Death in the Off-Season

by Francine Mathews

  Merry paused an instant, weighing her answer. Her training warned against allowing Peter Mason to ask the questions. But at the moment she was wracking her brain for an opening to all that he was withhold­ing, and maybe some give and take would help. “I think your brother drowned, basically, but I can only speculate how that happened.”

  “Couldn’t it have been an accident? A stumble in the dark, a blow to the head, a roll into the water, something like that?”

  Meredith pulled her glasses away from her face and met Mason’s eyes. “I doubt it. The crime scene unit is wrapping up its work right now, and we won’t have the autopsy report for a couple of days. But from the bruises on the body when we pulled him out, I’d say he was struck with some violence behind the knees and thrown backward onto a hard surface. His skull is cracked.”

  Peter frowned. “Struck by what?”

  “A car bumper, I’d guess.”

  “A hit-and-run?” Will’s voice broke.

  “I don’t think so,” Merry said. “At least, not in the sense of an acci­dent, which is what you mean, Will. There are no tire tracks coming to a sudden stop anywhere near where you found the body. He wasn’t hit on the drive.”

  “You said he drowned, Detective,” Peter objected.

  “I’d like to wait for the coroner’s report, of course, but it looks to me as though he was struck squarely by the middle of the front fender—a few feet in front of the livestock gate—went into the air, and slammed his head on the hood of the car. He’d have rolled off to one side. It’s clear he didn’t go under the tires—there’s no sign of crushed bones, as there would be if the car had actually driven over him. I’d bet he was knocked senseless by the impact.”

  Peter looked at her levelly. “So whoever hit my brother delib­erately opened the gate, hauled him up the drive and placed him facedown in the bog to die.”

  There was a small silence. “That’s about it,” Merry said. “He didn’t walk into the bog. There’s a fairly distinct drag mark, as though some­one had pulled the body up the drive by the shoulders and rolled it into the water. Fragments of gravel from the drive are stuck on the fabric of your brother’s shirt. It’s possible there are microscopic paint chips from the vehicle that struck him lodged in the fabric as well. We just don’t know yet. There’s also a nice, deep set of footprints on the soggy edge of the bog that I’m having my colleagues cast right now, and a single print out on the main road. They were made by the same shoe. A set of what I think are Rusty’s prints are near some tire-track patterns on the road, but there are none of his anywhere near the bog itself.”

  Peter stood up and crossed to the diamond-paned window that took up most of the study’s far wall. Roses, coming into their end-of-summer bloom, trailed from the low eaves beyond it. The window looked out on the vivid moor, but today the view was obscured by fog.

  “Are these bogs always flooded, Mr. Mason?” Merry asked.

  “No,” he said, “just at certain times of the year—in fall, for wet harvesting, which is harder on the berries than dry. Wet-harvested product goes to processing; dry, to the grocer. Then in winter, we flood the vines slightly and the water freezes over them. It’s a form of protec­tion. Why?”

  “Could anyone have anticipated that the bogs would be flooded today?”

  Peter turned to look at her, pausing to think. “We hire a team of day laborers to wet-harvest,” he said, “but it’s Labor Day weekend, and half of them are on the Cape shopping for their kids’ back-to-school clothes. Rafe and I decided to start on a few acres today without them. Only we knew the bog would be flooded—and Will, of course, and his mother presumably. And Rebecca,” he added, as an afterthought.

  “Once these things are under water, can they be drained off again?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “I’d like you to do that. Some of your brother’s effects may have sunk to the bottom. We should do a thorough search.”

  Peter’s jaw tightened. “That’ll delay my harvest, Detective.”

  “Not by much,” Merry said brusquely. “I think you can spare a day. Use it to plan a funeral.” She pulled on her glasses again and re-addressed her laptop. “How many people work here at Mason Farms?”

  “You’re looking at the staff, Detective, with the addition of Re­becca. She lives in the cottage out back. Rafe lives over the barn. Will, of course, just comes over when he can spare the time.”

  “I’ll need to know where each of you was after eleven p.m. last night,” she said.

  “I can’t even drive!” Will’s face was white, the blotchy shadows under his eyes that much darker.

  “I didn’t think you could, Will. Were you in bed at home?” she asked.

  Will nodded.

  “Rebecca and I were here,” Peter said, “but of course, we could be covering for each other.” Merry ignored the acid in the remark and turned to look at Rafe. He was leaning forward over his work boots, studying the patches of mud on the worn leather laces.

  “I’d guess I was at the Greengage until eleven,” he said carefully. “Dod Nelson ran me home in his truck.”

  “Did he drop you at the door?”

  Rafe shook his head and smiled crookedly. “At the end of the drive. And he didn’t run anybody over doing it. But I guess you’ll want to see his bumper.”

  “Will said the gate was open when he arrived. Did you close it after you last evening?”

  Rafe hesitated, then nodded. “And I didn’t open it this morning.”

  “Notice anything unusual as you walked up the drive?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Did either of you hear anything out of the ordinary last night—a car jamming on the brakes, a cry, a fight of any kind?”

  The two men glanced at one another, but said nothing. Will Starbuck hung his head and pulled at the threads of his torn jeans.

  “It’s a half mile to the road, Detective. When you’re inside, it’s hard to hear much,” Peter said.

  “Is the dog loose at night?”

  “He stays in the loft with me,” Rafe said.

  “Did he bark last night?”

  Rafe shook his head.

  Merry glanced down at her keyboard, stalling for time, wondering if she’d missed anything. She looked up and thought she saw a small expression of amusement cross Rafe da Silva’s face. Her stomach contracted. “What time would you say you turned in?”

  “Around eleven-thirty, or near enough.”

  Peter nodded. “All tucked in, Detective. Not that that lets us out. We sleep alone, after all.” There was a bitterness in his voice, Merry thought suddenly, that had nothing to do with his brother’s murder. Peter turned back to the fog beyond the window. “I wish I could tell you why Rusty was here and why he died,” he said. “But I haven’t a clue.”

  Merry closed her laptop. “I’m not sure that’s true, Mr. Mason. It’s possible you know more than you realize. I’d appreciate it if you’d think about who’d want to kill your brother on this island where no one supposedly knows him. You say he spent some time here as a kid. Maybe it’s something from the past.” She picked up her red slicker from the leather chair. Howie Seitz retrieved his hat.

  “I’d like to talk to Rebecca now, if I could.”

  Peter nodded distractedly, his back to the room.

  As though I were invisible, Merry thought. One of the domestic help.

  “Detective Folger,” Peter said. “Please keep me informed.”

  It was not, Merry reflected, a request.

  Chapter 4

  Peter mason continued to stare blankly through the study window, his arms folded across his chest.

  Rafe and Will did not intrude on his thoughts. Rafe chose a mug from the coffee tray, tousling Will’s hair as he reached past him. The corners of Will’s mouth flicked upward in a poor attempt at a smile. “Have s
ome bread, kiddo,” Rafe said. Will shook his head. His knees, showing through the torn jeans, were drawn up to his chin and his arms were wrapped tightly around them. Warding off the bogeyman, Rafe thought.

  “Rafe,” Peter said, “do me a favor and run Will home in the Rover. We’re not going to harvest today.”

  “But school starts tomorrow, Peter!” Will protested. “I’ll miss everything!”

  Peter turned to look at him. He sat down in his armchair and leaned toward Will, his eyes intent. “You heard the good cop, Will. We’re not harvesting anything for the next few days.”

  “Can I come over after school and help?”

  “If your mom thinks you’ve got the time, sure,” Peter said carefully. “Now run home and spend the last day of summer vacation the way you should.” He looked up at Rafe, who was staring at him over Will’s head.

  “Go say goodbye to Rebecca and meet Rafe at the Rover,” Peter said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. Will rose reluctantly and headed for the kitchen, casting a doubtful glance backward at the two men.

  When Will had disappeared into the kitchen, Peter sat back in the armchair. “What is it, Rafe? Think I killed my brother?”

  “Of course not, Pete,” Rafe said. “But somebody did, and I don’t feel that great about leaving you alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you. You’ll head right out of this house to look for Rusty’s killer. You know a lot you’re not telling, and it’s going to get you into trouble.” He stopped short and took a swig of coffee. “That’s one the­ory. The other’s simpler, but it’s much worse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning someone’s going to be surprised as hell when you show up in town today. And not very happy.”

  Peter ran a finger around the edge of his mug. The coffee was cold. He frowned in distaste and set it back down on the tray.

  “You mean the person who thought he was killing me when he killed Rusty,” he said. “I thought of that, too. But it doesn’t make sense, Rafe. Who’d want to kill me?”

  “Who else would they be trying to kill? Never mind why your brother showed up here last night. That’s weird enough. It’s too much of a coincidence to think he could get himself to your place and killed all in one day.” Rafe threw himself down on the sofa and leaned for­ward, elbows on his knees. “Pete, the fog hadn’t come in yet last night when I got home, but believe you me, you can’t see the end of your nose at the end of that drive after sundown. It’s black as all get-out. Anybody who caught Rusty in his headlights, wearing a Princeton rugby shirt like yours, hit the gas thinking it was you they were mowing down. Betcha.” He stood up and fished for his keys in his jeans pocket. “Remember that when you go looking for the guy.”

  Peter glanced up at his foreman and smiled crookedly. “Thanks, Rafe,” he said.

  The vehemence faded from Rafe’s heavy features. “Aw, hell,” he said. “You’re not going to listen to me. But you better watch your back.” He pulled open the door to the hallway. Merry Folger was saying goodbye to a friendlier Rebecca at the front door. He ducked back in­side the study. “Nantucket’s finest is on her way out,” he said. “Think I’ll give her time to get on down the drive.”

  Peter smiled again, genuinely this time, and Rafe grinned back.

  Rafe knew very little about Peter’s life before his return to the is­land. The youngest Mason had purchased the land with its abandoned saltbox ten years earlier, when he was just twenty-four, and had spent the next four years waiting for his fifty acres of cranberry vines to bear. He hired Rafe as foreman after that first harvest, and Rafe had been happy to stay. Over the past five years the Portuguese waterman and the Ivy League farmer had forged a deep friendship, born of common labor and love for the island. Rafe respected Peter’s intelligence and strength, and counted on them to steady his own life. He was grateful to him for giving his days some structure and purpose, and he would sacrifice much to preserve Peter’s peace. That Peter needed peace Rafe understood very well. He felt, rather than knew, that Peter carried a weight he never spoke of, something unhealed and festering from the past. On days when simple work and hours spent outdoors drained him of energy, the ghosts were far away. But during the winter months, when the islanders were housebound and farm work was less demand­ing, Peter withdrew into his books and his memories. Rafe was perhaps more necessary to him then, as friend and silent presence. Peter often wondered how he had survived the winters before Rafe came.

  “Well, you’re right,” Peter said. “Whether I’m supposed to be dead or not, I need to find out why Rusty is. And to do that, I have to find out why he was here.”

  “You could let the police do their job, Pete,” Rafe said.

  Peter laughed. “You mean the island’s answer to Ingrid Bergman?” he said. “I don’t think so. The closest she’ll get to figuring this out is what she told us this morning: how he died. She won’t have a clue as to why.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Rafe’s voice was quiet. “She comes from tough stock.”

  Peter looked up. “You know her?”

  “I grew up with her. Heck, everybody knows the Folgers. Her grandpa was chief before her dad. Her brother Billy was probably my best friend.” Rafe thrust one large hand through his mop of black hair awkwardly. “He saved my life in Fajullah, and died doing it.”

  There was a short silence. Peter nodded. “I’ll try not to disparage the local force, of whatever gender. If they display some talent for investigation, I’ll even work with them.” He bent down and unlaced his running shoes. “But if we assume I’m the one somebody wants to kill, I’d be an idiot to sit here and wait for him to try again. Action may be my only means of survival.”

  “Or a flare gun for the killer.”

  Peter appeared not to have heard him. “I’m going to shower. When you get back, we’ll pull out the pump and start draining the fields,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to obstruct justice.”

  “Or have the cops do it for you, and ruin the fruit,” Rafe said. He sighed heavily as he stood up. Merry Folger was probably long gone, and Will would be waiting patiently by the Range Rover. He’d better get the boy back to Tess. “Whistle if you need me,” he said, opening the study door. Peter nodded in dismissal. The door closed quietly be­hind Rafe.

  Peter studied the chessboard in front of him for a few seconds, and moved Napoleon—the king piece—one square to the left. Marshal Ney, his horse rearing, was about to be taken by a Russian hussar. He could not let that happen. It seemed blasphemous to fight the Russian campaign over and over again on this circumscribed board, particularly with casualties that hadn’t occurred in history, but he loved the oppos­ing chessmen. A gift from his father, two years before his death, one of the many tokens by which Max Mason had tried to show that he under­stood his son.

  He straightened Ney’s horse, and then made for his bedroom. After the shower he had some phone calls to make. He considered waiting until he had a funeral date before contacting his mother and his sister George, wanting to delay the inevitable, and then decided against it. Rusty had the right to be mourned by someone other than himself.

  Chapter 5

  Merry folger glanced over at Will, sitting beside her in her Explorer. She had spotted him waiting patiently for Rafe and had seized the opportunity to take him home herself. Howie Seitz was hunched in the backseat, crammed next to Will’s bike, his head shak­ing rhythmically to the rap music coming through his earbuds. Merry was relieved. She had expected him to cross-examine her interrogation technique during the ride back to town. She asked the questions that occurred to her as they entered her mind, and had never done it any other way. After six years as the only woman on the Nantucket force, having worked her way up to de­tective, she wasn’t about to follow the suggested guidelines in one of Howie’s college texts. She had learned that stuff, retained what was important, and forgotten the rest.
Not that you could argue with Howie. Massachusetts spending cuts had whittled the Nantucket bud­get for Summer Special Officers from fifteen down to one—Seitz—and he thought he was God.

  They were almost to the house on Quince Street when Will spoke. “They were trying to kill Peter, weren’t they?” he said. “Nobody wants to say so, but I guess that’s what’s going on. No one knows his brother. It doesn’t make sense they’d run him over.”

  “They?” Merry asked. She assessed Will’s profile. He was still too pale, and his brooding fascination with the horizon wasn’t encourag­ing. “Who’s they?”

  “You know. Whoever did it. The murderer.” He turned and looked out the side window, apparently riveted by the shop windows on Cen­tre Street.

  “I don’t think we can say anything yet about who killed Rusty or why,” Merry said carefully. “But that’s an interesting idea, Will. Why would someone want to kill Peter?”

  “I dunno. It’s not like he’s got any enemies. Everybody thinks Peter’s awesome. Maybe it was somebody who can’t stand him for that. It’s how things work—if they’re going well, you can’t trust it. You’ve got to watch for trouble all the time, or it’ll find you when you’re not looking.”

  Merry pulled into the gravel drive in front of the Greengage. “Will,” she said, and waited for him to look around at her. He did. She was struck by the raw worry suffusing his face. “If you can think of anything that might help me find out who killed Peter’s brother, come see me.” She fished into her slicker pocket and found a scrap of paper. Her pen was in her purse on the car floor. She reached for it. “Here’s my phone number. You know where the police station is out at the Rotary on South Water. Call first to see if I’m around, and we’ll talk.”

  She opened the door and stepped out. “Howie,” she yelled, trying to penetrate the rap. “Help Will get his bike out of there.” Howie un­folded his bulk from the backseat and lifted the bike from the cargo area. He was good for something.