Death in the Off-Season

by Francine Mathews

  “When I was a kid I hated this weekend,” Peter said. “Because it meant loss—the end of my time here and the start of ticking off the months until I could return. I never really felt home was anywhere else.”

  “Except Princeton,” Mayling said.

  “Except Princeton. At night, when the past and the ghosts were all around you.”

  “You’re a romantic, Peter. A romantic with sense.”

  “That sounds like a fast trip to hell.”

  “No!” Mayling protested. “You have sense enough to know when you’re at home, and stay there. Most of us hunt for it all our lives.” She looked wistfully out at the sea. “Sky is fishing,” she said. “You can’t see him from here because of the fog.”

  “Up or down?” Peter said.

  “I assume toward Sankaty Light. It’s one of his haunts.” She looked back at him and for the first time seemed really to see him: the exhaus­tion around the eyes, the smile on the lips not reaching above them. “This isn’t a social call, is it, Peter? Is something wrong at the farm?”

  His gaze met hers, slid away. “Yes,” he said carefully. He looked behind him for the mate to her chair, and eased himself into it. “It seems Rusty came back to Nantucket last night. His body was found in the bog early this morning.” He paused. “I figured Sky was the person to tell. No one else here knew him as Sky did.”

  “Or loved him like that,” Mayling said. Her voice sounded as though she found it difficult to breathe. “I’ll come with you.”

  Peter looked at her narrowly, and then laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Nine out of ten people would have asked two questions, May­ling,” he said. “What was he doing here, and how did he die. But not you. You’ve already gone mentally ahead, to Sky, and you can feel what he’ll feel. You’re saving your worry for him. What is it like to lose your­self in someone that completely?”

  “You should know, Peter,” she said. “You lost your soul to Alison years ago.”

  He saw that she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been impossible all morning,” Mayling said in a rush. “Just let me get a sweater.”

  “Don’t, Mayling.” He reached out his hand to pull her back. “I’d like to see him alone, if I could.”

  “I said I was sorry, Peter.”

  “I know. But I want to talk to him by myself. The death is only half of it, Mayling. You can deal with that later. It’s the murder I’ve got to discuss with him now.”

  Schuyler tate-jackson’s jeans were rolled up to his knees. The Atlantic Ocean swirled around his calves and numbed his toes, raising gooseflesh he disregarded in his ea­gerness to land a bluefish. Never mind that they preferred deeper water. His line, cast twenty yards into a wave, was taut as a bowstring, and his rod was curved into a question mark pointing out to sea. Some­thing, blindly, had taken the hook, and Sky was determined to know what it was. He played the fish, letting it tire, praying the line would hold. The wind had ruffled his hair into a feathered mess of gray and black. He wore the oilskin hunting jacket Mayling had given him for Christmas, and he looked, Peter thought, completely happy.

  Peter stood just out of line of Sky’s peripheral vision a few seconds longer, avoiding what he’d come to do and wishing that his friend’s day could continue as he’d planned it. Unexpectedly, Sky glanced sideways and saw him.

  “Peter! I think I’ve got a big one.”

  Peter kicked off his Sperrys and walked splashily into the surf. “This the new rod?”

  “Yep.” Sky kept up the battle with his line. The fish was almost done, its darting runs less vigorous and panicked, as though a gear inside were running down. Sky reeled it in, stopped, reeled some more. “It’s coming,” he said.

  Peter watched in silence, and then bent for Sky’s net. As the fish reached shallow water he scooped it up, gills heaving, eyes blind in the waterless air, its body jackknifing in the mesh. Sky threw down the rod and carefully lifted the blue out of the net in triumph. “All summer,” he said, “all summer, and not a one. You free for din­ner?”

  “You’ll have to catch more than that if you’re going to feed three, buddy,” Peter said. “I think I’ll let you have it all to yourself.”

  Sky bent down and started working the hook free from the fish’s mouth.

  “I need to talk to you,” Peter said.

  Sky hefted the fish in his hands, estimating its weight. “Something wrong with the farm?”

  “No.”

  Sky looked up and focused for the first time on Peter, his teal-blue eyes wide and steady. He waited.

  “It’s Rusty.”

  “Rusty. He got in touch with you.” He said it as if it were expected, although he knew Peter had never given his brother his contact information.

  “He didn’t. But he may have been trying to,” Peter said. “Sky—somebody killed him last night. We found his body in the bog this morning. The police think he was run down by a car and left to drown.”

  Sky stared at him wordlessly for several seconds, the fish dangling. “Rusty,” he said again. He sat down suddenly in the surf, salt water cascading over his jeans. “The bog? My God, what was he doing there? You say he drowned?”

  Peter nodded. “We’d flooded the cranberries yesterday for wet harvesting.”

  Sky looked down at his fish, its gills still fighting for air, and abruptly threw it back into the water. He turned his head aside and vomited.

  Peter waited until Sky stopped shuddering, then extended a hand to help him up. Sky filled his hands with salt water and doused his face. He kept his hands over his eyes a mo­ment, letting the cold shock of the water clear his head.

  “Peter,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “tell me you didn’t do it, for God’s sake.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Peter said. “I’ve given you cause to think me ca­pable of anything. But I didn’t do it, Sky. Never.”

  Sky nodded, and looked around vaguely for his fishing tackle.

  “I’ll walk you back,” Peter said, picking up the rod and net. “I’ve already told Mayling.”

  “I always thought if there were news of Rusty,” Sky said, “that I’d be the one telling you. Why was he on the island? Why didn’t he call me?”

  “I was hoping you knew,” Peter said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Sky looked ruefully at his jeans, which clung to his body like a wetsuit. “Let’s get back to the house. We can talk after I change.”

  The station on Fairgrounds Road had the air of a retail store on Christmas Eve: the end of the high season was almost in sight, with peace and sanity hovering on the horizon. Labor Day meant the sum­mer people were on their way home—all excess fifty thousand of them. Another week and the island population would settle into its winter numbers, with the drug dealing and the drunk driving, the boat thefts and the petty shoplifting, receding for another year. The traffic that choked Main Street would trickle away; the boatloads of day-trippers would dump fewer and fewer tourists in need of directions, public bathrooms, and first aid. Errant bikers going the wrong way on the town’s one-way streets would have fewer head-on collisions with New York lawyers’ BMWs. Off-island teenagers would cease drinking on the Jetties on Saturday nights. And after a week of relief, the force would be restless and bored.

  Ten of the island’s finest were lounging around their desks like run­ners at the end of a race, some with their feet up and their chairs tipped back, others preparing to head out onto the streets for the season’s final patrols. They were deeply tanned, solidly built, fresh-faced, and fairly young; most were off-islanders to begin with, and few stayed on the island longer than five years. They were all male. Several pairs of eyes glanced casually at Merry as she walked into the main office, then looked down. Word of the murder was out.

  The division of criminal investigation had eight officers a
ssigned to it. She knew Randy Garrett was following up a case of arson; Wendell Case was on leave for the next two weeks; Phil and Tom Potts, brothers and islanders, were about to close a sting operation targeted against cocaine dealers working both Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard from a fleet of yachts. Everyone else was too junior. She could make a case.

  Merry threw her red slicker over the back of her desk chair and dumped her large, shapeless plastic leather bag on the floor of her cubicle. She locked her fingers together and thrust them toward the ceiling, stretching to her full height and looking more than ever like a lean and fine-boned cat. It was important to seem relaxed, confident, instead of exhausted and nervy as she really felt. To ignore Matt Bailey—the snake—sitting twenty feet away and staring at her over his coffee cup, as he calculated her chances of holding on to the case. She picked up her laptop and then felt around vaguely for her reading glasses. She’d left them in the pocket of her slicker. She reached for them and smelled the fog—wet macadam, damp car interiors, the animal odor of soggy hair—rising from the coat.

  “Thanks for the legwork, Merr,” Bailey said. “Send me the file of your case notes, okay?”

  Merry turned. Matt had finished his coffee. He was leaning back in his desk chair, his dark head cradled in his arms and his feet up on his desk. He was grinning. She felt her face begin to flush crimson.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she said slowly.

  “That call you logged around seven a.m. The Mason murder. “

  “I know when I logged the call, Matt. You were still in bed.”

  “Yeah, well, you can head home and get some rest. Your dad gave me the case. I’m glad you went out there, Merry—none of the guys types as well as you do.”

  “My dad is Chief Folger to you, Bailey,” Merry said through her teeth. She slammed her chair into her desk and turned away from him in a rage. She made straight for the glass-walled office in the corner of the room where her father sat reading the paper over his second cup of coffee.

  Matt watched as the glass door shook behind her. He chuck­led softly.

  “You can’t keep doing this to me.” Merry was rigid with anger, her hands braced on the edge of her father’s desk. He looked at her over his paper, and his light blue eyes were flat and icy.

  “Control yourself, Meredith. I have nothing to say to you—”

  “The hell you don’t.”

  “—until you can speak in a normal tone of voice. Let’s try this again. Good morning, Detective Folger.”

  Merry turned away from his desk and raked her fingers through her hair. She reached for the door­knob and then dropped her hand. She took a deep breath and turned back to face him. “Good morning, sir. It looks like a fine day, sir. A perfect day to resign, sir.”

  John Folger’s expression didn’t change. He motioned to the wooden captain’s chair shoved stiffly against one wall. Merry hesitated. She felt more powerful standing. Her father didn’t blink. She took the chair.

  “Now tell me about the Mason case,” he said.

  “You mean the one you took away from me?”

  “I didn’t know I’d assigned it to you.”

  “Yeah, well, anyone else who was first on the scene, and who had my seniority, would be put in charge of the investigation. Not to mention that I’m the only one free right now. Or did you take Bailey off the Atwater vandalism?

  “Bailey expressed an interest in handling a murder. Vandalism isn’t up to his talents.”

  “What about mine?”

  A muscle in her father’s cheek twitched. He was beginning to get angry. But otherwise, his face betrayed nothing. He was adept at suppressing emotion—particularly when dealing with his daughter.

  “Your talents are considerable, Meredith. So are your vulnerabili­ties. I don’t think you’re ready for murder.”

  “No, that’s not quite true. You just don’t think any woman is ready for murder.”

  “I wonder if this island is ready for a murder investigation headed by a woman, but that’s different. I don’t have any control over the con­fidence of the public. I can control my officers’ caseloads. I gave the case to Bailey because I think he’s tougher than you are.” As Merry started to protest, her father raised one hand. “The Masons draw a lot of attention, on-island and off. They’re also the sort of people who de­mand results fast. I’m not sure you need that kind of pressure.”

  She had certainly been nervous this morning, Merry thought, but she had overcome it and asked Peter Mason the right ques­tions. She deserved her father’s trust. “I’ve got two years’ seniority on Bailey. I’ve logged more hours of training and crime scene unit experience.” She glared through the glass wall at Matt, whose feet were still propped on his desk. He seemed less than eager to pursue her case. “Hell, I’ve got more balls than that guy, Dad!”

  “Meredith.”

  She faced the hard blue eyes. “My problem is that I’ve got my father for a chief. I’ve got a boss who’s so worried he’ll be accused of favoritism that he treats me as if I’m the worst officer on the force. I had to fight you for promotion to detective. I’m not going to fight you to be allowed to do my job. Maybe I need to move off-island and work for somebody who’ll treat me with trust and respect.”

  John Folger shot out of his chair, and the pencil he held in his right hand snapped in two. “I’m going to assume you need sleep, Meredith. I’m sending you home to get it. And I’m giving you two weeks of paid leave to get your head on straight.”

  “I don’t need a vacation, I need your confidence.” She met his eyes and held them. “You’ve got to stop protecting me, Dad. Let me do my job.”

  “You think murder is your job,” he said.

  “Solving crime is what I’ve been trained to do. When are you going to accept it?”

  John Folger glared at her. Then he sat back down in his chair. There was a pause while he carefully fitted one shat­tered end of the pencil into the nub of the other. “I never wanted this for you, Merry.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “Your mother didn’t want this for you.”

  “Oh, God, how long is that going to matter?” Merry cried out in exasperation. “I’m your daughter, too. I’m not going to slit my wrists when things get rough!”

  She stopped abruptly, appalled at what she had said.

  Her father’s face had turned to stone. “Get out of here, Meredith,” he said quietly. “Just go, now.”

  Chapter 8

  Sky’s study was in the old half of the house. It was a small room, and dark, overlooking Baxter Road—a room better suited to lamplit reading on cold November nights, of a kind Sky never spent on the island. Mayling had used cherry silk for the drapes that hung against the mahogany wainscoting, and picked up the warmth with a paisley print on two large easy chairs drawn close to the fire. An orange-and-black Princeton banner hung on one wall.

  Peter slouched against the massive desk, idly looking at pictures, while he waited for his friend. Mayling’s face shone out of one frame; in an­other, she stood next to a fashion runway, a slightly bewildered expres­sion on her face. Peter imagined that she was searching beyond the lights for Sky, even as he took the picture.

  He picked up a black-and-white shot of a college rugby game, an exhausted Sky throwing his arm around an exultant Rusty. Peter re­membered that year. He’d been a freshman standing on the sidelines to cheer on the senior god, his brother. Rugby hadn’t been Peter’s sport. He’d tried rowing instead.

  When Rusty disappeared, Sky had attempted to make Peter his friend. He had not been completely successful. Hurt and lost without a brother he’d once loved, Peter had resented Sky’s efforts to take Rusty’s place. As he had gotten older and come to know Sky better, he under­stood that the lawyer had needed him to fill a void, and that he had failed him. Mayling, who had never known Rusty, was necessary to both of them, a buffer against th
eir memories.

  “What do the police think?” Sky asked from his study doorway. “They’ve been out there, of course.”

  Peter set down the picture frame. “They practically woke me this morning.”

  “You found the body?”

  “No, that’s the real tragedy. The one person who should never have seen it—Will Starbuck—discovered him. Rafe called the police. I’d gone out for an early run, and only got back after the ambulance and cop cars arrived.”

  Sky threw himself into a chair and reached for the box of foot-long matches. “And?”

  Peter pressed his fingers against his eyes. “They think he was hit by a car sometime after eleven p.m., then dragged unconscious to the bog. He was left facedown to drown.”

  “A car?” Startled, Sky stopped short in the act of lighting the fire, then assumed a professional mask. In the time it had taken to change his clothes, he’d managed to distance Rusty’s death in order to assess it as Peter’s lawyer. “Who’s handling the case?”

  “A Detective Folger. A woman.”

  Sky’s eyebrows shot upward. “What’s she like?”

  Peter shrugged. “A little abrupt. She struck me as tentative and aggressive at the same time, but maybe that’s my discomfort with being a murder suspect. She’s around thirty. Police chief’s daughter. Rafe says she’s competent.”

  “And what do you think?”

  There was a pause. “First thing that comes to mind? She’s a hottie, Sky. Swedish bones and blonde hair—with the most striking black eyebrows. And yes, if she’d been a man I wouldn’t have noticed. So shoot me.”

  “Peter—”

  He threw up his hands. “I don’t know! Christ, I’ve never done this before. I have no idea how to judge detectives.”