Two Down (15 page)

“No way. If they’d done it, we’d detect footprints; rain or no rain. Two women extinguish the blaze, meanwhile passing through heavy CO
₂
residue and ashes to reach the boat’s inflatable . . . There’s no sign of that type of activity . . . Besides, the towline is scorched, but also nicely sliced at the end—meaning the inflatable was cut loose while the boat was still burning . . . From the angle and buildup of CO
₂
, it appears that the blaze was extinguished from above . . . My guess is that a larger vessel pulled alongside and dowsed the fire—”

“Let me get this straight,” Lever demanded. “We’re talking about another boat coming to the rescue?”

“Something like that,” Jones answered. “Someone had to be
above
this fire to extinguish it. The rain helped, sure, but two women in an inflatable sitting alongside in the ocean wouldn’t have had sufficient maneuverability—or height—to fight this kind of fire . . .

“Besides”—he hoisted two blackened cylindrical objects—“here are the
Orion
’s fire extinguishers. The dials have melted, but judging by the weight, they’re still holding full charges . . . Safety codes require boats up to
forty feet to carry two type B-1 extinguishers—which we have here . . . I’m willing to bet this is the only fire-prevention equipment the boat possessed . . . And no one used them. The pins are bent around so tightly it would take someone with a pair of pliers to get them out. A stupid way to keep them . . . useless in an emergency . . .”

“I’ll be back,” Rosco said. He jogged down the pier, crossed to the adjoining dock, and jumped onto the
Dixie-Jack
. Colberg had left the hatch unlocked in anticipation of Lever’s arrival. Rosco poked around for two or three minutes before returning to the marina office. Colberg was still hunched over the crossword; there were only a few blank spaces left.

“When’s the
Dixie-Jack
going out again?” Rosco asked. Ed didn’t glance up.

“Not until the cops are finished with her, why?”

“You might want to check her fire extinguishers.”

“What’s the problem?”

“All four are empty.”

A
fter Rosco reported the problem of the
Dixie-Jack
’s depleted fire extinguishers to Ed Colberg, he strolled down the dock and shared the information with Al Lever.

“So it looks like your bartender ‘friend’ lied to you, doesn’t it, Rosco?” was Lever’s smug response.

Rosco shrugged. “He’s no friend of mine, Al.”

“Well, at least it would indicate he probably didn’t start the fire,” Jones said.

Rosco looked down at the
Orion,
where Abe was still making his inspection. “You’re suggesting this was intentional?”

“I don’t know . . . It’s hard to tell at this point. I’ll have to get these samples back to the lab. But
initially,
I’d say the boat was torched. First off: we’ve got a diesel engine here—or what’s left of it. Igniting diesel fuel requires a lot of effort; it doesn’t usually happen accidentally. The fuel
won’t explode like gasoline. It takes more than a wire short or spark to get it going . . .

“Another thing: most of these newer boats are constructed with flame-resistant materials. You have to work to activate a solid blaze. Obviously it can be done. Douse a surface with a combustible . . . something like that. Look what happened here—” Jones waved a hand above the
Orion
’s remains.

Lever interrupted. “So, what’s your call, Abe?”

“Well . . . it seems like we’ve got the remains of a couple of oil lamps in what’s left of the cabin. Definitely a nono on any type of boat. Why anyone would have them is beyond me, but I’m guessing the lamp oil probably instigated the fire . . . Now, you can suggest that the things rolled off the table when the
Orion
slapped into a wave, but my mind doesn’t work that way. It’s fishy; it stinks; it doesn’t belong in the picture . . . Besides, it’s my understanding that these women were too experienced to carry that type of lamp in the first place—”

“But it’s possible . . .” Lever said, thinking out loud.

“Sure . . . But to tell the truth, my lab work will only confirm that the lamps were
involved
in the blaze—if that’s the case—it won’t tell you who or what—”

Again, Lever interrupted. “Anything’s possible until we prove otherwise . . . What else, Abe?” Al lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and coughed loudly.

Jones hesitated until Lever’s coughing jag slowed, then resumed his analysis. “Well, let’s continue with the
premise
of arson . . . Now, whoever started this fire was smart, but not quite smart enough.
If
the intention was to send this baby to the bottom real quick, then whoever torched it seriously miscalculated the propane tank—”

“What do you mean?” Rosco asked.

“Well, most people would expect propane to build a fire’s intensity, but depending on the position of the tank, it can have an opposite effect, like it probably did here . . . See, when the propane tank gets hot enough, it blows like a giant firecracker. That’s because of the natural expansion of the gas. It doesn’t matter whether the stuff is flammable or not; the same thing could happen to a scuba tank . . .” Abe looked from Lever to Rosco for signs of comprehension. Both men nodded.

“Now, on the
Orion,
the explosion sent the entire deck skyward—the deck and most of the cockpit—opening up the boat’s interior, as you see here . . . Actually, I’m surprised the Coast Guard didn’t find pieces of composite Fiberglass floating around out there . . . Anyway, as the propane burns off, it quickly dissipates in the atmosphere. So, the explosion and concussion it causes can effectively blow
out
a preexisting fire . . . I’m betting dollars to doughnuts that’s what happened here . . . The propane explosion may not have suppressed the fire
entirely
, but it sufficiently reduced it—allowing our three fishermen to finish the job with handheld extinguishers.”

“But who started it?” Again, Lever was thinking out loud.

“What about this guy Colberg?” Jones said, pointing to the office. “I mean, come on, fellas, we all know he scuttled those boats three years ago for the insurance money. No one’s ever proved it, is all . . .”

Rosco shook his head. “I’m no Colberg fan, but I doubt he’d risk killing two people in the process. Insurance fraud’s one thing, murder’s something else.”

Lever coughed again as he took another drag on his cigarette. “Anything’s possible.”

“You’re sounding like a broken record, Al.” Rosco said this in a friendly tone, then grew serious. “If Abe is correct and the fire was intentional, then the boat wasn’t the target. The women were. I’d say we’re talking homicide.”

Lever stiffened at the suggestion. “I’d like to see some bodies before I open up a murder case.”

“They’ll wash up,” Jones said. “They always do. Might take a couple of weeks, but you’ll find them . . . unless the sharks got them . . . Then you just find a few pieces . . . But they’ll show up. Trust me.”

“The sharks in this case might be three fishermen.”

“Whoa . . . Whoa . . . hold on there, Rosco,” Lever said, “That’s making a huge leap. Where did that come from?”

“Like you said, Al, anything’s possible. Without any bodies, how can you rule out the potential of a kidnapping? I pulled Jamaica’s blood off of the
Dixie-Jack
.”

“You pulled A positive, Rosco. We don’t have confirmation on whose blood that is and you know it.”

“All I’m suggesting, Al is that
anything’s
possible . . . The women could be alive, for all we know—and in the custody of kidnappers. Maybe not our fishermen, maybe another boat got to the
Orion
first . . . Or picked the women up in the dinghy . . . Or . . . yeah, they could be dead.”

Jones cleared his throat and said, “Don’t look now but here comes trouble.”

Rosco and Lever turned to follow Jones’s stare. Marching down the dock toward them was a bulldog-shaped man
in his early sixties. He was almost bald, but what remained of his snow-white hair was buzzed as short as a Marine drill sergeant’s. Clint Mize, senior insurance adjuster for Shore Line Mutual, had fond memories of his years in “The Corps.” He nodded briskly to the men as he approached.

“Lever . . . Jones . . .” Mize shook Rosco’s hand and cracked what he considered to be a joke: “You back with the NPD, Polycrates?” Then he cocked his head toward the
Orion.
Again, the gesture resonated with Marine-Corps precision. “What’s the official status here?”

“That’s just what we were discussing.” Rosco gave Mize a quizzical look. “I thought Colberg said the
Orion
was insured by A.M.I.? What’s Shore Line’s interest in this?”

“Well, let’s say my boss doesn’t like writing checks for five million dollars without having me poke around.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . come again?” Lever blurted out.

“Genevieve Pepper. Shore Line carried a life-insurance policy on her. Five million smacks.”

Lever lit another cigarette and spoke through the smoke. “Kinda shoots a hole through your ‘kidnapping’ theory, there, Polly—Crates.”

Rosco was as shocked as Lever and Jones; he was left stammering slightly. “What? I mean . . . who’s the beneficiary? I’m working for her husband, Clint. He didn’t mention anything about a policy.”

“Maybe he didn’t know . . . Our records show that she paid the premiums, not him.”

“And Pepper picks up five mil?” Lever said, shaking his head. “That’s the kind of wife I need.”

Mize held up his hands and said, “Not so fast, Al . . . Pepper isn’t the beneficiary.”

“Who is?”

“A guy by the name of William Vauriens. Genie’s half brother. He lives up in Boston. Rumor has it that Old Man Pepper sends him sizable bucks every month just so he keeps his distance. I guess there’s no love lost in that family.” Mize chuckled slightly as if pleased at his witticism.

“You’re saying Pepper knew nothing about this life-insurance policy?” Rosco asked.

“I can’t say one way or another . . . I tried to get him on the line, but he’s not taking my calls. Hell, he’s your client . . . Why don’t you ask him?”

Rosco’s thought process had finally assimilated Clint Mize’s news. “What else do you know about Vauriens?”

“Not much . . . Can’t seem to hold a regular job for any length of time. Has an on-again-off-again relationship with a woman in Back Bay. She’s been picked up twice for kiting checks. Never served any time—”

“Have you spoken to Vauriens?” Rosco said while he jotted down the name.

“Not in person. I drove up to Boston . . . poked around a little . . . talked to his lady friend. She says she hasn’t seen ‘Billy’ in well over a week. Same with his boss. Vauriens was working construction—part of a pickup crew . . . Hey, but for five mil, the guy’ll turn up sooner or later. They always do.” Mize said this almost regretfully.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to share the lady’s name and number?” Rosco said as he offered Mize his pad and pen. “I might take a run up to Boston tomorrow morning myself.”

“Hey, it’s no skin off my teeth. The sooner I catch up
with ‘Billy’ Vauriens the better.” As he scribbled into Rosco’s pad, Mize cocked an eye in Abe Jones’s direction. “What’s your guesstimate on this fire, Abe?”

“Torch job, Clint. Torch job, all the way.”

B
ARTHOLOMEW
K
ERR’S
“B
IZ-Y
B
UZZ”:

C
RYPTIC
N
EWS FROM
Q
UEEN
B

“I
t’s me.” The male voice on the phone slurred the words drunkenly, but they didn’t lose their tension or their fear.

“Where are you?” the woman demanded.

“Where I’m supposed to be,” he answered. She could
hear a dangerous measure of defeat enter his tone. She was tempted to carry the phone to the window, yank wide the curtains, throw open the sash, and bring a breath of welcome fresh air into the claustrophobic room, but she remained where she was: frozen in inactivity beside the rumpled double bed.

“You saw the newspaper?” she asked. “The gossip column?”

The response was a bitter: “Oh, I’ve seen more than that . . . There’s a crossword puzzle in the same edition . . . a snotty-nosed, incriminating word game only an idiot could ignore . . . This Graham chick’s a wild card I never bargained for.”

“What are we going to do?”

Again, his reply was bitter. “It’s your call, babe . . . I’ve been dancing on live coals over here . . . I’m about played out.” He laughed; the sound was hollow and mean.

“You creep,” she hissed, then thought, but didn’t say:
You can’t fall apart on me now!
The pause while her brain examined and reexamined the facts was deadening; at the far end of the receiver, the hiatus seemed endless. “How much does this Graham broad know?” she finally asked.

“No telling, toots . . .”

Rage exploded from her. “Don’t you care about this situation at all?”

His response was equally infuriated. “You know damn well I do!”

“Well, don’t give up on me, then!” Again, the woman thought for several long moments. “We’ve got to scare off little Miss Annabella Graham. Make her retract whatever comments she supplied . . . make her
vanish
. She’s a loose cannon.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

“Leave it to me,” she answered. “
Cherchez la femme
 . . . , that’s French, in case you didn’t know.”

“Hey, you’re a surprise a minute.”

Belle’s phone rang at the grotesque hour of three
A
.
M
. She fumbled for it in her sleep, first upbraiding herself for oversleeping—she imagined it was daytime, then glanced with half-closed eyes at the alarm clock’s illuminated face. Her next sensation was worry—something terrible must have happened to Rosco! Her third was irritation—this was clearly a misdialed number. When she answered the phone, it was with a cross “yes?”

“Belle Graham?”

“Speaking.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Belle almost said no—such is the conditioning of the human spirit; no one is supposed to be too sleepy or unconscious to make a full and intelligent response. Instead, she answered a disbelieving, “It’s three in the morning!”

“I did wake you, then . . .”

Belle sat up straighter in bed, punching her pillow into a cushion behind her back. She realized she had no idea who her caller was, nor could she identify whether the person were male or female. The accent was equally impossible to place. It could have been South African; it could have been northern English; it could have been German or Dutch with a British education. Or it could have been plain, old American pretending it was something more exotic. “Who is this?”

“Let’s just say someone concerned with your well-being.”

“Then perhaps you should have let me sleep.”

The person laughed, a malevolent sound that caused
Belle to reach for the lamp on the nightstand. But when the room was bathed in light, she felt no more secure.

“Good try, Belle, but not, I’m afraid, appropriate under the circumstances. Strong-willed women like you can be your own worst enemies. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Who is this?” Belle repeated.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Again, the malign laugh. “Now, let’s have a little chat about the Pepper case.”

Belle was tempted to lie, and protest ignorance, but suddenly realized a phone call like this was precisely what she’d hoped to instigate. Her tone changed; she became conciliatory and chatty. “Are you calling about the anonymous crossword puzzle I published?” she asked.

“That—and the gossip column.”

“Are you the constructor?”

“What?”

“Are you the—” A warning whistle rang in Belle’s brain. The caller didn’t know the term for a crossword creator was “constructor.” “Who is this?” she demanded for the third time.

“Let’s say that I am not your friend . . . Let’s say,
we
are not your friends.”

In the golden lamplight, Belle’s gray eyes grew huge and agate-colored. She didn’t speak.

“And let’s further add that we want you to walk away from this Pepper business . . . that we strongly
advise
you to forget every detail . . . make like it didn’t happen. Get it, Belle?”

Belle nodded to her empty bedroom.

“Because otherwise you might vanish like those two dumb broads. Understand?”

“Where are they?” Belle asked. “Do you know? . . . You do, don’t you?”

“Cut the chat, sweetie. Those babes are no concern of yours.”

Belle realized that the caller’s vocal quality had taken on an obviously masculine tone. “I could help you, sir . . . if you’d let me . . . take a message to Mr. Pepper perhaps—”

The laugh at the other end of the receiver was piercing. “Bodyguard city!” the voice scoffed. “And then, you and who else would be in on this gig? . . . No, I’m telling you to butt out, honey. And I mean now!”

Belle was silent, playing for time. “You won’t harm them, will you? . . . Genie and Jamaica, I mean?” she finally asked.

“That depends on you, little lady. You walk away, those dames may see the light of day . . . You keep sticking your nose in this mess, you’re gonna find yourself stuck in one big tragedy!” Then the phone went dead; the caller had gone.

“Tragedy,” Belle repeated. “Tragedy.” Comedy. . . tragedy . . . Shakespeare . . . Was it possible the caller was connected to the puzzles, after all? But if not, who was he? And why did he call? She fell asleep pondering the questions.

The bedside lamp burned through the rest of her fitful night. When she awoke, she stared up into its hot, incriminating bulb. “Oh, darn,” she muttered, reaching automatically to turn off the switch, then suddenly recalling why she’d lit it. She swung her feet from the bed in a trice, threw on her robe, and dashed down the stairs. She had an overwhelming urge for the soothing comfort of a deviled egg—or maybe two.

Hideously, the refrigerator was empty. Belle stared woefully at the stark shelves, then straightened her shoulders and decided to walk to the mom-and-pop store at the
bottom of the lane. Mayo, capers, and eggs were only a couple of minutes away. Relief was at hand.

She walked resolutely to the front door, opening it to assess her wardrobe choices on this autumnal Saturday morning. But her gaze was arrested by an envelope tucked halfway beneath the mat. She opened it with trembling hands. Inside was another crossword puzzle.