Death on a Vineyard Beach (5 page)

“I never saw him before.”

“And you, Mr. Jackson?”

“Never saw any of them before.”

“What made you involve yourself like that? That was a very dangerous thing to do.”

I'd been wondering about that. “I haven't the slightest idea,” I said. “If I'd had time to think, I probably never would have done it. It just happened.”

He looked at me. “Just happened.”

“Yeah.”

“And you don't know any of the parties?”

“No.”

“Or, like where we might catch up with any of them?”

“The older guy and his friends drove off in an old black Cadillac with those tinted windows. The car had a Mass plate, but I didn't get the number. The perps were in a light-colored sedan. A Chevy, maybe, but I'm not sure. I can't tell the difference between one make and another these days. They took off up Tremont. I didn't get that plate, either. And I don't know how many of them there were. A driver and the shooter, at least.”

“Describe the shooter.”

“We already did that,” said Zee. “Young guy. White. Short. Light build, about a hundred forty pounds or so. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

Sullivan gave her an expressionless look. “You remember a good deal, considering you only saw him for a second.”

“I'm a nurse,” said Zee. “I see a lot of people in the emergency room. I'm used to quick ID's.”

“I guess so.” He looked at me. “Anything to add? Maybe you remember something you forgot before.”

“Don't forget the broken pinkie.”

“I won't.” The detective looked at his notes. “Wiry type. Wearing gloves.”

I nodded. “Maybe those surgical ones. Pretty strong kid, for somebody that size. Gave me a real tussle for the gun.”

“You say the shooter said a name. Marcus.”

“Yeah. And the older guy looked at him. So maybe the older guy is Marcus.”

“Why would he call his name?”

“I don't know. Maybe he wanted him to know he was about to get shot.”

“Or maybe he wanted to make sure he was shooting the right guy.”

“Yeah. He didn't show the gun until Marcus looked at him.”

“Reacted to hearing his name, you mean?”

“That's how it looked to me, but it all happened pretty fast.”

“And after the shooter took off, you turned around and the younger guy with Marcus had a gun pointing at you.”

“I'd hardly call him a young guy,” said Zee. “I'd say he was more fortyish. But, yes, he did point a gun. I was only a yard or so away, and I saw it all. He jumped in front of the older man and jerked the pistol out from under his coat. I thought he was going to shoot Jeff!”

The detective looked at me. “And that's when you told him to take off.”

“Yeah.”

“This fortyish guy was a bodyguard, you think?”

“That's what I think.”

The detective grunted, and got out a cigar. Then he looked at Zee and put the cigar away. “Lessee. An older guy named Marcus complete with bodyguard and a driver and a black Cadillac with Mass plates. Shouldn't be too hard to track down. The perps are another story. You both sure you never got a look at the driver's face?”

“Not even a glimpse.”

Sullivan stood up. “You gonna be in town long?”

“About thirty seconds after you let us go,” said Zee. “I'm on my honeymoon, and I don't want to spend the rest of it in the Wang Center.”

“Honeymoon, eh?” Sullivan arched a brow. “Congratulations, Mr. Jackson. Best wishes, Mrs. Jackson.”

A policeman came up to us, and gestured toward the door with his thumb. “Gordy, there's some reporters out there. You want I should let them come in now?”

“No reporters,” I said, getting up. “I don't need any reporters sharing my honeymoon. There's got to be another way out of here.”

“Come with me,” said Sullivan. “We'll sneak out the back way and go down to headquarters so you two can
look at some mug shots and sign your statements and be on your way.”

So we went and looked at mug shots, but didn't see the kid with the shotgun.

Sullivan was disappointed, but not surprised. “The thing is, we get shotguns, but they aren't the weapon of choice around here. Nines are what the bad boys like these days. But since spring, we have had two shotgun killings. Not the usual thing, so maybe this shooter is the same guy. You're the first people who've seen his face, so I thought maybe we'd get lucky.”

“Who got shot?” I asked.

“The sort of people you'd expect to get shot sooner or later. Two would-be bad guys from in town.”

For the most part, people who die violently live that way first. It's pretty rare for a peaceful person living in a peaceful place to get shotgunned.

Of course, it does happen.

Sullivan thanked us and told us that he might be in touch. “Not unless we nail the perps, though, or unless something comes up.” He shook hands. “I'll have somebody run you back to your hotel. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” He gave me his card. “Now get back on that honeymoon.”

A young cop drove us back to the hotel. There, I looked at Zee. “What do you say, wife, shall we stay another night or head for the blessed isle?”

“I've had about as much city as I want for now. To the Vineyard, James.”

We checked out and headed south. It was now early evening, and we had the road pretty much to ourselves since we were driving toward Cape Cod and the cape weekenders were all coming home, filling the northbound side of the highway.

Zee was pretty silent, I thought. Finally, she spoke.

“You scared me, Jeff. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

I was uncomfortable about the whole incident myself. Years before, after having been shot, I'd left the Boston PD for Martha's Vineyard in part because I hadn't wanted any
more to do with defending the city from its bad guys. When I'd learned that I would have to live the rest of my life with a bullet lodged against my spine, and when I'd had my first wife leave me for a man in a safer profession, I had decided to let some other people save the world. “It all happened pretty fast,” I said now. “I didn't really think about it, I just did it.”

“I know. That's one of the scary parts. I just got married. I don't want to be a widow.”

“It was just a fluky thing. It'll never happen again. We should just put it behind us and not think about it anymore. I plan to live a long time, and tell my grandchildren lies about the good old days when all the bluefish weighed at least twelve pounds and the bass weighed fifty.”

“Good. We'll grow old and gray together.” She put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. But when I glanced at her, she still had a thoughtful, solemn look on her face. Feeling my eyes on her, she looked at me.

“Now, don't think about it anymore,” I said.

She put a smile on her face. “Okay, I won't think about it anymore.”

“The past doesn't exist.”

“At least we should only remember the good and useful parts.”

“You've got it, kid.”

We arrived at the Sagamore Bridge traffic circle and took a right. Driving along the road paralleling the canal, we saw several boats making the transit from Buzzards Bay to Cape Cod Bay, all motoring briskly along.

“Someday we'll do that in the
Shirley J
.,” I said. “We'll make a giant sail up Buzzards Bay, through the canal and out across to Provincetown. Then we'll go down the outside of the cape and home again.”

“In the
Shirley J.,
that will take some time,” said Zee.

“We'll have the time. We're going to be married for at least an epoch.”

“How long's an epoch?”

“Long enough to circumnavigate Cape Cod in the
Shirley J
., and then some.”

“And to produce grandchildren.”

“That, too.”

We looped onto the Bourne Bridge and drove to Woods Hole where, by happy chance, it being a Sunday evening, we managed only a short wait in the standby line before catching a freight boat to Vineyard Haven.

At our house, the summer stars were out, and Boston seemed far away. There was a soft wind from the southwest, and it stirred the leaves of the trees. An owl hooted somewhere off to the north. Zee put her arms up and around my neck and I drew her to me. We stood in the warm darkness, then went inside.

Oliver Underfoot and Velero, sleeping together in their favorite chair, yawned at us.

We went into the bedroom.

“Home,” said Zee, smiling.

Two days later, Zee went back to work at the hospital. In her absence, I cleaned the house, checked on the
Shirley J
., and then went clamming down at the Eel Pond. By the time Zee got home, I had supper ready to go in the oven, and chilled Lukusowa martinis and smoked bluefish pâté waiting for her.

“Not bad,” said Zee, kicking off her shoes, and lighting up the room with her smile.

We took the hors d'oeuvres and the drinks up to the balcony and watched the evening settle over Vineyard Sound, out there on the far side of the barrier beach that carries the road between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs.

A few last sailboats were leaning across the darkening waters, heading for harbors, and motorboats were leaving white wakes behind them. The beach beside the highway was emptying of its last families, and there were only a couple of bright surf-sails moving back and forth along the shore. The evening darkened into night, and I went down and got supper heated.

We ate a lazy meal.

“This is nice,” said Zee, reaching across the table and touching my hand. “I'm glad we're here.”

“Yes.”

The next morning, as I was putting my rod and my qua-hogging rake on the Land Cruiser's roof rack, I heard the
phone ringing. When I was single I sometimes didn't answer the phone on general principles, but now I was a married man with responsibilities, so I made the dash and swept up the receiver.

“Mr. Jefferson W. Jackson?” It was a voice I did not know.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Jackson, my name is Thomas Decker. I work for Luciano Marcus. He'd like to invite you to dinner.”

  
5
  

I looked at the receiver, then put it back to my ear. “Marcus as in Wang Center and
Carmen?”

“That's right, Mr. Jackson. Mr. and Mrs. Marcus would like to invite you and your bride to dinner, so they can thank you in person for what you did to prevent a serious incident. Would Saturday night be convenient?”

“How did you get our telephone number?”

“Mr. Marcus has spoken to the police in Boston.”

“And they told him who we were.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Marcus are greatly in your debt, and would very much like to make at least a gesture of repayment.”

I wasn't interested in a gesture of repayment, although I was curious about who Marcus might be.

“I'm sure the Marcuses would like to put the whole thing behind them,” I said. “So would my wife and I. Tell them that they owe me no debt, since I only did what anyone else in my position at that time would have done. Tell them my wife and I just got home and we don't want to leave the island again right now. But thank them for the invitation.”

“Ah,” said Decker. “But you don't have to leave the island. Mr. and Mrs. Marcus live in Gay Head. They will be pleased to send a car for you and Mrs. Jackson, at your
convenience. On their behalf, I implore you to accept their dinner invitation. They will be deeply disappointed if you do not.”

Implore. It was a perfectly good word, but one that few people used. I tried to remember the last time I'd heard it, but could not. I wondered, too, how long it had been since someone had been deeply disappointed because I couldn't show up for dinner. It had been some time. Probably forever. Finally, I wondered if Zee was as curious about Marcus as I was. I decided she might be.

“All right,” I said. “Saturday night.”