

David McCullough, the island's finest writer, had once penned an excellent book on the building of the Brooklyn Bridge; it occurred to me that maybe he'd like to write one about our bridge, when we finished it, and I considered arranging for him to see
Tarzan and the Leopard Woman
as cultural preparation. I had never actually met David, but I knew he'd be a fan.

That evening, as Zee and I were sitting on our balcony, our backs to the slanting summer sun, I pointed out the day's progress and asked Zee what she thought of my idea about inviting David to win another Pulitzer by writing about our bridge.

“An excellent plan,” said Zee. “I'm sure David will love it. He's probably been wondering what to do next.”

There is no greater blessing than an agreeable wife. I
looked at Oliver Underfoot and Velcro, who were sociably sitting on the balcony railing, staring at nothing in catish fashion. “What do you two think?”

They too thought it was a fine plan. That made it unanimous.

The next day I put the kids in the Land Cruiser and drove to Chilmark. The Highsmith place was on Middle Road, but I wasn't sure exactly where, so I went first to the Chilmark police station for directions.

My route took me through West Tisbury, where we passed David McCullough's house. I decided not to stop and suggest the new bridge book, but instead went on to the Panhandle, then left on Middle Road, where, after the kids and I admired the big-horned oxen who welcome down-islanders to Chilmark, I checked mailboxes all the way to Beetlebung Corner but saw nothing that identified the Highsmith house. I did, however, see a box with the name Willet. Behind it, up the hill, the house and barn had an unoccupied look, and I remembered that after their daughter's death the surviving Willets had returned to the mainland.

The peripatetic Chilmark Police Department is locally famous for having its station moved from one location to another and then to another. I caught up with it at its latest address in what was once the old Menemsha School. The young officer unfolded a map and showed me that the Highsmith place was in fact next door to the Willet place, on an old road that had originally led up to a now long-abandoned stone quarry. Wouldn't you know?

The policeman put his finger on the quarry and waxed nostalgic: “It's been full of water as long as I can remember. We used to sneak up there and try to dive to the bottom but we never could get down that far. Some of the crazies drove an old jalopy in there once,
and we never could dive deep enough to find it either. Last time I was up there, years ago, they had No Trespassing and No Swimming signs all around it, and now it's part of the Highsmith place so you can't get there anyway. I tell you, things have gone downhill since I was a kid. Nowadays half the island is forbidden territory.”

I thought he was pretty young to be so wistful about the golden past, when every gate had been open and you could go anywhere, but maybe time passes faster these days.

I didn't tell him why I wanted to find the Highsmith place because I'm sometimes as covetous about information as anyone else. What is it that pleases us so much when we know something other people don't know? Is it a feeling of power? Sooner or later, of course, people with secrets almost always reveal them to someone, which is a good thing for the police, who have cuffed many a perp who couldn't keep his mouth shut about his crime and was ratted out by his listener.

After agreeing with Diana that we should seriously consider stopping at The Bite for a fried clam lunch, I drove back along Middle Road until I passed the Willet mailbox and came to a driveway leading up the hill to my left. The Highsmith mailbox had only a number on it, which explained why I had ignorantly passed it on my first trip. The driveway wound up through oak and underbrush to a grassy clearing on the hillside. Midway in the clearing was a large, newish house with an attached three-car garage, and beyond the house was the untended grassy remains of the road that presumably led on up to the old stone quarry.

There was an apartment over the garage where, I guessed, the Shelkrotts probably lived. The driveway circled in front of the garage and looped back onto itself.
Looking to the south over the falling hillside, the house's occupants had a panoramic view of southern Chilmark and of the ocean, which curved over the horizon and next touched land at Hispaniola, homeland of Pedro Martinez and many other baseball notables. Aspiring Major Leaguers in the United States should learn what the Dominicans eat and make that their diet.

There was a Volvo sedan with New York plates parked in front of the garage beside a middle-aged blue Chevy station wagon with Connecticut plates. I parked next to them, speculating that the Volvo belonged to the visiting uncle and the Chevy belonged to the Shelkrotts.

“You kids stay out here,” I said as we climbed out of the truck after I'd checked for dogs. “Don't go far. I have to talk with some people here.”

“Can we walk around behind the garage?”

“Sure.”

As I approached the house I could see a garden behind the garage. There wasn't much growing there yet, which suggested that it had been planted late, if at all. Everything in sight was neat and well maintained, but the place had an odd feeling that made me somehow uneasy, as though I were entering the world of the Fisher King.

A woman opened the door in answer to my knock. She had a faintly worried look on her face that made her look older than I guessed she was.

“Mrs. Shelkrott?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Jackson. I've just come from the Chilmark police station, and before that I was conferring with Sergeant Agganis of the state police about the shootings of Mr. and Mrs. Highsmith. I hope you
don't mind me bringing my children. They're good about not disturbing things.”

She looked at them as they walked toward the garden.

“I don't mind.”

“I don't want to intrude,” I said, “but as you know, the police often interview people more than once during their investigations. Do you and your husband have time to answer a few questions?”

“Conferring” was a stretch, but otherwise my tongue was only slightly forked. Wilma Shelkrott was only partly skeptical.

“Are you a police officer?”

I patted my hip and smiled. “I have a badge, if you'd like to see it.”

That was true. It was my old Boston PD shield, long withdrawn from service.

I was pleased when she waved a hand and stepped aside. “Oh, no, that won't be necessary. Please come in.”

I walked past her into an entrance hall with doors leading into three other rooms and a stairway leading up to a second floor. There was a coat closet beside a short deacon's bench and a bust of Socrates over a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes that looked more decorative than utilized. I don't know many readers who bother to bind their books in leather; they tend to buy cheaper editions so when they wear them out they can afford new copies.