Vineyard Enigma (15 page)

We came home from the beach in midafternoon, where, after filling a couple of five-gallon buckets with salt water and depositing our clams therein, I showered then checked the phone book for the address of Periera Food Service, which, I discovered, was the same as Miguel’s home address. I’d known the business was located up in Vineyard Haven someplace, but I had never been there. There are a lot of places on Martha’s Vineyard that I’ve never seen and probably never will.

While Zee and the kids were climbing into clean clothes, I put my pistol in my belt and pulled my shirt down over the butt. I announced that I’d be back in an hour or so, and drove to Vineyard Haven. I figured that Miguel would either be resting at home or working in the office, so either way I had a good chance of finding him.

Unless he devoted the Sabbath to meditation and prayer in church, which I doubted, since even in his maturity he was not known for his spirituality. No, he was the same sensual, emotional person he’d always been, although he now had those inclinations under control. Few of us change our fundamental character; we can only change its form.

Rose Abrams had managed that. From being the pretty, passionate, intuitive, sometimes intellectually unsure girl I had dated long ago, she had become a handsome woman who had trained her mind to be as powerful as her feelings. That combination of intellect, intuition, and emotion had allowed her to overcome the limitations of her upbringing and to become a member of the Vineyard art world.

That she and Miguel had become a couple was not surprising since both were onetime social misfits who had climbed out of their unpromising pasts and into a present that was filled with ambition. Both were doing well in their professional lives; both were handsome and full of life, and seemed set upon a path of success.

But few lives are as idyllic as they may seem to others, and where emotions run deep, dangers are double. Our feelings can carry us away like the tornado carried Dorothy to Oz, and we can find ourselves in a world of passions we thought existed only in the imaginations of poets.

The office of Periera Food Service was in a separate building next to Miguel and Rose’s house. The house was classic Vineyard: a medium-sized Cape sheathed in weathered cedar shingles and gray-painted window and door frames. The yard behind the white picket fence was neatly kept, with a closely mowed lawn and flower beds, and there was a two car garage on the side of the house opposite the office. All in all, the place had the look of prosperous middle-class owners, which was probably just what Miguel, and perhaps Rose, aspired to be.

I parked in front of the office and went to the door. It was locked, but beside a buzzer there was a sign informing me that if no one was in the office, a ring of the bell between the hours of eight to five would bring someone from the house.

I put my finger to the buzzer and a minute later Rose Abrams came out of the house. I hadn’t seen her since I’d first gone to Mauch’s house. She looked gaunt, but there was a forced smile on her face until she saw who was waiting for her. Then the smile faded a bit.

“J.W., is that you?”

“I’m not a customer, I just want to talk. How are you feeling?”

She had a key that she put in the door lock. “I’m fine, thank you. The other day, I was…It was just such a shock to hear about Matthew.” She opened the door. “Please, come in. What is it you want to talk about?”

“Business must be booming for you.”

She nodded. “Miguel is doing very well.”

“I had no idea a business like this could be so profitable.”

“He works hard.”

“I saw him up-island last week. He was delivering one order to Mrs. Hall and picking up another one at the same time.”

Again the dull nod. “Yes, he often takes orders while making deliveries. A lot of our customers take deliveries every week.”

“I know you work most of the week, but do you ever go off-island with Miguel? It seems like it would be a nice break for you.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Oh, once in a while. Not often. Sometimes Miguel’s schedule is just too hectic for me to go along. I’d just be in the way. I do go off with him. Not often, but sometimes.”

“Did you ever do extra work for Charles Mauch or Matthew Duarte?”

She stared at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you worked for them but did you ever put in extra time? Long days, evenings, that sort of thing.”

She looked away, then back. “Sometimes when things get busy they’ve needed some extra help. And I could always use the money.”

She seemed emotionally frail, I thought, so I leaned forward and used a firm voice. “Were you and Matthew Duarte lovers?”

She paled. “Of course not. How cruel of you. Think of poor Connie.”

She was right about the cruelty, but I kept using it. “Connie Duarte might have been shocked about Matthew’s death, but she wouldn’t be shocked about you and him. Matthew told Sam Hopewell he was leaving her for you, and the word got at least as far as Barbara Butters, who told me. Unless Connie was a complete fool, she knew what was going on.”

“Stop it! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But she didn’t leap to her feet or slap my face or otherwise manifest outraged innocence. She sat there with tears welling in her eyes.

“You worked with him. He was handsome and rich and he liked women. I saw how the news of his death affected you. You two were lovers and he was going to leave Connie and marry you, isn’t that right?”

“Please, don’t shout at me.”

I hadn’t been shouting. I studied her. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

Tears poured from her eyes and words from her mouth. “Yes. Yes! Why are you doing this to me? What difference does it make now? Matt’s dead. My God, why can’t you just leave me alone? You don’t know how I feel! You never loved anybody. You’re cold and cruel. Go away! Leave me alone!”

But I didn’t go away. I watched her weep, then got up and walked behind her chair and put my hands on her shoulders and began to knead the tight muscles there. After a time, the shaking of her body began to ease.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I had to be absolutely sure.”

She said nothing.

“Did Miguel know about you and Matthew Duarte?”

She nodded and rubbed at her eyes. “He knew. He and I have been slipping apart. When we started together we were alike, but for the past year we’ve been growing in different directions. Neither of us wanted it to be that way, but that’s the way it is. Miguel wants us to be like we were. He thinks we can be, but people change.”

Some people do. Others don’t.

“Is Miguel around?” I asked.

“He’s in the house.” Her voice was muffled.

“No, he isn’t,” said a voice from the doorway.

I turned and Miguel was standing there, his face wearing a vulpine smile. He walked over to the office desk and sat down.

“Does Rose know about the work you did for Matthew Duarte?” I asked. “Not the food service. The other work.”

He looked at Rose. “Why don’t you go up to the house, sweetheart?” he said. “Wash your face. You’ll feel better. J.W. and I have to talk.”

But Rose only stood up. “What other work? What other work are you talking about, Jeff?”

“I’ll explain it all later,” said Miguel in a soothing voice. “I have to talk with J.W. first.”

“Miguel and Matthew had a deal,” I said to Rose. “When Miguel took the truck to the mainland, he did more than shop for rich people who were too cheap to pay Vineyard prices. He transported illegal art objects to and from the island, and Matthew paid him good money to do it. That’s why Periera Food Service is doing so well. It’s got an income that has nothing to do with food. It’s also the reason he probably wasn’t eager to take you with him even on your days off from work. Isn’t that right, Miguel?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I found records in the barn for deliveries from FedEx, UPS, and other shippers. They looked legit enough, but Periera Food Service was listed there, too, and that didn’t make sense if food was what you were delivering, since food would have been delivered to the house, not the barn. Ergo, you were delivering or picking up business merchandise, and it was probably illicit stuff because it was safer to have you do it than to have legal outfits handle it. You were an ideal carrier because you had legitimate reasons to come and go all the time. Even in the winter when there weren’t as many rich food-and-drink customers on the island, you could still justify one trip a week to America.”

“I never asked about what was in the crates,” said Miguel with a shrug. “I don’t know anything about art, one way or another. I just drive a truck. Rose, honey, please leave us alone for a few minutes.”

“No. How long have you been doing this, Miguel?”

“It’s just some business you never knew about,” said Miguel. “Go to the house.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said to him, “so I don’t really care whether or not you and Matthew Duarte were in the art-smuggling racket. I’m only interested in whether you transported a couple of stone birds, and where you transported them.”

His left hand was on the desk, but the right was out of sight. “I can’t help you,” he said.

I thought he was lying. I said, “A guy named David Brownington came by looking for them about six months ago.”

Miguel shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

But Rose had. “I remember him. He had an English accent. I was just getting ready to leave the office when he came in. He and Matthew were talking when I left.”

Things were coming together. “Did you see him again?”

She shook her head. “No. No, only that once. Matthew said later that he thought he’d left the island. Who is he? What are these birds you’re talking about?”

“Miguel here can probably verify that Brownington never left the island. At least, not all of him. Isn’t that right, Miguel?”

“You’re spinning this yarn, J.W.”

I looked at Rose. “Do you remember what else happened just after Brownington was here? They found the Headless Horseman by the bridal path. Right now, even as we speak, up in Boston they’re testing some DNA evidence that may identify the body. My bet is that it’s Brownington.”

Her face was full of confusion. “I don’t understand.”

I told her about Brownington and the birds and about Daniel Duarte’s supposed auto accident in California.

“Then Brownington came here to muscle Matthew,” I said. “For leverage, he probably mentioned the old man’s ‘accident.’ That might normally have been a good idea but in this case, it wasn’t, because Brownington got careless and Matthew, or maybe Miguel here, killed him. How am I doing, Miguel?”

Miguel’s face was intent. “I had nothing to do with Brownington’s death.”

“But you had something to do with getting rid of his head and hands, didn’t you? It’s not easy to get rid of a whole body, but the head and hands and clothes can be boxed or bagged up pretty easily and dropped off in some rubbish container in America. And without prints or a face, a naked corpse is hard to identify.”

Miguel said nothing, but his eyes were bright and thoughtful.

“I have another theory, too,” I said. “You may not have killed Brownington, but I think you may have killed Matthew Duarte.”

Hearing those words, Rose made a choking sound that drew my eyes to her as I reached for my revolver. But Miguel was quicker than I expected. When I looked back at him there was already a pistol in his hand. It was pointed at me.

“Put your hands up in the air,” said Miguel. “That’s right. Just like in the movies. Rose, walk around behind him and see if he has any weapons.”

She stared at him. “Miguel, what are you doing?”

“Trust me,” he said. “Just do what I say. I’ll explain everything.”

“I’ll bet you will,” I said. The muzzle of his pistol looked like the entrance to a tunnel.

“Shut up. Rose, do what I say. He may be armed. He’s a dangerous man.”

Rose hesitated.

“I think he killed Matthew,” said Miguel. “And he may have killed Brownington. Do as I say, or he may kill us, too.”

Rose’s eyes grew wide. She sidled around behind me.

“Be careful,” said Miguel.

Rose’s hands floated around my waist and took the revolver from my belt.

Miguel’s voice was that of a hypnotist. “That’s good, darling. Now step away from him and come over here. Then we can call the police.”

Rose walked to the desk. Her face was full of fear.

“Good,” he said. He rose and came around to the front of the desk. “Now we don’t have to worry about him hurting us.”

“Two guns to none makes that pretty sure,” I said.

“Shut up,” said Miguel.

“I don’t think Miguel’s going to call the police,” I said to Rose. “I think you should do it yourself. Right now.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Miguel. “I have a better idea. I’ll take him to them myself.”

I shook my head. “No, you won’t. I’ll wait right here.” I looked at Rose. “Your boyfriend here has already killed at least one man, and if he gets me alone in his car, I’ll be shot trying to escape, sure as the world. Isn’t that right, Miguel?”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” said Miguel. “I may have hauled some freight for Matthew and I may have trucked those birds up to Mauch after he bought them, but that’s all I ever did. Rose, honey, there’s some duct tape over on that shelf. Bring it here. We’ll bundle J.W. up so he can’t cause a fuss.”

My mouth felt like the Gobi Desert. I said, “Call the cops, Rose. If you let this guy take me out of here it’ll be the last time you see me alive.”

“Shut your mouth!” Miguel’s voice was commanding. “Rose, get that tape!”

“I don’t know what I should do.” Rose’s eyes were wide and her hands were twisting each other.

“Just bring me the tape, sweetheart. This man is a killer and we have to tie him up so he can’t hurt anyone else.”

She went to the shelf and returned with the tape. He took it. “I’m going to tie him up. If he tries to escape or hurt me, shoot him!”

My arms were aching. “It’s going to be harder for you this time,” I said to Miguel. “You’ve got a witness and I don’t plan on turning my back on you like Matthew did.” I flicked a glance at Rose. “Miguel probably used this very pistol to kill Matthew and take a shot at me. It was you who put that hole in my windshield and blew Matthew away, isn’t that right, Miguel?”

His face filled with anger and frustration. “Don’t believe a word of it, Rose! J.W. killed Matthew and now he’s trying to turn you against me!” He lifted the pistol. “You shut your lying mouth or I’ll shut it for you!”

I knew I was going to die, and in that surety all my fear was suddenly gone, but my voice sounded far away, as though it were coming from another room.

“I didn’t even know Matthew,” I said, speaking to Rose but watching Miguel. “But Miguel knew that Matthew was taking you away from him and he couldn’t stand it. So last Tuesday, before he caught the morning boat to America, he went to Matthew’s house. He knew Matthew would be alone because Connie was over on Nantucket. He shot Matthew and then went about his normal business.

“It’s getting easier, isn’t it, Miguel? First you make a deal with Matthew to transport illegal goods, then you go another step and help him out by using your refrigerated truck to haul Brownington’s head and hands off to some Dumpster in America, then you kill Matthew, and now you’re going to have another crack at killing me. And when you finish with me, are you going to kill Rose, too? You were slime as a kid and you’re still slime.”

Miguel pointed the pistol at my head. His voice was tight. “I warned Matthew. I told him to break off from Rose, but he just laughed, and now I’ve warned you but you won’t shut your mouth either. Well, I stopped his laugh and I’m stopping your talk.” With perfect clarity I watched his finger tighten on the trigger.

They say you never hear the shot that kills you. Could be, although there are, no doubt, plenty of exceptions to the rule. Whether Miguel heard the one that killed him I’ll never know, because he didn’t say a word about it but simply plunged forward onto the floor, probably dead before he hit it. His pistol did go off, but the bullet went into a wall and not into me.

I let my aching arms fall and looked at Rose, who was holding my revolver in both of her hands and looking dazedly down at Miguel’s body.

I stepped around the body and took the pistol from her and put it on the desk.

“Thank you,” I said. “You saved my life.”

“He really was going to kill you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He was desperate and wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“He killed Matthew because of me?”

“You were leaving him, and he blamed Matthew. I think he might have shot you next, then himself. It’s a common pattern.”

“My God! I can’t believe it.” She sagged, and I put her in a chair before calling the police.

Sergeant Dom Agganis, having taken my statement, clicked off the tape recorder on his desk, and our conversation became informal.

“I thought I asked you not to bring me any Sabbath crises.”

“I figured the ball game was over by the time I went up to see Miguel. Who won?”

“Pedro mowed them down. Too bad the Sox don’t have another pitcher.”

“They need Pedro and four days of rain.”

“You’re going to succeed in getting yourself killed someday,” he said. “You know that.”

“No, I’m not. I’m giving up this investigating business for good. It’s back to surf casting for me.”

“The Wild East is wilder than the Wild West, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Speaking of the Wild West, tell me again about that six-shooter up-island.”

“It’s in Brent Hall’s den, hanging on a wall. A forty-one-caliber Colt, model 1889. Matthew Duarte sold it to Georgie Hall as a weapon that once belonged to Jesse James. But that was a lie because Jesse James was killed in 1882. My guess is that it’s the gun that killed Brownington, and that Duarte got rid of it by palming it off on Georgie, who doesn’t know a thing about guns or Jesse James. If she hadn’t hung that little tag on it, it probably never would have caught my eye.”

“Did I tell you that the DNA results are in and that the Horseman is Brownington? Good guess on your part.”

“It makes sense. Brownington probably threatened Matthew but underestimated him and Matthew dropped him. Or maybe Miguel did it. Whoever did it, Matthew knew that if the body was found and identified, it could lead the cops back to him, so he stripped him and cut off his head and hands. No clothes, no face, no fingerprints, and nobody looking for the victim. Pretty good thinking. He probably burned Brownington’s ID. That’s what I’d have done, at least.”

“Maybe I should be taking notes so in case we get the same MO again, we can come straight to you and you can solve the crime for us.”

“That might be smart, Dom. Anyway, after he kacked Brownington, Matthew had to get rid of the body and the body parts. Miguel took care of the parts and Matthew probably packed the body out into the woods on a horse. I hadn’t known that Matthew was a rider until I saw that tack room in the barn. If your lab boys run tests on the saddles out there, you might even come up with some traces of bloodstains or something. A lot of people up-island are riders. Mauch is one of them, I think, because I saw horses in the pasture behind his house.”

“If Matthew was alive, he could probably charge you with breaking and entering. How do you know about Jesse James? You a frontier fan?”

“Every red-blooded American male is a frontier fan. The Wild West is the great myth of America, and we can’t get enough of it. That’s why John Wayne is still a top-ten movie star even though he’s been dead for twenty years.”

“Why, sure. I’m a Wayne fan myself.”

“Of course you are. The forensic people thought the bullet they found in the Horseman was a thirty-eight- or forty-caliber slug, but forty-one is close enough to cause confusion. I think you should check that pistol out. If I’m wrong, no harm done. If I’m right, you have what they call a clue in the mystery novels, and in either case, Georgie Hall will have just the sort of exciting story she loves to tell or hear.”

“My contribution to island gossip, eh?” Agganis rubbed his thick head of hair. “You do get yourself into the damnedest situations. All this because you were looking for a couple of stone birds from Africa.”

“And now I know where they are. I’m sort of hoping that maybe all this shooting will encourage Mauch to fess up.”

“The birds are none of my business,” said Agganis. “I’ve got real crimes to tend to. Go home and try to stay out of trouble.”

“You’re late,” said Zee when I got home. “The kids and I have already eaten. You should have called.” She spoke in that slightly irritated tone that wives use when their husbands fail to observe common courtesies and thereby cause wifely worry.

“Sorry,” I said. “Something came up.”

“I’ll warm a plate for you.”

“I’ll take a drink on the balcony first.”

She saw something in my face. “I’ll come up, too.”

“Good. I’ll tell you about my trip to Vineyard Haven.”

I got myself a glass and put in ice, two green olives, and a double slug of Luksosowa, and went up to the balcony. Zee was waiting, looking out over the garden and Sengekontacket Pond toward Nantucket Sound. The light of the sinking sun cast a glow on the barrier beach between the pond and the sound, where cars were moving along the highway headed for Edgartown or Oak Bluffs.

I sipped my icy drink and then, because the story would soon be public anyway, told her about the bullet hole in my windshield and my experience at Periera Food Service.

For a while, then, there was only the sound of the wind sighing through the trees. Finally Zee said, “I’m so glad she was there and that she had a gun.”

“Me, too.”

“I know what she’s feeling. I’ll go talk with her.” She looked at me. “Do you remember telling me over and over that I’d done the right thing when I killed that terrible man, and that you could never thank me enough for saving your wife and daughter?”

“I remember. I still thank you.”

“I’ve never been able to accept that, but I think I finally understand. I’ll never be able to thank Rose enough. Never!” She looked at me, then reached for me and began to cry.