Death in the Off-Season

by Francine Mathews

  Peter read the letter again quickly and pondered the final para­graph. “Sudden death has a way of making people wealthy.” He shook his head. Will and Tess Starbuck were his only friends in mourning, but Dan’s death had brought them more debt than wealth.

  He shuffled the sheets and found the final letter, the one to George. He liked reading this the least, afraid he would discover something about the Whitneys’ lives he’d rather not know. This was the worst of it, he thought; Rusty had brought ugliness back into his world. He read on.

  My dearest George—

  Lo, and the prodigal brother returneth.

  Biblical words for catastrophic events. I assume that you, of any­one, have fatted calves to kill—a room, for instance, up in the eaves of that palatial house you call home. I can see it now—done up in Mario Buatta, probably, reeking of nouveau wealth and Hale’s unfortunate conservatism. I’m counting on the conservatism, by the way, to keep me healthy: make sure you tell him I’m coming home around Labor Day. He needn’t leave the country, either—I have no intention of bringing up our unfortunate mutual past. Provided I’m well looked after.

  I won’t bother to lull you into thinking I’m a changed man—for the better, that is—with false interest in your brats or sweet inquiries about your marital happiness. I never liked kids, I have no hope for Hale’s, and I wrote off your marriage the day it occurred. You were always one to go for security over risk, George; something you inherited with Peter. Much good may it do you. You’ll die well and fat and without a single live emotion in your body, your only satisfaction the knowledge you’ve lived a life as empty as your mother’s. And Peter—Peter, who actu­ally thought his outraged integrity might shame me—you’re hypocrites, both of you.

  So I’ve had a bit too much cachaça. I’m sober enough to know you can’t turn me away, George, not if you want your home intact and your children safe in the illusions you’ve given them. Make sure Hale knows I’m coming. He doesn’t have to throw himself off the Greenwich train or lock himself in the library with a gun. He just needs to negotiate. Man to man.

  R.

  Peter read the letter three times. Then he folded it carefully with his one good hand, eased himself to a standing position, and reached for a buff leather briefcase that rested on the floor next to his desk. On second thought, he turned and folded the letter to Sky and placed it with George’s. He would take them both to New York.

  Hale Whitney was a shy, introspective, cherubic-faced forty-five-year-old who had entered a new world when he met Georgiana. He exuded confidentiality, trustworthiness, and respectability. He had a wicked instinct for making money. But he was no street fighter—threatened with the loss of his reputation, or his home, suicide might seem like a reasonable option. Rusty had hit George first, to make sure Hale didn’t bolt. He had been very clever.

  Peter snapped the tabs on the briefcase and stood up. Then he reached for his cell phone and called the Nantucket police station. He was put through to Merry Folger within seconds.

  “You read the letters?” she said.

  “Yes. Detective—this has everything to do with my family history and Rusty’s past. I may be in a position to clear it up for you when I get back from New York.”

  “New York?”

  “Well, the suburbs, actually. I’m interviewing my father’s former CFO in Westchester. Then I have Rusty’s fu­neral, and some conversations with family and friends that may lead somewhere.”

  There was a short silence on the line. “Would the CFO know about that sealed indictment from ten years ago?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I think I should come with you,” she said.

  Peter opened his mouth to dissuade her, then stopped in mid-thought. He had a sudden vision of her intelligent green eyes and the way her jaw clenched when she asked her unswervingly tough ques­tions.

  “We’ll catch the eight-thirty flight,” he said. “Pack light.”

  Chapter 20

  Friday morning of a short week after Labor Day, and still she felt exhausted. Lucy Jacoby struggled to open her eyes at the insistent ringing of her alarm, sensing the dim light of five-thirty beyond the skylight of her loft bedroom. She sighed deeply and threw her arms over her head, reaching for the coolness of the empty white linen pil­lowcase next to her own, resisting the day and its rush of duties, ten­sions, and memories. She felt a profound desire for sleep, an almost overwhelming compulsion. Should she call in sick again today? Have coffee over her morning paper and then catch a ferry for the mainland? Unbidden, the face of a familiar stranger rose in her drowsing mind. Her last encounter on the ferry had been a horrible one. There was no escape in that direction.

  She swung her stiff limbs out of bed in the dim, fog-laden light and padded to the small window cut in the peak of the gable. From here she could see the Atlantic off Tom Nevers Head. It stretched like a sheet of iron to the horizon, and she shivered. She had never found charm in the sight of limitless distance. Time for a warm shower, coffee, the inti­macy of her garden.

  Y

  She was huddled over the dew-laden rose bed with a pair of secateurs in her hand when Peter pushed open her garden gate. The fall of auburn curls flashed around her shoulders as she turned, and fear suffused her face at the sight of the neat sling supporting his arm.

  His heart turned over. She was like a burdened child, playing in the dirt to keep her mind off her worries. The mingled scents of her flowers drifted to his nose on the shifting damp.

  “Peter! What happened?” She stood up quickly, dropping her shears at her feet.

  “Somebody took a shot at me Wednesday night,” he said. “Noth­ing serious. I’m fine.”

  No one would ever know what it had cost him in pain and swearing to get dressed that morning.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  He walked toward her slowly in his business suit. The dew spattered the polished leather of his shoes and left raindrop-sized stains on their tips. “The roses are still blooming.”

  “Not for long,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. The words were laced with regret. “I can keep them going until mid-September, but after that, I admit defeat and leave the heads on to wither. It triggers their dormancy. The drop in temperature at night is doing it for me, anyway. You’ve probably seen the last flowering.”

  Peter stopped at the edge of the bed and, with his good arm, reached toward a coppery pink bloom. “This one reminds me of you,” he said. “It has your fiery head.”

  He glanced at Lucy and saw her pallor and widened eyes. She was staring fixedly at the sling. “Whoever killed Rusty must have come back for me, but he failed. That’s a good thing, Lucy, not a reason to worry.”

  “Unless he was hunting for you all along,” she whispered, “and got Rusty by mistake. Oh, Peter, I’m so afraid.”

  “Don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

  “What does—the detective think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucy stared at him, her lips compressed. “That’s a lie.”

  Peter thrust his good right hand into his pocket, turning over his keys with his fingers. He came to a decision. “I think she’s always believed the killer was after me, and this has just confirmed her hunch. But I don’t agree with her. And I don’t want you worrying for no good reason.”

  Lucy dusted the dirt from her knees. “That sling is as good a reason as any. Be careful, Peter, or I’ll never forgive you. Where are you going in that suit?”

  “Boston first, then New York. I have to collect my brother’s ashes and see a colleague of my father’s.”

  “Gone long?” Her voice was trembling again, and Peter thought he knew why. He hesitated, then placed one hand lightly on her shoulder.

  “You’ll never know I’ve been away. How are you feeling, alone in this house? You can move to the farm while I’m gone
—Rebecca and Rafe would be some company. Not to mention Ney.”

  Lucy smiled a watery smile and shook her head. “I’ll stay here,” she said. “I’ve got to face things sooner or later.” She jumped suddenly and glanced around for her watch. “What time is it? I should change for school.”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “I’ll be late. I always am.” She reached for her garden shears and snipped off the coppery-pink rose Peter had admired. “Here,” she said, “take this with you. Roses are good luck.”

  Peter breathed in its scent. “You know, this is the one thing the farm still lacks. We should plan a rose garden this winter. What’s the name of this?”

  Lucy’s eyes shifted away, and she shrugged. “I don’t know. I got it from a friend.” She made for her back door with her characteristic furtiveness, a small animal bolting for protective cover. At the screen she paused and looked at him sharply. “Call when you get back.”

  “Because you’ll never call me,” he said to the empty doorway.

  Peter placed the rose carefully on the Rover’s passenger seat and gingerly threw the car into first with his good hand. He could just manage to steer and shift single-handedly if he did it slowly and had plenty of warning; but he wouldn’t mind letting Merry Folger drive the rental car once they got to New York. He glanced down at the rose as he bumped over the ruts of the Chuck Hollow Road and turned the car toward Milestone. It was an extraordinary color, the orange-fuchsia of each petal’s tip deepening at the base to a glorious, tropical copper. It smelled of cinnamon and citrus and the deep woodsiness of tea. He had never seen anything like it. Not that he was an expert on roses—his mother had grown them, but as a child, he’d ignored everything that wasn’t a ball or a book. He glanced at it again and had a sudden, vivid image of his study at night, with Rachmaninoff playing and the heady scent of this flower drifting in through the screened windows—and made a decision on impulse. Instead of heading for the airport, he turned toward the Rotary and Maplethorne’s Nursery.

  When the Rover crunched over the gravel and pulled to a stop near the railroad ties that served as markers for the garden center’s parking, Buck Maplethorne was in the midst of hauling a hose down an avenue of fall chrysanthemums, set out on trestle tables to brighten the foggy morning. He looked over his shoulder at Peter, gave him a swift grin, and shoved the hose nozzle into the outdoor spigot.

  “Peter. You look like Summer People in that getup.”

  “Blood will out, Buck, blood will out. You can buy land here, but you can’t buy history.”

  Real islanders still called Buck “that fellah from Vermont,” although he’d come around the Point, as Nantucketers referred to a permanent move on-island, eighteen years earlier. He glanced at Peter’s arm. “What happened?”

  “Nicked my biceps.”

  “Harvesting?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I heard about your brother on the news.” Buck attached a spray wand to his hose. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks. It was a shock.”

  “They any closer to finding out who did it?”

  Peter shook his head. “It’s early days, yet.”

  “Can’t remember when there was a murder here. But you didn’t come to talk about that. What can I do for you? I’m placing orders this afternoon.”

  “Could you rent me another beater in time for harvesting Monday?”

  “You’re wet harvesting with that arm?”

  “You’ll notice I have two.”

  “I’ll put in the order and call you when the delivery arrives. You can return it, end of next week, and that way you’re only paying for five days.”

  Peter pulled the rose out of the car’s interior and handed it to the nurseryman. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Buck Maplethorne let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a beaut,” he said. “Where’d you find it?”

  “A friend’s garden. I was hoping you’d know the name and how to order it.”

  “I can find anything online,” Buck said, “if it’s grown in the U.S. Give me a couple of hours.”

  “You can have several days,” Peter told him. “I’ll stop by Sunday when I get back.”

  John folger had his coffee mug and his morning copy of the Inquirer and Mirror spread out on the scarred oak table in the kitchen. The screen door was open and the morning sounds of the island—birds, dis­tant foghorns, and the whoosh of bicycle tires—filtered into the room. Ralph Waldo, humming over his tomato plants, was just audible.

  The chief took a long draft of coffee and grimaced; he had never really acquired the taste for it. He’d given up a lifelong smoking habit three years ear­lier. Caffeine was a poor substitute.

  A loud thump reverberated through the house, and John glanced up at the ceiling. Merry was tossing shoes around again. He snapped a sheet of newsprint irritably between his fingers. John was uneasy about the progress of the Mason case, or lack thereof. But second-guessing Merry’s work felt like helicopter parenting, and he was trying to reform.

  The thumping made its way down the uncarpeted steps and his daughter swung into the kitchen with her hair gathered in one hand. She was wearing a simple black dress and casting about the kitchen distractedly.

  “Lose something?” John asked.

  “Laptop,” she said. “Hairband. I’ve got ten minutes to get to the airport, dammit. And can I find my laptop? Can I have a good-hair day? Not a chance.”

  “Check your car. And safe travels.”

  “Thanks.” She fished a plastic clip out of a drawer full of rubber bands and plastic-bag twizzles, snapped it into her hair, and dashed for the driveway. John heard the Explorer’s door jerk open and shut. Two seconds later she was back.

  “Not there,” she said. “I think I was using it somewhere around here last night.”

  A slight thrill of self-conscious guilt rose in the pit of John Folger’s stomach. He remembered where her laptop was: on his bedside table. He had opened it after she’d gone to bed and read through her case file himself. He took a quick sip of coffee to hide his confusion.

  Merry turned at the sound of Ralph Waldo’s wheelbarrow, its unoiled wheels complaining and burdened, as he trundled a load of compost toward the tomato bed. “Ralph! Hey, Ralph!” She shot through the screen door.

  John Folger hurried up to his bedroom, retrieved the laptop, and sauntered into the kitchen just as Merry reentered the house.

  “Dining room table,” he said. “Beneath yesterday’s paper.”

  “I must be losing my mind,” Merry said. “Thanks. I’ve got to go.”

  “Meredith—”

  She paused in the open doorway.

  “Why are you letting Peter Mason off scot-free?”

  “Because he didn’t kill his brother. Nobody leaves a body in his own front yard and tells the police he hated the victim’s guts.”

  “Unless he figures the best cover is to look like a knucklehead,” John said mildly. “He has no alibi, remember; he’s got the motive; and he’s defi­nitely got the opportunity.”

  “Are you suggesting he shot himself Wednesday night?”

  “More than one suspect in a murder investigation has pulled the self-inflicted-wound number on a rookie detective.”

  “It’s incompatible with the evidence,” Merry said.

  “The footprints near the body?”

  “How’d you know about the footprints near the body?” Her eyes narrowed and she glanced down at the laptop in her hand. “Oh, Dad, couldn’t you just have asked?”

  “I should have. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “I do. I’m just . . . making sure you’re not on the wrong page.”

  She sighed in exasperation. “The footprints are the clearest indication that Peter Mason didn’t kill his brother. Some
one else did—and wants us to think that Peter was the intended target.”

  “I’m not following you,” John said.

  Merry glanced at her watch. “I’ll have to throw on the siren to get to the plane in time. But here’s my theory. The prints walk up to Peter’s body and stop. Whoever shot him took the time—despite a frantic dog willing to eat its way out of the barn and a housekeeper running to the scene in her nightie—to check whether Peter was dead. A real killer would have noticed he’d simply fainted and would have shot him at point-blank range in the head or chest. This shooter turned and walked away. Then there’s the shot itself.”

  “What about it?”

  “Peter told me yesterday that he saw the muzzle flare and instinc­tively dodged left, trying to get out of the way. If the shooter was aiming at his chest the bullet ought to have hit his right side. But it went into Peter’s left arm. He dodged into the bullet’s path.”

  “So the perp was a lousy shot.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I think he—or she—never intended to hit Peter at all. I think the attack was a red herring—to make us think Peter was supposed to die, not his brother. When Peter went down in a dead faint, for one awful moment the gunman thought he’d killed him. So he walked over to see. Then he hightailed it out of there.”

  John Folger sat back in his seat, mulling it over.

  “Do me a favor this morning?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Put through a request for a search warrant of Mayling Stern’s garage. And then send Clarence over to work on the Mercedes.”

  “You think you’ve got enough to charge her?”

  “I might, by tonight. And Dad—next time you want a report on my investigation, ask to see my notes first, okay? I’m going to passcode my computer.”

  She was out the screen door before he could answer.