Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  “My boat developed serious mechanical problems, so I’ve got time to work on the case. Besides, how many chances will I have to play Starbuck? I’ve been drinking his coffee for years.”

  “Maybe fate had a hand in your boat problems, freeing you to work with me.”

  I thought about the Russian goons who had visited me.

  “That could be, Lisa. Fate takes on some unusual colorings. How is your grandfather doing today?”

  “Physically, he’s fine, but he’s still delusional. When I said goodbye a little while ago, he was charting the currents and whale migrations so he could ambush Moby.”

  “Where does he fit you into his delusional Ahab world?”

  “He knows I’m his granddaughter, but my guess is that he thinks of me as a specter, a figment of his imagination that comes and goes. Maybe something a home-sick sailor would see emerging from the mists after a long time at sea. Sometimes he stares at me as if he is on the verge of reality, then he slips back into that crazy Ahab world of his. So I limit my time with him. It breaks my heart.”

  “Maybe his mind thinks of you as a lifeline that he can hold onto to keep from slipping into deeper insanity.”

  “Good point. If you’re correct, he could climb back from his delusional pit.”

  “Or he could let go and fall so far into it that he’ll never be able to get out.”

  “That’s a chilling thought.” We walked a few minutes without talking, then she stopped and said, “Well, here we are at the crime scene.”

  We were standing in front of the entrance to a three-story brick building. Lisa said the Peter Foulger Museum was a former candle works and pointed to a weathervane in the form of a sperm whale atop the cupola on the roof. A sign informed visitors that the Nantucket Historical Association had its administrative headquarters joined to the museum building.

  We stepped out of the warm summer day and passed between a pair of Doric style columns into the cool air-conditioned interior. Lisa bought our tickets and led the way past a series of whaling exhibitions to the main first floor gallery. The massive skeleton of a sperm whale hung from the ceiling. As dead and as dry as it was, the creature’s tooth-studded jaw still looked fearsome. It was hard to imagine what it would be like to be that close to an angry whale in the flesh.

  Under the assemblage of bones, where it was dwarfed by the skeleton, was a whaleboat, tipped at an angle to display the interior. Folding chairs for those attending lectures were lined up in rows to the right of the whaleboat. A handful of visitors perused the exhibits.

  “The room was closed for a time while police did their investigation,” she said.

  “Where did they find the body?”

  Lisa went over to a big cast iron barrel set close to the wall.

  “The body was found hanging over the rim of a try pot like this one. The whalers used the pots to boil down blubber. The police moved the actual container out as evidence. I’ll show you the type of whaling tool that was used in the murder.”

  We went over to the curved wall to the left of the boat. Attached vertically to the wall were tools that Nantucket men used to make many a whale unhappy and dead. There were different types of harpoons and lances, and metal heads from both types of implements.

  She pointed to a section behind the boat where there were several tools that a plaque described as Boarding Knives. The knives had long double-edged blades, set into short wooden handles. Some had a crosspiece at the tip of the handle as an extra hand grip. Rope was knotted around the handle to prevent the hand from slipping down on to the blade. The sign on the wall said the knives were used to slice the huge strips of whale blubber down to smaller pieces.

  One knife was missing. There was a hole in the plaster a couple of feet below it where fastening clips had been pulled out of the wall.

  I stared at the blade of one of the remaining knives. “The victim didn’t stand much of a chance.”

  Lisa crossed her arms instinctively in front of her, as if she were trying to protect her mid-section. “What kind of a person could kill someone with a horrible thing like that?”

  I knew what she meant. This would have been up close and personal.

  “Let me ask you a few questions,” I said. “You told me that the two men were here after hours. What brought them to the museum?”

  “My grandfather told me he was going to see Mr. Coffin to talk about the scrimshaw collection Ab wanted the museum to acquire.”

  “The collection your grandfather didn’t want the museum to buy.”

  She nodded. “He said the museum already had one of the finest scrimshaw collections in the world.”

  We climbed the stairs to the second level and went into a dimly-lit room filled with glass display cases. Spotlights in each case highlighted specimens of the whaler’s art known as scrimshaw. Whaling voyages went on for years. To help pass the time, the crewmen scratched images on sperm whale teeth and rubbed India ink or soot into the scratches to bring out the image.

  A lot of scrimshaw is pretty crude, but the whale teeth in the cases had amazingly well-defined images of ships, whales, the respectable women they left back home and the loose women they met on their travels. The collection included pie crust crimpers, corset stays and yarn swifts carved as gifts.

  One case contained a whale bone around three feet long and ten inches wide. The artist had etched out three action scenes that showed the phases of a whale chase, from the first harpoon tossed, to the kill and the butchering.

  “I’ve never seen a piece of scrimshaw this big,” I said.

  “It’s a panorama piece, one of the more unusual works in the collection. It was made from a rear section of the whale’s jawbone. This is only a small portion of the museum’s holdings.”

  “Which brings us back to the question of why Coffin wanted to expand the collection.”

  “That was my grandfather’s question, too. He posed it during several meetings of the trustees. Coffin never answered it to his satisfaction.”

  “How did the other museum trustees feel about the scrimshaw debate?”

  “We’re talking about a pretty discreet group. They don’t like conflict; although some quietly backed Coffin, others supported my grandfather. What they all agreed on was that they would not make any decisions until they actually saw this fabulous collection Coffin described.”

  “Which is what the two men had come here to discuss.”

  “Presumably. Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

  “Later, maybe. Can I get the files on the police investigation and findings?”

  “I have all that material waiting for you at the house.”

  Before we left the museum, Lisa showed me some first-edition copies of Moby Dick and an exhibition on the Essex, the ship whose sinking inspired Melville to write about the big white whale. A thought occurred to me.

  “Is there anything in the museum about the Moshup?” I asked.

  “Mostly newspaper accounts of the sinking. There is very little detail about the aftermath except for a self-serving account Swain wrote, and local gossip.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s get you settled. Michael Ramsey’s cocktail party is at six. Some of the museum trustees will be there. You can talk to them. Maybe you’ll pick up something that will be helpful in the case. Michael tends to invite the island’s movers and shakers so you’ll make a quick acquaintance with Nantucket high society.”

  We walked back to the Jeep and drove out of town. Lisa had a natural skill for taking advantage of openings in the traffic, stomping the gas pedal and brakes until we extricated ourselves from the car-clogged narrow streets. Traffic thinned out when we got on Milestone Road. Not long after that, we were pulling into the driveway of the Daggett homestead. Lisa showed me to my living quarters, a one-bedroom apartment over the garage.
“Well, this is it,” she said. “I hope it’s all right.”

  I told her it would be fine. She said she’d be back to pick me up in forty-five minutes. I tossed my duffel bag onto the bed and walked out onto a small deck. From the top of the garage, I could see the dunes and the blue of water beyond.

  I explored the rest of the apartment. There was a kitchenette with a small wooden table. The space opened up into a living area furnished with a chair, a sofa, and television set. There were some fishing rods and a bird-spotting scope in a closet. The refrigerator was stocked with Grey Lady ale.

  When I’m on an investigation, I try to dress like the locals. I figured standard dress code at a Nantucket shindig was green slacks decorated with whales. Coincidentally, I had picked up an outfit just like that, including a pink shirt, and a lightweight navy blazer. I bought the whole outfit at a church thrift store for five bucks. I had a well-worn pair of boat shoes which I wore without socks. Even with a pirate’s face like mine, and the gold ring in my left earlobe, I thought the outfit would help me blend in.

  I slipped out of my jeans and Thalassa polo shirt, which was all I had left of my pretty boat, and got into my party clothes. I popped a bottle of Grey Lady ale and went out on the deck. I was taking a last slug from the bottle when I heard a car horn. I grabbed my blazer and went down the outside stairs to the driveway. Lisa was waiting on the passenger side of the MG. The lawyer in business casual had vanished and it its place was a woman of stunning beauty. She was wearing an ankle-length lilac print summer dress cut low at the top to show off her shapely shoulders. I felt like a hobo in comparison.

  “Thou shall takest the helm, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Don’t mind if I doest,” I said. I got behind the wheel and put the car into gear.

  A beautiful night. A beautiful woman. A beautiful car.

  I’ve seen far too much of life to be naïve, but I felt like Nick Carraway, the narrator of The Great Gatsby. Lisa was a more exotic Daisy Buchanan. And we were off to a party at Jay Gatsby’s house. What possibly could go wrong? As I was about to learn, I could have answered that question with a single word:

  Everything.

  CHAPTER 8

  As I drove out onto the road, I told Lisa that she looked great.

  “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she said. “Pink is a good color for you.”

  I was glad that she didn’t mention the whale slacks. I asked if I was dressed right for the cocktail party.

  “This outfit is pretty standard for Cape Cod. Add a sailboat tie and you’re a real estate broker. Put on a nautical cap and you’re a yachtsman. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate for Nantucket, so I improvised.”

  “You’ll fit in fine,” she said. “Although it can be tricky to know what is appropriate at a Nantucket cocktail party,” she said.

  “Should I have worn a tux?”

  “It’s not about what you wear. It’s all about show. You could be wearing jeans as long as they are $500 fashion jeans. Or you can gain an edge simply wearing thirty-dollar Levi’s. If you wear the cheap jeans you have to have the money, but not the desire, to buy the expensive ones.”

  “Nantucket cultural mores are more complicated than I thought.”

  “That’s only part of it. With the Nantucket moneyed elite, it’s all about one-upsmanship. On Nantucket Island, the rich are divided into two classes. There are the haves and the have-mores. You can’t brag about the size of your house or how fast your private jet goes, because on Nantucket there is always someone who has a bigger house and a faster plane.”

  “So by being déclassé I could be classy.”

  “You’re getting it.” She raised a finger of caution. “Depends who you are, though. If you’ve got fifty billion in the bank, you can dress in rags. If you have fifty cents, you can’t.”

  “I’m closer to the fifty cents.”

  She did the finger raise again. “Doesn’t matter. Wealth isn’t all that’s important when it comes to Old Money. If you’re an old Nantucket family that goes back generations, you believe that ancestry trumps money.”

  “My family is more Ellis Island than Nantucket Island,” I said, heaving a big sigh.

  “You’ll be fine. You’re in the company of someone from an old Nantucket family.”

  At Lisa’s direction, I drove to the easterly end of the island and the MG joined a slow-moving line of cars creeping along a winding two-lane road. We were behind a Bentley, a Land Rover, a Beemer SUV and another Land Rover. We breathed in high-end exhaust fumes for a few minutes, then turned off onto a driveway paved in cobblestones. Each vehicle stopped briefly at an open gate. A stylized R had been worked into the metalwork. Standing at the entryway was a young woman wearing a white polo shirt and beige shorts. She was blond and tanned, and had a pearly smile she displayed to its brightest.

  “Nice to see you and your guest, Ms. Hendricks.” The young woman checked off Lisa’s name on her clipboard. “Enjoy the party.”

  I put the MG in gear and continued onto a white gravel driveway, following the procession for about a half mile. The line slowed to a stop in front of a mansion that was slightly smaller than the medium-size hotel it resembled. A wide stairway led up to a massive portcullis, resting on multiple Doric columns, which connected two wings set at a slight angle.

  “I must have taken a wrong turn back there,” I said. “We seem to have arrived at Versailles.”

  “Michael’s house is a bit on the palatial side,” Lisa said with a sad shake of her head. “Ten thousand square feet is lot of space for one person.”

  “Ten thousand square feet is a lot of space for a hundred people.”

  “Meet the new Nantucket aristocracy. They make the rich whaling captains look like paupers.”

  A squad of car valets dressed in the white and tan uniform of the gate-greeter was waiting in the front of the house. As soon as I braked to a stop, two car valets stepped forward. One opened the passenger door; the other came around to the driver side.

  Lisa and I stepped out, and a valet got in and whisked the MG off to an area of lawn, near a five-car garage, that was being used as a parking lot. The other valet guided us to a line of golf carts. Most of the arriving guests were middle-aged couples. They had the deep tans and well-tuned physiques that come from time on the golf course and hours spent at the health club. Their burnished skin looked good against the colorful off-the-shoulder dresses on the women and the silvered hair on the gents. I didn’t see anyone else wearing green whale design slacks.

  The cart took us along the front of a two-story wing that looked bigger than the Newport mansions that the robber barons built in the last Gilded Age. We rounded the corner of the house and I saw that the front of the place had been only a preview for the main feature. The two wings were joined at a three-level rotunda.

  The big windows in the curved exterior overlooked a wide patio surrounding an Olympic-size swimming pool. The patio was made of pink marble, semi-circular in shape, and it rippled down to the lawn in a series of steps from the massive rotunda. Gas lanterns set around the patio glowed warmly in the gathering dusk. A string quartet sat at the edge of the pool playing something by Mozart. There were two bars, one on each side of the pool, and business was brisk at both. Tables surrounded the pool and there was a food tent on the lawn at the edge of the patio.

  The swimming pool patio was joined to a sweeping lawn that looked as if every blade had been clipped with manicure scissors. The lawn gradually angled down to a wooded area. Water shimmered in the distance over the tops of the trees. The grass was so green that even in the low light, it hurt the eyes to look at it. There were probably two hundred guests strolling or seated under the tent. Waiters and waitresses in white shirts, black slacks and matching black bow-ties moved through the partygoers offering drinks and food from the trays balanced on their
fingertips.

  The golf cart pulled up to the patio where Ramsey waited to greet his guests. Moving with mechanical precision, Ramsey offered a two-handed handshake to the men, a quick hug for the women, and waved them off toward the bars and food. When we climbed out of our cart, his movements became less robotic and he hugged Lisa longer than is usually considered polite. When he finally unglued his body from hers, he held her bare shoulders and let his gaze rove over her body from head to toe.

  “I didn’t think it was possible, Lisa, but you look lovelier every time I see you.”

  Lisa must have felt the heat from Ramsey’s eyes. “Thank you, Michael, that’s very sweet.” She smiled gallantly, and turned her body sideways to escape his clutches. She took my hand and pulled me over to her side.

  “You remember Mr. Socarides, last night from the Wauwinet?”

  Ramsey tore his gaze away from Lisa. His light-switch smile clicked off and on again. He pumped my hand, but I could tell from this narrowed eyes that I was about as welcome as a root canal.

  “Yes, of course. I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. Socarides. I thought you were going back to the mainland.”

  “I managed to do a quick turn-around. This is a terrific party. Thanks for the invitation.”

  Ramsey saw that the line of golf carts was building up. “Please excuse me. I have to prevent a traffic jam. Save some time for me later this evening, Lisa, and in the meantime enjoy yourselves.”

  “Of course, Michael. I’m looking forward to it.”

  He smiled effusively and greeted the next set of guests to arrive.

  Lisa guided me by the arm away from the host. As we strolled around the patio, she scanned the self-absorbed knots of people.