Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  “Aha. I see a gathering of some of the museum trustees. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  We neared the group of five people huddled off by themselves away from the main crowd. There were four men and one woman. They smiled warmly when they saw Lisa coming toward them. She shook hands with the men and gave the woman a quick embrace.

  There were polite introductions and handshakes all around. The name of the woman with the carefully quaffed snowdrift hair was Lillian Mayhew. After a chatty moment or two, the male trustees said they were glad to meet me, then they headed for the bar.

  Which is when Ms. Mayhew looked me directly in the eye and said, “How do you know Lisa, Mr. Socarides?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I’ve joined the defense team for her grandfather.”

  Her knowing gaze dropped to take in the way Lisa’s arm was hooked around mine. She pursed her lips for a second before she turned back to Lisa.

  “How is your grandfather doing, dear?”

  “Thank you for asking, Lillian. Gramps is fine physically. But he’s still delusional.”

  “That’s too bad, dear. Is he still chasing the great white whale?”

  Lisa nodded. “There’s been no change in his Ahab personality. In fact, he thinks Mr. Socarides is his first mate, Starbuck.”

  Mrs. Mayhew swiveled her level gaze back to me. “Oh. Really.”

  I struggled to think of a gentle way to say ol’ gramps was as crazy as a bedbug. “Mr. Daggett has a vivid imagination,” I said. It was the best I could muster.

  Her icy blue eyes bore into my face. “Melville describes his first mate as a long, earnest man with flesh hard as a twice-baked biscuit. When you looked into his eyes, you saw images of the many perils he had calmly confronted in his life. Have you confronted perils, Mr. Socarides?”

  “A few times, but more with panic than calm.”

  She regarded me for a second, her lips cracked in a thin smile, then she turned back to Lisa. “If Mr. Socarides can spare you, dear, I’d like to chat for a moment.”

  She took Lisa’s other arm and guided her off to a table. I noticed a trustee who’d been introduced as Sutcliffe standing nearby with a drink in his hand.

  “Wow!” he said with wonder in his voice. “You really hit it off with Madame Mayhew. She rarely warms up to anyone that fast.”

  Sutcliffe was wearing a blue blazer over a button-down blue shirt and rumpled chino slacks. In fact, everything about him was rumpled, including his face. There were deep laugh lines at the corners of his gray eyes.

  “I’ve had warmer receptions from a slab of ice,” I said.

  “It’s all a matter of degree,” he said. “Pardon the pun. I’ve only been on-island fifteen years, but she still considers me a washashore. She’s never given me a smile in all that time.”

  Sutcliffe was probably in his sixties. He was slightly shorter than normal, but his height may have been diminished by the slight stoop to his shoulders.

  “I thought it was more of a lip curl than a smile, but you know the lady better than I do. Where did you wash ashore from?”

  “Practically everywhere you can think of. I was a newspaperman in Washington. I bought a vacation house here before you had to rob the Franklin Mint to pay for it. My wife died a couple of years after we retired. I did some stringer work for the weekly newspaper, the Inquirer, and that got me interested in island history.”

  “Sorry about your wife.”

  “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” He brushed his thinning sandy hair back in a gesture that seemed to say he still couldn’t believe she was gone.

  I turned toward the house. “What does Lillian think of washashores who build monuments to their ego like this?”

  “She considers them as distasteful arrivistes. Maybe slightly more advanced on the evolutionary ladder than the jellyfish that float up on the beaches. Lillian comes from a long line of Quaker whaling tycoons who regarded it a sin to show off your wealth. She’ll be the first one to admit she’s living in the past.”

  “If she finds new money so distasteful, what’s she doing here with a major show-off like Ramsey?”

  “Granny believes in the old adage: keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “That’s not bad advice.” I glanced over to where Lillian and Lisa were deep in conversation, their heads close together. “A formidable lady in other words. Did you say your name was Matt Sutcliffe. The author?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I enjoyed reading your book on famous mutinies a couple of years ago.”

  “Death on the Quarterdeck? Glad you liked it.” He shook his head. “Those amazing whaling skippers would put down a mutiny single-handed, kill a crewman or two in the process, then jot it down as a brief mention in the logbook, in between whale sightings. They could eat nails for breakfast.”

  “Nails weren’t all they chewed on. Lisa told me about the Moshup incident.”

  “Did she tell you I was writing a book with Coffin on the tragedy?”

  “She never mentioned it. We talked mostly about her grandfather. Quite the tale from what I’ve heard.”

  “No one knows the true story. The cover-up was pretty effective. Which is why I hooked onto Ab when he mentioned that he had evidence he hoped would exonerate his family.”

  “What sort of evidence?”

  “He was going to tell me later.” Sutcliffe looked as sad as a basset hound. “Talk about a dead-end source.”

  “Do you have enough to write the book without him?”

  “It’s going to be much more difficult. He wasn’t only a source, though. We became friends. I might mention that I was also friendly with Daggett.”

  “Do you think Daggett did it?”

  “Anything’s possible. But no.”

  “What about Coffin’s comments about his ancestors eating Daggett’s?”

  “That was kind of a joke. They’d laugh about it.”

  “Maybe Daggett was faking hilarity.”

  “Well, that’s always possible. I don’t think he could have killed Coffin with that boarding knife. Daggett is the definition of a somewhat daffy but kindly soul.”

  “What about his Ahab persona? Lisa said the D.A. thinks he might have thought Coffin was Moby Dick and that he didn’t know he was killing a human being.”

  He gave a disgusted shake of his head.

  “His lawyer may use that as a defense strategy,” I added.

  “Yeah. Brilliant! That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Make sense to you?”

  I had seen Daggett in his altered state and wasn’t sure he was the kindly soul Sutcliffe knew, but I didn’t want to argue with someone who might be of help. “No, it doesn’t make sense. You said Coffin had some new evidence about his family?”

  “That’s right. He said he would be able to offer proof that Swain had falsely accused his ancestor of murder.”

  “Pretty sensational if that’s true.”

  “It would be to me. I think there’s a book in it.”

  I gazed out across the gas-lit patio thinking that when I worked as a cop in Boston I used to read the 87th Precinct novels by Ed McBain, who said he started with the corpse. Then he asked himself how the corpse got that way. I turned back to Sutcliffe.

  “Tell me about Mr. Coffin.”

  “He ran a small antique shop in town, specializing in scrimshaw. Especially pieces made by his great-great-grandfather. His goal was to gather up every piece that had ever been crafted by his ancestor. He told me that when he ran his fingers over a whale bone that his great-great-grandfather had decorated, an electric charge would go through him, as if they were connecting somehow, and that the dead man was telling him something.”

  “Spectral voices don’t usual
ly hold up to scrutiny.”

  “Don’t know if I believe the voices story, but we both agreed that Swain’s journal was fishy. Too many discrepancies.”

  “I’d like to hear more about them.”

  He dug a business card out of his wallet. “I live on Petticoat Row in town. Give me a call and we can get together over coffee or beer. Your choice.”

  “That’s not even a contest.”

  We shook hands and he wandered off to the bar to refill his drink glass.

  Lisa had broken away from her conversation with Lillian and was walking toward me only to stop and lift her eyes to the darkening sky. The buzz of conversation and the music were drowned out by the thrashing sound of helicopter rotors. Then a noisy moving constellation of blinking lights appeared and circled once over the party before dropping out of sight beyond one of the wings of the mansion.

  Years after I left the Marines, I could hear the whup-whup of Hueys in my dreams and to this day, the sound of a chopper can still give me a bad feeling. I remembered the helicopter gunships that came in to give you air cover and how in the heat of battle sometimes they lobbed a few missiles into the troops they were supposed to be supporting.

  The appearance of the chopper out of the night sky gave me a bad feeling. Part of it came from the persistence of memory. Part of it was the sudden, uncaring intrusion into the frivolity. But most of it was the quick glimpse of the blue and white fuselage. It might have been coincidence, of course, but those were the same colors of the chopper I had seen on the helipad of Volga, the yacht owned by Ivan the Terrible.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rich people must be used to helicopters buzzing their backyards. The party settled back to its sultry summer night rhythm soon after the aerial inspection. The golf carts continued to drop off well-dressed guests. The lighthearted chatter and laughter played against the backdrop of classical music.

  Minutes earlier, Ramsey had shifted from his greeter duties and he’d been moving from guest to guest like a honeybee gathering pollen in a field of wildflowers. He greeted some guests with a quick handshake, a word of welcome, and a gesture toward the bar and food. With others it was a double handshake, a shoulder squeeze, a cheek peck for the women. The smile switched on and off like a strobe light.

  When the helicopter flew over, he had broken off his glad-handing and headed toward the rotunda with a stride full of purpose. I stationed myself off to the side of the patio, close to the rotunda doors. I could see through the wrap-around windows into the first level, a circular room furnished with comfortable looking sofas and chairs. Ramsey crossed the room and disappeared through a doorway that must have led to the interior of the house. Minutes later, the door opened and Ramsey reappeared with a man and a woman. Oddly, it was the two men and not the couple who walked arm-in-arm. Their heads were bent low in conversation.

  A slender woman in her twenties walked a few paces behind the men. She wore a black low-cut dress that ended just above the knees of her long legs. Oversized red-framed sunglasses covered her eyes and her chin had the upward tilt of an aristocrat. Her auburn hair was the same color as that of the sunbather I had glimpsed on the deck of the yacht on my second trip to Nantucket.

  Ramsey and his friends were heading in my direction. The first rule of recon is to see without being seen. I put my glass up to my mouth in a lame attempt to hide my face. I needn’t have worried. They strolled past so deep in conversation that I would have had to shout to get their attention. Then Lisa blew my cover. She gave a big wave, and came over to fetch me. Ramsey saw her and called out:

  “Lisa. Good timing. Come over and meet my friend, Mr. Chernko.”

  If life imitated art, the string quartet playing background music would have struck a gut-wrenching bass chord at the mention of Chernko’s name. Ivan the Terrible. Da-dum. My self-preservation instincts were telling me to head for the hills, but by then Lisa linked her arm in mine and there was no escape.

  My close-up impression of Ivan was that he didn’t look so terrible. He was of medium height and average physique, probably in his fifties. He had on a black suit and white shirt open at the collar. His straw colored hair was thinning and cut close. He had a round, slightly pudgy face that gave him a jolly look enhanced by a calm, avuncular smile. Good old Uncle Ivan. Can’t get enough of him. Always in a good mood. Never a bad word for anyone.

  Lisa extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Chernko. This is my friend, Mr. Socarides.”

  I might have been taken in by the engaging manner if I didn’t know that the man beaming like a lighthouse wasn’t what he seemed. I suspected that Ivan had something to do with the human torch found tied to a tree. I knew that he had ordered two thugs to intimidate me, and when that didn’t pan out, they destroyed my boat and almost killed me and my cat. My first choice would have been to study him safely from a distance. Outer space maybe.

  But here I was, grinning and shaking hands with Ramsey’s friend and watching for a reaction at the mention of my name. Chernko was a cool one. The smile didn’t vary one millimeter. If eyes are the window to the soul, he was keeping the blinds down. In fact, his laugh crinkles only got deeper.

  Speaking with a trace of an accent, he said to Ramsey, “How do you and Ms. Hendricks know each other, Michael?”

  Ramsey took the question as an opportunity to wrap his octopus arm around Lisa’s shoulders. “Lisa is an attorney who specializes in conservation. I’ve been active in efforts to preserve the character of the island.”

  The statement seemed at odds with the mega-mansion Ramsey had built. The house looked like a giant space ship that had landed with conquering aliens. Chernko almost caught me off guard when he turned back. “And you, Mr. Socarides? How do know Michael?”

  “We only recently met through Ms. Hendricks. I’m on Nantucket doing some legal work for her family.”

  “You’re a lawyer as well?”

  “No. I’m a private investigator.”

  Ivan knew damned well who I was and what I did, but he reacted with surprise, giving me a head-to-toe once over. “I’ve never met an American private detective, but I’ve read about them.” There was a playful mischievousness in his voice when he said, “Is Sam Spade an accurate rendering of your work?”

  “Only the drinking part, Mr. Chernko.”

  He parted his lips to reply, but instead he glanced over my shoulder and stared at something. There was a slight narrowing of the hooded hazel eyes and a wag to his head that was almost imperceptible.

  “A pleasure to meet you both,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Turning to Ramsey he said, “Thank you for introducing me to your friends. I can only hope your other guests are as charming.”

  “I’ll introduce you and you can judge for yourself, Ivan.”

  He guided Chernko toward a group of guests. The Russian’s female companion glanced at us without interest, and sauntered after them. I turned around and saw what had caught Ivan’s eye. The two thugs who had visited my boat at the marina were hanging around near the drop-off point. Unlike their boss, they had been delivered on a golf cart like the rest of the guests. Chernko must have seen them coming up behind us and warned them away with a chin wag.

  The thugs looked like professional mourners with their black shirts, blazers, slacks and down-turned lips. The taller one placed his right hand on the left side of his suit where I could see the slight bulge that I guessed to be a holster. He knew that it would not have been the smartest thing to plug me in front of hundreds of witnesses. I wasn’t so sure about his mushroom-shaped friend, who looked as if he would like to pay me back for the spanking I’d delivered when he misbehaved on my boat.

  They gave me the fish eye and set off to follow their boss. As they caught up with Chernko’s girlfriend, the taller one said something to her. She frowned and gave him a foul look. Then s
he stopped to light up a cigarette. She stood there, weight on her left hip, puffing on the cigarette as if she wanted to demolish it, an expression of sheer boredom on her lovely face. One hand supported the arm of her cigarette-holding hand.

  Lisa noticed me staring. “Pretty, isn’t she? You’d think her friend would be more attentive with someone that lovely.”

  “From the look of her body language I’d bet she’s not happy about being ignored.”

  She studied the woman’s angular pose. “You may be right. Well, that helicopter fly-over made for quite the show.”

  “Andrew Lloyd Webber couldn’t have done better. Chernko and Ramsey seemed to be old pals. Do you know what his background is?”

  “I’ve never seen him before. Rest assured though, if he’s close to Michael, there’s money involved. Lots of money.”

  “How do you think Mr. Chernko will score on the Nantucket snob scale?”

  “The old-timers would be appalled at the obnoxious way he swooped over the party. Lillian has left, which tells you exactly how she feels. The newcomers admire brashness, so they wouldn’t have cared if the helicopter had landed right in their fois gras. They’re attracted to money like sharks are to blood.”

  Lisa was right on the mark. Guests were swarming around Chernko with the ardor of rock star groupies.

  “Speaking of Ms. Mayhew, you two seemed deep in conversation,” I said. “Did it have something to do with Gramps?”

  “Lilly’s been a great support throughout this ordeal with my grandfather. He and Lilly used to be a hot item in their younger days. She was the one who mothered me after my parents died. She likes you, by the way.”

  “Evidently impressed with my boyish charm.”

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “Sorry. What impressed her was the fact that you are not Michael.”

  “The Old Money thing again?”