Merry ran her f ingers through her blonde waves in exasperation. “I don’t know, Dad. But I’m sure Bailey won’t give either question the consideration it deserves.”
“She’s being arraigned tomorrow?”
“The sheriff is escorting her by plane to Barnstable. Tom will post whatever bail is necessary. And we’ll have two very angry people back on the island, with power and inf luence to turn the entire Nantucket establishment against the police. You know what this could do to our funding?”
“Don’t even talk about it. It’s worse than you know.”
“What do you mean?” Merry asked.
“Tom Baldwin just informed me he’s just been appointed town f inance director,” her father said. “And I’m under no illusions as to what his wife’s arrest means for the police budget. Particularly after that f iasco with his nephew and the f ish guts. The arson accusations. We’re beginning to look like we have a vendetta against the Baldwins.”
John Folger stood up and rubbed balled f ists against his aching lower back. “It is not too much to say that my job may even be on the line. What a mess, Meredith. What a mess.”
Merry felt cold. For her father to be imperiled by Bailey’s stupidity was insupportable.
“You could release Jenny, Dad,” she said. “Apologize to Tom. Tell Bailey to build more of a case before he reads people their rights.”
“I could,” he said slowly, looking off into space, his attention focused somewhere between L3 and L4 of his vertebrae. “In fact, I think I have no choice. As for you, young lady . . .”
“Yes?”
“That business of the scotch bottle. Find out why.”
Chapter 23
A mass of vegetables were spilled out again on the table, and Tess was sitting in a chair with her back to the door. Rafe was paralyzed by the sight of her, uncertain how to begin. It was too much like the last time he had seen her—only today the vegetables were zucchini, not beets. He must have made a small movement, or expelled a heavy breath, because she turned; and that quickly relief washed over him like a sudden summer storm.
“Hey, girl,” he said, and Tess smiled, extending one hand. His ring was shining from her third f inger. “You feelin’ better?”
She nodded. “Much.”
“You look good.”
She stood up when he didn’t approach the table, and clasped her f ingers together awkwardly, as if aware of the f lash of the diamond and uncertain of its effect. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you. Life hasn’t been the same.”
“No.” Tess looked behind her at the squash, and then faced him. “We should talk about all of this.”
“Only if you want to.”
“I don’t. But I need to say some things, and you need to hear them.”
Rafe nodded, too thrilled by the peace in her eyes and the color in her skin to care much what penance she felt compelled to perform. But at the thought of penance he remembered his own conviction, seized that morning in the shower and acted upon not long after breakfast.
“I came here to talk myself,” he said. “I’ve got some explaining to do.” He took the three steps across the kitchen to her side and put his arms loosely around her. She sighed like a tired child and sank into his chest. Rafe felt a circle of quiet and peace, of rightness he knew only with Tess. “I should have tried harder to understand how I upset you,” he said carefully. “The f ishing business, I mean. I was trying to settle a score with my father, seems to me, only I was using you to settle it.”
“No, Rafe, it was me—”
He laid a f inger across her lips, silencing her.
“I didn’t have enough courage to face the Old Bastard himself and tell him how much he’d destroyed me when he threw me off his boat. He tried to cut my legs out from under me, Tess, as you know better’n anyone. I forgot that for a while, out on the water; felt like I’d come into my own, on my terms, and the hell with everything else.”
“I understand. I—”
“The hell with everything else, including you. So what if you didn’t want to see me ruin my place with Pete, or throw myself into a thankless job with lousy pay and worse prospects? So what if I stirred up a lot of bad memories—of Dan and his death and the way he lived his life?”
Tess opened her mouth, and Rafe let his arms drop to his sides. “I was back on the water, doing what I was supposed to do years ago, before the mess in New Bed. That feeling of getting my own back—despite my father and his pride—was pretty powerful. I think I lost you somewhere in all that, Tess.”
It was a long speech for Rafe da Silva. He felt drained and sat down, staring at a mango-colored zucchini blossom half wilted on the wooden table. He traced a f inger along its green veins and waited for her voice.
“I lost faith too quickly,” Tess said, sitting down opposite him. Their knees in faded denim were almost, but not quite, touching. “You’re not Dan. You don’t have his crazy optimism, his stubborn persistence. He couldn’t understand when he was beaten, and start fresh.” She looked down at her hands. “He kept taking the scalloper out, year after year, and painting houses in the summer, and the bills kept mounting. He always thought he’d catch a break.”
“I’m sorry, girl,” Rafe said.
“But you’re not like that.” Tess took his hand and gripped it tightly. “You know life isn’t fair. You know what people can do, and how to protect yourself. I should have trusted that.”
“There’s something else.” Rafe covered her f ingers with his, smoothing the rough skin. “You should have trusted me to love you. What did Dan do, to make you so sure I’d be gone with the f irst pretty face?”
A look of wariness came over her. “That wasn’t Dan,” she said. “That was just me. There’s so little place for women over forty in this world. Especially among men. Men want taut thighs and f lat stomachs and smooth skin. They want youth, Rafe, and that’s escaped me.”
“You’re the youngest person I know,” he said, his mouth dry.
“I have brown age spots on my hands. My hair is turning gray. I have lines that run from the corners of my mouth to my nose—they used to disappear after a good sleep, but I don’t get much of that anymore. I have a stomach paunchy from childbirth and saddlebags on the backs of my thighs. I saw Del Duarte. I remember what that was like—to feel beautiful, strong, worth looking at. Don’t tell me otherwise,” Tess said, as he started to protest. “I don’t need f lattery. I know what I am. I’m not thirty-one. Or was it thirty-two? I’m not Portuguese. I can’t give you a darling two-year-old, or a day in the sun at the helm of a boat. I can’t harpoon swordf ish. I can’t read navigational charts. That woman was everything I’m not. And it scared me to death.”
“I should have understood that, too,” Rafe said.
“Why? I never talked about it. I couldn’t. Why point out every way someone has you beat? The thoughts and fears just grew in my mind. Until I did what I f igured would make you hate me.”
“The letters.”
Tess nodded. “Stupid-ass things. Merry Folger was right. Like a cheerleader egging another girl’s locker.”
Rafe shifted in his chair; he had no answer for this.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. I can’t change what I did. But I can accept how I felt and go on. Merry showed me that, too.”
“I guess the Girl Scout was a help,” Rafe said.
“She told me you still loved me, when I thought that was impossible.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. “Understand: I don’t want a thirty-year-old, a twenty-year-old, or anything in between. I want Tess Starbuck. That’s something you’ve got to know as well as believe.”
“I’ll try,” Tess said.
“Want to have dinner tonight?”
She shook her head. “I’d love to, Rafe, but it’ll have to wait
. I’m completely booked. The high season is kicking in, and I’m back in business.”
He surveyed the table. “Need help?”
“Have you ever stuffed a squash blossom?”
He wrinkled his nose. “What for?”
“Deep frying.”
“For crying out loud.”
Tess threw back her head and laughed, a sound he hadn’t heard in weeks. “Tell you what,” she said. “Go home. You’ll be saving me a trip out to Peter’s. I’ve got that salsa he’s been waiting for. Finally.”
Howie Seitz was at something of a loss. Merry Folger had told him to f ind the owners of the crew members’ sunken boats and track their insurance claims. Matt Bailey had told him to get back to Provincetown, in search of Rick Berkowski’s blond hair and f iber samples. But when he’d stopped by Matt’s off ice to say he’d be setting off for the mainland the following day, the detective had snarled at him and nearly given him the back of his hand.
It seemed Matt was stewing about some setback with the chief. He’d had the entire case sewn up, he told Howie, until Merry Folger had stuck her goddamn nose in his business and worked her way around her father. She should be f ired, and would be if Daddy weren’t protecting her. And if a real chief were ever appointed to take Folger’s place, and his daughter was out on her ear, she’d probably scream gender discrimination. These women were all the same. Why did she think she was on the force in the f irst place? Much less a detective with a rank senior to his own? Because of gender discrimination—against white men. She’d gotten the preferences and the breaks because she was Daddy’s little girl and the force wanted to show it could hire and retain women. Well, what went up must come down. She’d get what was coming to her one of these days, and so would he.
Howie broke into this rambling diatribe as politely as possible, and asked the obvious question. Were the crew members of the Lisboa Girl no longer under suspicion?
“They never would have been,” Bailey said contemptuously, “if Merry Folger hadn’t wanted Jackie Alcantrara’s balls in a sling.”
Howie refrained from pointing out that Matt himself had been eager to arrest Jackie only Saturday morning.
He adjusted his sail to the shift in wind direction. “What would you like me to do?”
Matt rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. “Find some dirt on Merry Folger,” he said. “That bitch deserves to be brought down.”
Howie escaped as quickly as he could.
He was surveying the Coast Guard’s database, thanks to Terry Samson, who had adopted a knowing air at the mention of Merry’s name as though they shared conf idential information. It was easy enough to f ind the accident reports. MacIlvenny’s dragger was owned by a company called SeaCon, Berkowski’s by MariTrans Shipping, Inc. Both companies were listed as having off ices in New Bedford. The insurer for each was the same: a company called Water Rights, based in Boston. Howie checked the information about Jackie Alcantrara he’d copied from Merry’s f ile earlier that morning. Jackie’s boat was also owned by SeaCon and insured by Water Rights.
“This is too weird,” Howie breathed. “Thanks, Terry. You’ve been very helpful.”
He rode his patrolman’s bike back to the station and tried calling the New Bedford numbers for SeaCon and Oceanfree. The numbers were out of service. He searched the internet for newer contact information and turned up nothing. He was stumped.
“Call the insurance company,” Merry said, barely looking up as he hovered in her doorway. “If they settled the claim, they’ll know where they sent the check.”
Howie went back to the phone and called Water Rights’ number in Boston. This time he was successful.
“So in all three cases, SeaCon and MariTrans were reimbursed for the replacement value of the boats,” Merry said.
“To the tune of four hundred thousand dollars apiece,” Howie said. “A total of one point two million.”
“After which, they appear to have gone out of business.”
“Yep.”
“This stinks.”
“I thought so too.”
“Did the insurance company offer any contacts at either company?”
Howie peered at his notes. “A guy named Jerry Dundee from SeaCon. Nobody at MariTrans. I’ve got a number in New Bedford for Dundee, but when I dialed it, it was disconnected.”
“Wasn’t it just,” Merry said, bemused. She tapped a pencil against the desk for an instant, in a gesture so like her father’s Howie almost gawked; then the green eyes slid back to him. “It’s time to talk to Jackie Alcantrara,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I’m going to have to ask you to stay here. He might not be as forthcoming with two people taking notes. Not that he’s forthcoming anyway. But I’ve got a hunch he’ll talk to me.”
“What do you want me to do while you’re gone?”
“Doesn’t Bailey have anything for you?”
“Not really.”
“Well here,’’ Merry said, sliding out from behind her desk.
“You can learn how to f ill in these forms sooner rather than later.”
“What are they?”
“A request for a court order. In the case of a murder investigation, when the police are the requesters, the probate court should waive a hearing and issue a summary judgment. That’ll save us a trip to Boston. But I need these f iled as soon as possible.”
“You want to see the baby’s birth certif icate?” he said, wide-eyed. “Why? You think the baby’s father killed Del? To keep it quiet, I mean?”
Merry stopped stock-still, her face frozen. “Thank you, Seitz. I’d never thought of it that way.”
Chapter 24
Because del duarte had adamantly refused for years to name Sara’s father, Merry had assumed he was no longer in Del’s life. So few of her old Nantucket friends were. Look at Dave Grizzuto, whom Del treated like a stranger. Merry had imagined Dave tearing out of the Milk Street house, clutching a birth certif icate that denied his claim to the baby, having struck Del down in a jealous rage. Would another man have killed Del because he was responsible for Sara’s existence? And what if Del had been blackmailing him?
Merry found it hard to imagine her friend in that role; but there was that hundred thousand dollars no one could explain, sitting in an account at the Pacif ic National Bank. Maybe the man was tired of paying through the nose for a secret he wanted kept. Maybe he’d shown up at Del’s door Wednesday night to talk reason, and when tempers f lared, had stabbed her with a convenient harpoon. Merry knew she needed to identify Sara’s father more than ever.
She found Jackie Alcantrara the f irst place she looked—at his new berth in the boat basin, mending net under the eyes of gawking tourists. No wonder, Merry thought; the Lisboa Girl looked like a vagrant among the sleek and pricey vessels lined up along the Old South Wharf, the sort of rusty fellow picking among dustbins that tourists self-consciously avoid, sensing the arrival of an unpleasant odor on the next shift of wind. Whether Jackie was aware of his effect was uncertain; he appeared oblivious to everything but his nets.
“How long do you think you’ll hold out?” Merry said.
Jackie looked up, located the source of the voice, and studied her dispassionately. “How long will you?”
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s not. The costs are just as high for both of us. You could do better on the mainland, maybe even get your own place. You’re what—in your thirties? And still living at Dad’s.”
He stated it as a simple fact, and she had to admit he was right. She had spent close to six years on the Nantucket force, which made her a veteran. The island was considered a f irst tour for young off icers. Real estate prices and the cost of imported goods made it impossible to buy a house or raise a family on a policeman’s salary. Merry was different because of her father and grandfather, the house on Tattle Court. But how lon
g, as Jackie said, could she stick it out? She wasn’t getting any younger. She’d turn thirty-three in a few months, and had no home, no boyfriend, no marriage, no kids.
Peter Mason’s face f lashed into her mind. But he wasn’t a solution. He was everything she would never be—wealthy, self-possessed, independent. He had the freedom to do whatever he chose, without f inancial constraints, while she thought of cost before she thought of anything else. Maybe that explained their present conf lict. He had decided to acquire her, much as he might a new car. His voice rang in her memory. I wanted you in an oversized sweater and boots, I wanted you sitting by my f ire, I wanted you in my bed. He’d made it sound far more beguiling, of course, but the basic theme was the same. Want, want, want. She would be another one of his possessions, living in his house, as dependent as ever. Another brick in the wall of her resistance to Peter slid into place.
“Can I come aboard?” she said.
“I was just about to leave.”
“Can we talk for a bit?”
Jackie shrugged. “I’d like a beer. Feel like the Rose and Crown?”
Merry waited while he locked the pilothouse and swung himself over the side. She wasn’t particularly fond of the Rose and Crown, a cavernous beer hall on South Water named for a famous shoal off Nantucket. But she followed Jackie down Straight Wharf, happy to stay one step off his pace, and up Water Street to Broad. Maybe a little alcohol would loosen his grip on the truth.
Jackie chose a high table near the door with four barstools grouped around it and took up a position staring out the window. He ordered a Bud and knocked back half of it when the waitress set it down, immediately ordering another. Then his gaze drifted back to the window. He was, Merry realized, checking out girls.
“When did you decide you wanted Del?” she asked.
He started as if stuck by a cattle prod, but his gaze never wavered. He took a swig of beer. “That’s bullshit,” he said.
“It was Connie—your wife—who gave me the f irst clue. She talked about how Del had thrown herself at you and made you feel like a hunted man. It was the sort of story I could see you telling, to explain something of Del’s that Connie might have found—a picture forgotten in a drawer, maybe, a token you kept for memory’s sake.”
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