Vineyard Stalker (6 page)

“They can do almost anything with computers these days,” said Sam. “I'm not a photo manipulator myself, but I know a guy who is. Lives right here in town, in fact. He can erase what you don't want and add what you do and you'd never know the picture had been changed. You want me to see what he can do with these?”

I gave him the best photos. “Give him these and let's see what he can come up with. The quicker the better.”

Sam grinned. “I'll tell him it has to do with Homeland Security. That might speed him up.”

“Tell him whatever you want, Sam.” I thanked him and carried the camera and the rest of the photos back up the street and stashed them in the truck. Then I went into the Prada Real Estate office. Looking at the little Mini Cooper, I remembered when VW Beetles were all the rage and Beetle drivers would hold rallies to celebrate their cars. I'd heard that Mini Cooper people did the same. We are odd animals.

A neatly dressed receptionist eyed me and put a smile on her face even though I did not have the look of a normal customer-to-be since I get most of my clothes from the thrift shop. On the other hand, there are a lot of scruffy millionaires around these days, so she couldn't be sure who she was talking to. I told her I wanted to speak to Sally Oliver. She said that Ms. Oliver was with a customer and asked if she could be of any assistance. I said no, I wanted to see only Sally Oliver. She smiled and said of course and asked me my name. Then she spoke into a phone, apologizing for intruding and saying there was a Mr. Jackson waiting. She listened and hung up and waved me to a chair. I wondered if it hurt her face to smile so much.

It was another room adorned with pictures of houses, buildings, and properties available for purchase. This one, however, also included photographs of an attractive and muscular young woman running, swimming, biking, and accepting a trophy. The magazines mostly dealt with home design, architecture, lifestyles of people far richer than I was, and gourmet cooking. I was reading one of the latter, amazed at how long and complex some recipes could be, when an office door across the room opened and a large young woman, who was surely the same one in the photographs, ushered a middle-aged man out with many a smile and encouraging word. When the man was gone, she turned to me and said, “Please come in, Mr. Jackson.” She put out a manicured hand. “I'm Sally Oliver. How may I help you?”

Her hand was powerful but businesslike and somehow friendly. Did people teach you how to shake hands like that in real estate school? Was there a course in hand shaking? In smiling? In looking honest and concerned and caring? If so, Sally Oliver had graduated cum laude.

“I have an interest in some land in West Tisbury,” I said, after she'd shut the door behind us and we'd taken chairs across her desk from one another. “I'd like to talk with you about it.” Sally Oliver's eyes lit up. I must have said the magic words.

“Of course,” she said. “Are you buying or selling? We handle purchases and sales all over the island. Tell me about the property you're considering. Perhaps I'm familiar with it.”

“I believe you are,” I said, and told her where it was. “A cousin of yours lives there. His name is Roland Nunes.”

Her warm smile cooled a few degrees.

“What is it that you're getting at, Mr. Jackson? Are you interested in buying the land?”

I didn't deny it. Instead, I said, “I'm here because I think that as a trustee of that land you should know what's been going on up there. Are you aware of the vandalism that's occurred?”

Her eyes became hooded. “Vandalism?”

“You don't know about it?”

She eased back in her chair and her voice became careful. “No. My cousin and I aren't in close contact. What's happened?”

I told her of the damage to the garden and the shed, and of the dead skunk in the water barrel.

“And what's your interest in this, Mr. Jackson?”

“I was asked to go up there with an infrared camera and get photographs of whoever was doing the damage. I did that.” I put the photo of the prowler on her desk. “I have more of these, but this one's typical. Do you know this person?”

She seemed torn between curiosity and caution, and didn't look at the photo although one hand inched toward it before she drew it back. “Why do you think I might? What are you suggesting?”

I skipped the most obvious reason and created another one that might actually be true. “My guess is that whoever hired the guy in this picture is trying to scare your cousin away. Probably to scare him into selling. You're the trustee of the land. You may be next on his list.”

She looked at the photo but still didn't touch it. “Why would I know this man?”

“He knows who your cousin is and he may know you. If he does, you may know him. Do you?”

She finally picked up the photo. “Does Roland recognize him?”

“You're the first to see the picture. I just had it developed. Roland sees it next.”

She studied the camouflaged face, then shook her head. “I can't really tell what he looks like. Do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“What's he doing?”

“He's putting a can of cat food on the ground beside your cousin's cabin. A cat lives with your cousin. I suspect the food in that can contains poison. I'm having it tested.”

She stared. “He tried to kill the cat!? I have a cat!”

I didn't think there was a real estate class in how to look horrified, so I took advantage of her shock and told her about my chase after the prowler and its abrupt ending. “The point is,” I then said, “that these guys are not kidding around. One of them considered killing me right there while they had the chance and the other one's only argument for not doing it was that they hadn't been paid to kill anyone yet. Emphasis on yet. Your cousin is in somebody's sights and you may be too. You're sure you don't recognize this guy?”

“Anybody who would poison a cat would do anything!”

Like many people, both men and women, she was more appalled by cruelty to an animal than to a human being. My problem was not knowing if she was shocked because the prowler was both cruel and unknown to her or because he had used techniques she hadn't imagined when she hired him.

“The cat is fine,” I said. “But we don't know what will happen next. Look at the photo again. Take off that camouflage in your imagination. See the face underneath it. Have you seen that person before?”

She put her teeth over her lip and stared and frowned and shook her head. “No, I don't recognize him.”

“There are experts who can clear that gunk off his face,” I said, not knowing if I was right, “and I've gotten my photos to one of them today. Once we ID this guy, we can learn who he's working for. After that the police will make some arrests and this business will be done.”

“Do you really know someone who can strip away that makeup?”

“Sure,” I lied, “but it may take a day or two to get it done, and we may not have that long before more violence occurs. You might be able to save us some time.”

“How?”

“Can you think of anyone who's so interested in getting that piece of land that he'd hire a couple of thugs to frighten your cousin into selling?”

“No! I don't know anyone who'd do a thing like that!” Her voice was firm, but her eyes looked full of thoughts.

“I'm going to be talking with the people on either side of the land where your cousin lives. Can you tell me anything about them?”

She seemed almost offended. “You're off base there. Neither of them would break the law just to get the land. They're both rich enough to buy what they want legally.”

“Not unless the owner can sell what they want to buy, and in this case it's my understanding that your cousin doesn't plan on moving.”

She grew angry. “But I want him to. You know that, don't you? You know that I want to sell the land. Is that why you're really here? Because you think I hired those killers? Is that it?”

“They aren't killers yet. At least they haven't killed anybody that I know about.”

I watched her anger flare like fire then slowly ebb and become smoldering coals of resentment. “If you think I hired them, why are you here? Why are you telling me all this? Why did you show me your precious photograph?” She flipped the photo back onto the desk.

“I don't know who hired them,” I said, “but whoever it was should know I've got the photos and that I plan to ID the guy in the pictures and that when I do he'll tell the cops who hired him and that person will be smart to deny everything and drop the whole plan before he does something that'll land him in jail. Tell me about the people who live beside your cousin. All I know about them is that they like stone walls and can afford to build long ones.”

She became sulky. “You think that I did it. You think that I hired those men.”

I felt like a bully. “If you didn't, you're in the clear. If you did, you aren't.”

“I didn't!”

“I've never said you did, but if the police get into this they'll be interested in asking you some questions because you're bound to be on their short list of suspects.”

“The police?” Her brow knotted.

I retrieved the photo, and decided it was time for the carrot.

“Look,” I said, “I want to keep the police out of this, too, but I need your help. Can you think of anyone who might have hired those men? If we can find the employer, both you and Roland will be better off.”

“I honestly can't think of anyone. I wish I could help.”

“You're sure it's not the abutters? They both want the land, I'm told.”

“No. I've met them both, and I don't think they're the sort who'd do such a thing. They'd be more likely to offer so much money to Roland that he couldn't afford not to move. Then they'd buy the land from me.” She frowned at me. “By the way, just who are you working for? You seem to know a lot about Roland and me. How'd you find out about the prowler?” She grew bolder. “Are you a private detective of some sort? Do you have some identification I can see?”

“I'm not any sort of licensed investigator,” I said. “I was asked by a private party to photograph the intruder and I was told what I know about the situation by the person who hired me.”

“And who was that?”

“If you wish, I'll ask if I can reveal my client's identity. If the answer is yes, I'll tell you who it is. Until then, it's confidential.”

“You need a license to be a private investigator.”

“You don't need one to ask questions.” I dug out my wallet and handed her my driver's license. “I can understand why you might be upset by this business, and I want to be square with you. This is me. I live up in Ocean Heights. For what it's worth, I used to be a cop in Boston.”

I watched her scribble my name and address on a piece of paper, then frown slightly and look at the information again.

“You wouldn't be the Jackson who owns that nice piece of property up by Felix Neck, would you?”

The air in the office seemed to change. “I own a few acres there,” I said. “My father bought them when the land was cheap.”

Sally Oliver was suddenly back in her professional role. “I imagine your taxes must be pretty high these days. I'm sure I can get you top dollar for any land you'd be willing to sell.”

“I'm hanging on to it for the time being,” I said. “Can I have my license back?”

“Of course.” She handed it back along with one of her cards. “Please let me know if you change your mind about selling.”

Her hostility and her curiosity about my employer seemed to have melted away in the warmth of a possible sale. I put the license and card in my wallet and returned the wallet to my pocket. “I'm going to talk with the abutters this morning,” I said.

“They're not the people you're looking for.”

“You may be right,” I said. “If you think of anyone else I should see, I hope you'll let me know. My number's in the book. I don't have an answering machine, I'm afraid.”

“I can't imagine anyone who'd hire vandals.” She leaned forward. “You seem to be very intent. You must be making good money.”

“It's not just the money,” I said, getting up. “It's personal. I got shot with a stun gun last night. I may have deserved that, but the guys who did it talked about killing me if the money was right. They know who I am and now I want to know who they are before they decide to finish the job.”

I started for the door, then turned and said, “Can you think of any enemies your cousin might have? This business may not have anything to do with real estate.”

She shook her head. “He's the last person in the world to have enemies. They call him the Monk, you know, and some people think he's a saint. How could anyone hate a saint? You might think that I'm his enemy, but I'm not. I just want him to move so I can sell that piece of land.”

I went out thinking but not saying that sanctity was no immunity to hate. The fate of holy martyrs was evidence enough of that.

I glanced at my watch; then, following Carole Cohen's directions, drove up-island to the site of yet another Chilmark mansion-to-be. It was a huge place overlooking Menemsha Pond with workmen steadily framing walls, pouring cement, and shingling roofs. No wonder simple islanders who wanted a garage repaired or a new dormer built found it so hard to get people to do it; all the island's carpenters were busy building castles.

I spotted Roland Nunes's moped among the workmen's pickups and Jeeps, parked my truck, and walked into the organized chaos. Nunes was working on a deck that thrust out above Menemsha Pond. It was big enough to hold my whole house and provided a splendid view of the pond and the Elizabeth Islands on the far side of Vineyard Sound.

I watched him work for a while, taking note of the smooth rhythm of his movements and seeing once again the beauty in anything being done well, whether it is a dancer's arabesque allongée, a short-order cook flipping eggs for the morning crowd, or Zee making one of her perfect casts off Wasque Point. He worked steadily, wasting no motion or energy, using his air-driven nail gun like a maestro, never missing a beat. Lovely.

I crossed the unfinished deck and came up behind him. He sensed my presence and turned and smiled.

“J.W. What brings you here?”

“Somebody's going to have a nice view.”

“Yes. The world is full of them.”

I showed him the photos. He studied them and shook his head. “I don't know him. The camouflage looks pretty conventional. Half the Special Forces in the world look like that, so he could be anybody.”

“You're sure you don't recognize him?”

He handed the picture back. “I'm sure. I think you should let this business go now.”

“I may do that, but first I'm going to talk with a couple more people.” I told him of my conversation with Sally Oliver.

“I don't think that Sally is involved,” he said in his gentle voice.

“Do you have any enemies?”

“We have met the enemy and he is us.” He smiled.

Another Pogo person. “Aside from that,” I said.

“I had many long ago,” he said. “For the last thirty years I've tried to avoid making new ones.”

“What became of the old ones?”

He looked down at his hammer. “Most of them are long dead.” He lifted his eyes. “We were warriors then,” he said. “I'm no longer one of those. I'm just a man.”

“What about the woman who was at your place last night?”

“I'm not celibate.”

“Maybe she has a lover who doesn't like you taking his place.”