Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

  “I don’t know, Soc,” Alex said. “I think maybe I better get home to my family. Talked to my wife a while ago. She says the kids really miss me.”

  I put my arm around Alex’s shoulders. “No problem, cousin. Family comes first.”

  Flagg suggested that we finish the sandwiches, which we did in short order. Then I pulled in the lines and we putted back to the boat rental place to return the Zodiac. Flagg and I shook hands and promised to get together soon for some fishing.

  “Hey, Soc,” he said. “All that stuff about getting long in the tooth. Hope you didn’t take it personally. Just kidding.”

  “Hell, Flagg, I know we ain’t the hard-muscled hunks of our youth, but we can still whip our weight in bad guys. Think about it. Chernko’s in trouble. Ramsey’s with his ancestors. Chili will be going to the federal lock-up for a post-graduate degree in cooking.”

  Flagg gave a wide grin. “Damn straight, Soc. We are some bad-ass dudes.”

  I watched him disappear into the stream of pedestrian traffic on his way back to his rental car. Then I walked Alex to the ferry dock. When it was time for the ferry to leave, I gave him a hug and told him to stay out of trouble.

  With Flagg and Alex gone, and villains no longer nipping at the heels of my sandals, I suddenly felt very much alone. I walked over to Lisa’s office, but no one was there, so I drove the MG back to the Daggett house. Mrs. Gomes was puttering around in the kitchen. I asked if she had seen Lisa and she handed me an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a note from Lisa:

  “Dear Soc:

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch to let you know that I’ve flown to Boston with Gramps. I persuaded the D.A. to allow his ankle bracelet to be removed. You may be called in as a witness. We will meet with his lawyers to discuss how we can clear his record of charges, and he’ll be undergoing further psychiatric treatment at Mass. General. We’ll be away several days. I’ll be in touch so we can deal with unfinished business. Thank you so, so much for all that you have done, and what you will do. Love, Lisa.”

  I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. Then I wrote a note to Lisa saying that I was leaving the island to deal with personal matters on the mainland, and that I hoped we would talk soon. I would leave the MG in its parking space and the key in her office. I asked Mrs. Gomes to give her the note and went to my apartment to pack my bag. Before long, I was tooling along the Polpis Road in the red sports car for one last time.

  A couple of hours later, I picked up Kojak at my neighbor’s house. She was happy to see me, because she was running out of Kojak food. She gave me the pitiful amount she had left and I drove Kojak back to the boathouse. I opened the windows to let out the dampness, but it didn’t help much because fog was blowing back in. The fog reminded me of Nantucket. Which reminded me of Lisa. Which reminded me that I missed her. I distracted myself with a few beers at a local pub known as the ‘Hole, and got a good night’s sleep.

  Kojak nosed me awake for breakfast, and I realized that I missed Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal, too. But Kojak wasn’t the only one with a full plate. Over the next few days I spent hours dealing with the insurance adjustors and paperwork. Officer Tucker called with some good news. One of Mr. Glick’s associates had turned whistle-blower. His boss was being charged with charging the feds for non-existent rest home residents. Glick would be too busy defending himself to sue me.

  I thought of Lisa from time to time. Let me correct that. I yearned for her. But I assumed she was wrapped up in her grandfather’s case. Henry Daggett was still one can short of a six-pack and he was still the defendant in a murder case.

  I got a call from the district attorney’s office to appear at a deposition. I testified how Ramsey had kidnapped Daggett, confessed to murdering Coffin and would have killed me if Lisa hadn’t distracted him. Since I was the last one to see Ramsey alive, I left out the part about shooting him in the face with the high-pressure hypodermic. I simply said he caught fire when the gas-filled lantern got knocked off the table. I tried to ignore the glower on the D.A.’s face. District attorneys, especially those running for re-election, never like to admit they are wrong.

  When I was reasonably sure that I would soon have an insurance check to buy a replacement boat, then, and only then, did I find the courage to tell my family about the loss of their investment. Brother George was quick to jump down my throat, and got into a spirited exchange with sister Chloe. But my mother was pleased at the way I got Alex out of trouble, and joined my little sister in my defense. I said I would be able to make up lost fishing income from my fees in the Henry Daggett case.

  My mother had only one condition. That I would name the new boat the Thalassa II.

  I found my new boat at the price I wanted at a boat yard north of Boston. The owner was getting out of the fishing business. I drove up to take a look and liked what I saw. I had it trucked to a Cape boatyard near my house where I spent my time outfitting her with the latest in electronics and adding some luxury touches to the cabin.

  I had talked to the dock master in Hyannis. All the slips had been taken by then, but he had one in reserve and said it was mine if I wanted it. I got in a supply of baseball hats and T-shirts to sell customers, bought some new fishing gear, and pulled in an IOU from my reporter friend Sheila Crumley. She did a nice feature story on me with a photo of my new boat. The piece stirred up a dozen or so calls from potential charter customers.

  I was making the arrangements to have the boat delivered to the marina when I got a call from Lisa.

  “Hello, Soc,” she said. “How are you? Sorry to be so long getting back to you.”

  It had been nearly two weeks since we talked, and my Nantucket adventure seemed like a dream, but hearing Lisa’s voice again made my heart do a little jump for joy. I apologized and said I had been away from home a lot anyway.

  “I was advised not to talk to you pending the depositions,” she said. “They took testimony from me as well.”

  “How’s the case looking?”

  “Our stories must have matched or I would have heard by now. The D.A. still wants to prosecute Gramps, but we’re pounding away at his case. Can you hop over to the island? We have some unfinished business to take care of.”

  I’d been anxious to get a cash flow going to my family, but hadn’t wanted to call Lisa looking for money. I asked when she wanted to get together. She suggested that afternoon, proposed that we have dinner, and that I stay the night in my apartment. I had a couple of days before my first charter. I checked the ferry schedule and we agreed on a meeting time. I gave Kojak enough food to last him overnight, and drove to Hyannis.

  Late in the afternoon I stepped onto the ferry dock and saw Lisa waiting for me. She was wearing a cranberry and white Nantucket Conservation Trust T-shirt with a stylized logo of a bird flying over the wave-tops, and pale green shorts. We walked toward each other like one of those movie encounters where the man and the woman embrace in slow motion. All that was missing was the up swell of violin music.

  She had the Jeep instead of the MG, and said she needed room for another passenger. I tossed my bag in the back and we drove out of town onto Milestone Road. I thought we were going to the Daggett compound, but near the cutouts of African animals, she pulled off the road and parked at the edge of the Serengeti.

  We got out and I followed her along the path we had taken the night Ramsey had used us for target practice. Unlike that time, there was no fog blow. I was able to see the figure walking in the field we had crawled through when there were bullets whizzing overhead. The man was wearing tan chinos, a blue long-sleeve shirt and a floppy white cotton hat. He was carrying a bird-watching scope.

  He had his back to me, but turned when Lisa called out, “Gramps. There’s someone here to see you.”

  My jaw dropped in amazement. Henry Daggett was clean-shaven and his face had none of the torment of
his Ahab persona. In its place were the features of a handsome older man blessed with a broad smile. Laugh crinkles framed eyes that had lost the blazing hellfires of their former owner.

  “This is Mr. Socarides, Gramps. Soc, this is my grandfather.”

  We shook hands and he held on with a firm grip as he studied my face as if it were one of Ahab’s charts.

  “You look familiar, Mr. Socarides. Have we met before?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it would have been a long time ago.”

  “Mr. Socarides is the private investigator we hired. He’s been a great help.”

  He pumped my hand again before he let go. “Lisa has told me about you. Thank you so much for all your hard work.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Daggett. I’m pleased to see that you’ve recovered.”

  He chuckled softly. “I understand I’ve been on quite the journey. Luckily, I only remember part of it, or I’d really be stark raving mad.”

  “Anyone would be confused after your experience, especially after a blow to the head.”

  “That wasn’t what prolonged Gramps’s condition,” Lisa said. “Dr. Rosen was putting a hallucinatory drug in his food. It was discovered when Gramps went for routine blood tests in Boston.”

  “Nice to see that my suspicions were justified when it came to the good doctor.”

  “He won’t be a doctor much longer. His license to practice is being revoked and he’s got a criminal investigation breathing down his neck.”

  “Do you feel well enough for me to ask you some questions, Mr. Daggett?”

  “I’m not sure I can be much help. I’m told my memory of events will come back in bits and pieces. I only remember what happened before I went to the museum, and finding myself on the beach watching my shack burn down. Nothing in between.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s start with the events leading up to the meeting with Coffin.”

  “As you know, Ab Coffin and I argued over the acquisition of the scrimshaw collection. Lisa has showed me the photos of the plaque, so I know now why he was so insistent.”

  “He wanted to exonerate his ancestor.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time. He felt that if I saw the plaque I’d change my mind.”

  “And when you saw it?”

  “Oh, I never saw it.”

  “I was under the assumption that Coffin brought the plaque to the museum.”

  “Oh, no. We were only supposed to meet there. He was very secretive. Said he didn’t want to carry it around.”

  “The missing plaque has been a sticking point with the district attorney,” Lisa said. “He says Ramsey had no motive without the actual scrimshaw to prove it.”

  “What about the photos Warner took?”

  “They want the real thing. I think they’re just using it to delay a ruling.”

  “Did Coffin give you any hint of where he was taking you that night?”

  “No. When I asked him why all the mystery, he smiled and recited a quote from Moby Dick.”

  I’d had it up to my ears with Moby, but I said, “What was the quote, Mr. Daggett?”

  “It has to do with the ‘sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.’ ”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, I was transported from the Serengeti to Coffin’s antique shop. I was chatting with the manager about the Red Sox and she was pointing to the pennant over her head. But this time my eye lingered on the words etched in brass on the painting of the ship sailing in a puddle of moonlight.

  “Can you give me a ride back into town?” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  Gramps got into the Jeep with us and I directed Lisa where to go. When we entered the shop, I walked directly to the far end. The shop manager was at her computer. She looked up and recognized me.

  “Nice to see you again,” she said with a smile.

  “Good to see you, too. If it’s not too much trouble, I wonder if I could take a look at that painting over your head.”

  “No problem.”

  She unhooked the painting and handed it over. I read the title of the painting aloud. “Sweet Mystery of This Sea.” Then I turned the painting over. Taped to the back side was the missing scrimshaw plaque.

  Lisa and I celebrated this latest development at Topper’s. I was able to pick up dinner with the substantial check she gave me for my investigative services. She asked me to file for any expenses. I gritted my teeth and told her about the loss of her grandfather’s boat. Which in turn led to a condensed version of the great swarmbot saga.

  She said the boat was insured, and that she was grateful that I was still alive. “I had no idea when I asked you to join this case that I was hiring James Bond.” She gazed off at the lights across the harbor. “It’s hard to believe that Michael could be so evil. Greedy and full of himself, but not a vile person like Chernko.”

  I thought of William Swain’s genes being passed through generations, and said, “People can surprise us. Are we caught up on unfinished business?”

  “Almost,” she said. “We can discuss it later.”

  We drove along Polpis Road with the top down in the MG. The bad weather had cleared out the clouds and the stars seemed to pop out of the velvet sky. I dropped her off at the house and said I’d see her in the morning, which was why I was surprised a while later when I was sitting on the deck and heard a soft knock at the door. When I let Lisa in, she was wearing a lavender colored silk bathrobe instead of the pink terry cloth one she had worn before.

  “Hello,” she said. “Hope it’s not too much trouble, but I wondered if I could sleep with you tonight.”

  “No trouble at all,” I said. “I’ll get the bundling board.”

  Sometimes I can be a little thick. I didn’t get what was going on until Lisa smiled and said, “I don’t think we need a board tonight.”

  The next morning Lisa rose before I did. I heard the shower running and called her name. She told me to join her, which I did. Later, over coffee, she said she had to go to Boston for a conservation meeting.

  “Lillian will tell you about it when she gives you a ride into town. Unless you can stay another night?”

  With great reluctance, I told her I had to get back to my cat. She gave me a big hug and a long lingering kiss. “I’ll call you when I get back,” she said.

  Lillian Mayhew arrived about an hour later. I had come back from the beach after checking out the beach shack ruins. The building had been completely cleared away. I thought back to what had happened on that night, and decided I was glad to see it gone. I got into the station wagon and we exchanged pleasantries until we were out of Siasconset, when Lillian asked if Lisa had told me about the conservation deal. Not in detail, I replied.

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know that negotiations are underway to acquire Mayhew Point and turn it into a nature preserve. The house will be used for international conferences on how best we can save the planet.”

  I said that I couldn’t think of a more fitting use for the property. When we neared town, I asked Lillian to drop me off on Petticoat Lane. As I was thanking her for the ride, she affixed me with a twinkle in her blue eyes and said, “Lisa is quite entranced with you. I hope you’ll honor us with a return visit to the island, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but not as Starbuck.”

  “I’ll look forward to your next visit.” She smiled and said, “You’ll always be Starbuck to me, Mr. Socarides.”

  A minute later, I was knocking on the door of Sutcliffe’s house. He asked me in, but I said I had to catch a boat. I gave him back the copy of Swain’s journal that he had loaned me. I said that I had been on Nantucket to see Lisa, and was on my way back to the mainland.
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  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Awful about Ramsey dying in Daggett’s beach shack. I checked the record, you know. He was a direct descendant of William Swain. This whole thing is crazy. There’s a book in it, but I don’t know where to begin.”

  “I suggest that you go back to where it all started. There’s an interesting piece of scrimshaw you might want to see at the museum. I wouldn’t wait too long, though, because the district attorney may be marking it as an exhibit in the murder case.”

  He bubbled over with questions, but I said I had to run. I made the ferry with minutes to spare. As I stood on the stern deck watching the church spires recede in the distance, I pulled out the dog-eared copy of Moby Dick that I had borrowed from Daggett’s shack and read the rest of the Melville quote about the sea.

  “For here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnabulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.”

  I read the passage several times, and when I looked up again, Nantucket Island, the Little Grey Lady of the Sea, was hidden by her misty shrouds. I put the book aside, and then I walked around to the bow, so that I could catch an early glimpse of the shores that lay ahead.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My fiction-writing career owes it start to the bad navigation of an 18th century pirate. For it was in 1717 that a ship, the Whydah went aground, reportedly carrying a fabulous treasure. In the 1980s, three salvage groups went head-to-head, competing to find the wreck. The controversy over the salvage got hot at times and I thought there might be a book in their story. I was working for a newspaper at the time.