I was not an experienced searcher and wasn’t sure I really wanted to find the remains of the woman. The robin that had found the long strands of red hair so useful when building its nest had had no such qualms, of course.
But I was moved by a sense of duty, so kept my course, wading through the leaves, pushing aside the grasping branches of undergrowth, ducking under and around tree limbs, trying but failing to see anything useful until, at last, we seekers gathered together once again on the edge of the meadow. We were united in both disconsolation and fatigue, and like survivors of a battle, felt the comradeship of shared discomfort.
“That’ll do for now,” said Dom, as we grouped ourselves around him. “It was a long shot at best. If we give it another try, I hope some of you will help out again.” There were murmurs of assent as he dismissed us, and the searchers wandered back down the meadow toward the road.
But Clay didn’t wander far. Instead, he paused and looked at the ruins of the old farmhouse. Dom and I stopped beside him, followed his gaze, and exchanged glances. Then the three of us walked to the broken foundations and looked down into the debris-filled cellar. Cracked timbers and rotting floorboards vied with fallen foundation stones and weeds for possession of the pit.
Clay gestured toward the rubble and said what I was also thinking.
“If the girl really died somewhere near here, and if she died accidentally or of natural causes of some kind, she could be anywhere. But if she was killed here, the person who did it was stuck with a body he needed to hide in a hurry. It’s pretty unlikely he would have carried it farther than we searched just now. That leaves this place.”
Dom studied the ruins. “Where were you last March?”
Clay smiled faintly. “Out on the West Coast. My mother will swear to it, if necessary.”
“Your mother lives out there?”
“Actually, she lives in Wichita, but she’ll swear I was wherever I tell her I was. You know how mothers are.”
Dom grunted, but not in surprise. In police investigations, mothers are known liars who will swear that their criminal children were home reading their Bibles when the crimes went down.
“Well,” he said, “since I’m the only cop here, I guess it’s my job to go down there.”
For all of his bulk, he was fairly nimble as he climbed and slid down into the cellar.
Our advice followed him: “Watch out for rusty nails and broken glass.”
He nodded, found a steady spot amid the rubble upon which to stand, and looked around. He took hold of a section of fallen floor and tugged at it. It moved a bit, and he shoved it to one side. There were rotting pieces of timber beneath it. He studied them, then pulled one out and put it aside.
“We should get a machine in here to lift this crap out,” he said.
Beside me, Clay was studying the cellar.
“If the woman’s down there,” he said to Dom, “the guy who put her there didn’t have a machine to help him. I’m coming down.” And before Dom could object, Clay was sliding down to join him. They stood side by side with Clay pointing to the far wall.
“Over there,” he said. “See where that section of foundation has fallen in? Most of the rest of the foundation is at least partly in place, but not that section. And it didn’t fall too long ago, either. The stones are lying on top of those floorboards.”
They picked their way across the cluttered floor and gazed down at the fallen stones that were scattered over the rotting wood. Suddenly Dom knelt and put down a hand, then rose and held out his find to Clay. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I could guess.
“We’re done here for now,” said Dom. “We need a crime-scene crew and a machine to lift off the lumber and rock. Let’s go.” He and Clay returned across the cellar floor and climbed out where they’d gone in. Dom showed me his find. It was a strand of tangled red hair.
“Bonzo is going to be pretty unhappy,” I said.
“Don’t talk to Bonzo,” said Dom. “I want to talk to him first.”
“Is this a good time to discuss my First Amendment rights?”
Dom’s big jaw went out a little farther than usual. “You stay away from Bonzo.”
“Bonzo wouldn’t hurt a fly and you know it.”
“He brought the woman here once and maybe he brought her here twice. Who else would have brought her here? It’s a stretch to think somebody else would have come here with her.”
“How should I know? All I know is that Bonzo didn’t do this.”
“Maybe not.”
“He shouldn’t even be on your list.”
“Everybody’s on my list. Even your pal’s mother, the old lady in Wichita.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” said Clay. “Now I’ll have to swear she was on the West Coast with me last March.”
“If you guys don’t mind doing something useful for a change,” said Dom, “you can stay right here and keep stray people and dogs away from the site until I get back with my yellow tape and reinforcements. Maybe I can catch some of the Oak Bluffs guys before they get too far. I shouldn’t be long.”
“We’ll be here,” I said.
We watched him walk out of sight.
“Well, well,” said Clay. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I never guarded a crime site before.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a crime,” I said. “It could be that the woman died a natural death or an accidental one, and whoever was with her at the time panicked and hid the body so he wouldn’t be suspected of anything.”
“What do you think of Dom putting Bonzo on the suspect list?”
“Not much, but he’s a guy Dom has to talk with. Bonzo brought the woman here once to listen to the birds. And if she’s under those floorboards, somebody put her there.”
The wind was rising and the air was cooling. Clay pulled his cap down over his ears. “Was there a boyfriend? A husband?”
I tried to remember the stories in the local papers. “A boyfriend, but he and the woman had broken up and he’d left the island before she disappeared.”
“Maybe he sneaked back.”
“Maybe.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened.”
“No.”
We paced about, trying to stay warm.
“She have another guy on the hook?”
“I wouldn’t know. She was a pretty girl, so I imagine she wouldn’t have been lonely any longer than she wanted to be.”
In my memory I could see her: a slender young woman with brilliant blue eyes, a bright smile, and all that long red hair. I imagined that every regular at the Fireside had fantasized about her at one time or another, and I remembered how she laughed and would slip easily away from drunken would-be embraces with jokes that left her admirers feeling almost as good as if she’d fallen into their arms.
And she had treated Bonzo with the same respect and humor as she treated everyone else. No wonder he had been so fond of her, and had been so pleased when she’d accepted his invitation to go birding in this meadow.
Had they come here again?
Had something happened here between them?
If not Bonzo, then who? Why?
If I were Dom Agganis, I’d want to talk with the boyfriend again and check out his alibi, if he had one. And I’d want to talk with all of the regulars at the Fireside, not just with Bonzo.
I wondered if the state police would shake free a few detectives to work the case, or whether a long-dead woman wouldn’t merit their energies and time.
Years ago, after taking a bullet, which still rested against my spine, I’d left my police job in Boston precisely because I was tired of trying to save the world. I’d moved to the Vineyard to become a fisherman and to avoid involvement in even the pettiest of island crimes. I’d planned to live a quiet life in the woods, in the old hunting camp my father had bought when I was just a kid, and I’d intended to be content with my own company.
But life doesn’t leave us alone. I’d fallen
in love with Zee, and after that, living by myself no longer had its old charm. I’d fixed up the house and we’d married and started raising a family, and now I led a life that was not significantly different from that of many other year-round islanders. I didn’t have a career but I had a lot of jobs that kept me busy, and I had friends, one of whom was Bonzo.
In spite of myself I was engagé. I was involved with life.
And now, with death.
After what seemed like a long time, police cruisers crept up through the trees along an overgrown road that once must have been the driveway to the farmhouse. They parked in the meadow and disgorged Dom, his state-police colleague, Officer Olive Otero, and several Oak Bluffs policemen.
“No dogs or people came by,” I said to Dom as police officers began to surround the site with yellow tape.
He nodded and went off to make sure his helpers didn’t contaminate the site before the detectives and lab people got there. Already a photographer was taking pictures.
“I believe that ringing silence means we can go,” I said to Clay.
He nodded and we walked down the meadow and through the woods. At the road we found another police car with an officer standing beside it to ward off curious civilians if any paused to find out what was going on. We went on along the road and as we got to the Land Cruiser, a truck pulling a trailer loaded with a large backhoe stopped behind the cruiser. We watched as the driver unloaded the backhoe and drove it out of sight up the driveway.
I was shivering when I climbed into the Land Cruiser, and not just from the cold wind.
“A hot cider in front of your living-room stove sounds good to me right now,” said Clay, reading my mind.
“Yes.”
At home I mulled the cider while Clay added wood to the embers in the stove. Seated in front of the flames, steaming cup in hand, I was aware that the warmth of the fire was psychological as much as physical; perhaps because of some prehistoric, genetic memory we’d inherited from our cave-dwelling ancestors, for whom fire meant the difference between life and death.
“Shalom,” said Clay, touching his mug to mine. “It’s barely noon and I already feel like I’ve put in a full day, but when I finish this, I’ll head back to work some more on the boat.”
“The working class makes our country great.”
We drank and stared into the fire, and then he left and I was alone, thinking about Bonzo and about Dom Agganis’s understandable suspicions.
I was having a second glass of cider when I heard a car coming down our driveway. I looked out a window and watched as a yellow Mercedes convertible stopped in our yard. It had California plates. Two men wearing what looked like new winter coats got out, studied the house, then walked toward the door. They had West Coast tans but didn’t look like movie stars.
10
When I opened the door to their knock, the man in front smiled a friendly smile.
“Mr. Jackson?”
“That’s right.”
He put out his hand. “My name is Jack Blume. I’m a friend of Clay Stockton. I understand he may be staying here. I’d like to see him.”
He was a medium-sized man but his companion took up considerably more space. As I shook Blume’s hand, I glanced over his shoulder. The second man wasn’t wearing a smile or looking at me but was peering past me into the house with a gaze as cool as the March air.
“Come inside,” I said. “It’s pretty chilly out.”
“Thanks,” said Jack Blume, and the two men entered. I waved them toward the fire and shut the door.
“I noticed your plates as you drove up. You’re about as far from California as you can get,” I said. “What brings you to my place?”
“Like I told you,” said Blume, “I’m a friend of Clay Stockton, and I heard he was staying with you. We happen to be on Martha’s Vineyard, so we thought we’d drop by and say hello.”
I turned to the other man and put out my hand. “I’m J. W. Jackson.”
He didn’t seem to want to take his hands out of his coat pockets, but it’s hard to refuse to give your name when someone offers his, so he pulled out his right hand and shook mine. “Mickey Monroe.” I noted a lump in the pocket before his hand returned to it.
“Any relation to James or the Doctrine?” I asked.
Mickey looked perplexed.
“Mickey doesn’t read much history,” said Blume with a laugh.
My memory banks didn’t hold any references to Jack Blume or Mickey Monroe. If Clay had ever mentioned the names, I’d forgotten them.
“Sit down and warm yourselves,” I said. “I’m having some mulled cider and there’s more on the back of the stove. I’ll get you a couple of cups.”
“What’s mulled cider?” asked Mickey.
“It’s a hot drink made of apple juice,” said Blume. “They drink it here in the wintertime to warm themselves up.”
I got two mugs of cider and handed them to my guests. Mickey sniffed his and took a sip. “Not bad. Be good with some whiskey in it. You got any whiskey?”
“Forget the whiskey, Mickey,” said Blume. “Just drink the cider.”
“I have whiskey,” I said. I got some and poured a slug into Mickey’s mug. The smell of bourbon filled the room.
“Better,” said Mickey after a gulp of his drink.
“Who told you that Clay Stockton was living here?” I asked Blume.
“I don’t think it’s a secret,” said Blume. “We used to work together out west. He wrote me that he was here.”
“That must have been a while back,” I said. “He hasn’t been here for several weeks.”
A frown floated across Blume’s face then disappeared. “Where did he go?”
“Didn’t he write and tell you?”
Blume’s face hardened. “I’ve been traveling and I probably missed his message. Can you tell me where to find him?”
“Maybe the police can tell you,” I said. “The last I heard, he was working with them on a case. Contact the state police. Their office is up in Oak Bluffs. Talk with Dom Agganis. He’s head of the unit down here on the island.”
“Clay had his tools shipped here, to you,” said Mickey. “He must be staying around here someplace and you must know where.” He drank his cider and stood up. The heavy mug looked like a weapon in his hand.
I tried not to appear nervous. It wasn’t easy. “I knew Clay almost thirty years ago,” I said to Blume. “He showed up a few weeks back. Out of the blue. Said he didn’t have a place to stay but wanted his tools and could he have them shipped to this address while he found himself a house. I said sure. He stayed here until his tools came. We talked about the old days, but he said he didn’t want me to know much about what he’d been doing and he didn’t want me to know where he was living because what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.” I looked at Blume. “I thought that was kind of a funny thing to say. But that’s Clay. He always liked to kid.”
“What’s he doing working with the police?”
“A woman went missing last year. The police think they finally have a lead. Clay’s been in the search party for her body.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Clay’s a friendly guy. Maybe he and Dom Agganis have hit it off.”
“What’s he doing with his tools?”
“Clay’s always been good with his hands. You’ve probably noticed all the building that’s going on here. Mansions going up everywhere. A guy like Clay can get all the work he wants.”
“I don’t suppose you know where he’s working.”
“I don’t suppose I do. He mentioned the Chilmark Store a couple of times, so maybe he’s up-island someplace.”
Blume looked around the room.
“You married, Mr. Jackson?”
“I am.”
“Kids?”
“Two.”
“I have a family, too. It’s good to have a family, but if you’re like me, you’re always just a little bit worried that something might ha
ppen to one of them. You know what I mean? Your kid will fall off a swing or something like that. Get hurt.” He smiled and shook his head. “I guess it’s the price we pay for being fathers, don’t you think?”
I felt my muscles stiffen. “I guess. I try not to worry about things I can’t do anything about.”
“That’s a good philosophy. You sure you don’t know where Clay’s staying?”
“I’m sure. If I see him, do you want me to tell him you’re looking for him?”
“Yeah,” said Mickey. “Tell him that. Tell him we want to talk with him.”
“All right,” I said. “If I see him, I’ll tell him. Where are you staying?”
“That big hotel down in Edgartown,” said Blume. “Out by the lighthouse. You know the place I mean?”
“The Harbor View.”
“That’s the place. You ever try their Sunday brunch? Terrific! A raw bar like you dream of. All the oysters you can eat. You’re sure you don’t know where Clay’s living?”
“He’s never said. My guess is up-island someplace. There are a lot of winter rentals up that way.”
“Well, if he comes by, tell him we’d really like to see him.” Blume looked at his wristwatch. “Your kids both in school? I imagine they’ll be coming home before too long. Wife’ll be coming home, too. Come on, Mickey, we’ll leave Mr. Jackson alone.”
Mickey looked at me without love and followed Blume out the door. I watched them climb into the Mercedes and leave.
The room still felt chilly after they’d driven away. My impulse was to immediately drive up to Ted Overhill’s barn and tell Clay about my visitors, but I decided to wait an hour or more to give Blume and Monroe time to stop watching for me to leave. No need to lead them where they wanted to go.
I had some more cider and put more wood on the fire. I thought about Blume and Monroe. They weren’t making any effort to hide their presence, so maybe they were as innocent as doves and just what they claimed to be: a couple of Clay’s old West Coast pals who happened to be on the island and wanted to say hello.
But I didn’t think so. My guess was that they were being open about their presence because they were so far from California that they figured island police would have no reason to look twice at them.
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