by Peter Colt
“Thank you.”
She had pointed to the one black box in the middle of Ruth Silvia’s plot of land. To me it looked just like the X on a treasure map from the old pirate movies.
I made my way out of the town offices and back out into the rain. I had spent a little over an hour in the municipal building. I didn’t know if I had anything or not. I still had a plot of land that belonged to Ruth Silvia but was leased to the Cranberry Company. They had a caretaker who lived in that house, but that could be anyone. The only way to know would be to drive out there and see the caretaker.
I turned by the post office and walked down toward the water. I crossed over South Water Street and saw tucked away in a tiny building—more of a shed—was a tobacconist. I could smell the rich aroma of pipe tobacco. I could also smell wood smoke coming from the small chimney, and in the dampness of the rainy morning it was irresistible. I opened the door and stepped gratefully into the small, warm shop.
“Good morning. Let me know if I can be of help.” He was a tall man with glasses, brown hair, and a beard to match. He had a small briar pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth, filling the small shop with clouds of thick, pungent smoke. He was dressed in work boots, thick corduroys that were a faded brown, and had a green chamois shirt tucked into them. He favored suspenders and seemed so painfully thin that a belt would only make him seem thinner. He was sitting in a wooden captain’s chair with his feet up against a woodstove, and a copy of Wooden-Boat magazine was open in his lap.
“Thanks. I was running low on cigarettes, but that pipe smoke smells so good I may have to take up the habit.” I looked around and saw that he had racks of cigarettes; many were brands that I had never even heard of. There was a small humidor stocked with cigars that took up half of one wall, and then there were shelves filled with clear jars of pipe tobacco. There was a cash register on the counter. In another corner, next to the stove, lay a yellow Lab sleeping the contented sleep of those dry and out of the rain.
“Well, let’s get you set up with some cigarettes and see what we can do for a pipe.” When he stood, he had to duck his head slightly. He walked over to one of the racks of cigarettes.
“What are you smoking now?” He said this over his shoulder to me.
“Lucky Strikes.” I had been smoking Luckies since I had joined the army.
“I have those, but can I also recommend these?” He handed me a package of cigarettes with a picture of a bearded sailor inside a life ring that said, “Player’s Navy Cut.”
“Never heard of them.” The box was flatter and wider than an American pack.
“They’re English. They have a nice, rich flavor.” He was a man who was clearly comfortable in his domain.
“Okay, I’ll try a pack and see.” He beamed around his pipe when I showed interest.
“You were also interested in a pipe and some tobacco?” He stooped forward a little.
“Yes, please. I have never smoked one before, but I think I am ready to try.” His smile widened and still he managed to keep the pipe lodged in the corner of his mouth.
“I can suggest some pipes and show you how to pack and light them.”
“That sounds like just the thing.” He pulled some pipes of varying sizes and shapes from the wall. He explained the difference between bent and straight stems to me, as well as the difference between briars, meerschaums, and other types of pipe. I settled on a briar with a slight curve but not a deep bend in the stem. The bowl wasn’t overly large, and the price was affordable. He seasoned the bowl with honey and explained that it would take about ten different smoking sessions before it would be truly seasoned, and to start by smoking half bowls.
“Do you have any ideas about what type of tobacco you would like?” He had the gravity and solicitousness of an undertaker.
“I would like something flavorful, rich, but none of those apple- or cherry-flavored tobaccos.” I could never stand to be anywhere someone was smoking something that smelled like it came from inside a candy factory. He came out from around his counter and stood meditating in front of his glass jars. He eventually placed three on the counter and removed the lids. He explained the differences to me, and I ended up with two ounces of a rich Turkish blend, cut with a healthy dose of Cavendish. I ended up buying a tool to clean and scrape the bowl with, as well as a tamp for the burning tobacco, pipe cleaners, and two boxes of wooden matches.
“When I am not on island for the rainy season, I live in Boston. You wouldn’t happen to know of a good tobacconist there, would you?”
“In Boston, there are a few, but there is really only one: L.J. Peretti’s.” He told me the address, which was by the Greyhound bus station near the Common and on the edge of the Combat Zone.
“Now you have everything you need to start smoking.” He smiled as he watched me pack and light a bowl. His smile widened as the plumes of smoke further obscured the interior of his shop.
“Yup, I am a regular Inspector Maigret now.” I figured he was one of the few people who might get the reference.
“Oui, monsieur,” he said with his Cheshire cat’s grin as he put my money away in his cash register.
I stepped out into the drizzle, feeling a little bit better about life in general. I walked down by the water, smoking my new pipe, wishing I had a fedora, but nonetheless enjoying the nostalgic scene. I walked down Easy Street by the water, trying to figure out my next move. I had to go to the caretaker’s. He probably wasn’t Charlie Hammond, and that meant that my investigation would be pretty much over.
I made my way back to the hotel, and by the time I got there my pipe had pretty much gone out. I went upstairs to change into some dry clothes and figure out lunch. Upstairs, I found dry jeans, a shirt, and socks but had to put on my wet shoes. They squished water out of them as I made my way back down the stairs. My parka was damp, and it seeped through my shirt in no time.
Outside, the wind had picked up and smacked me in the face hard enough to make my eyes water and to make me wonder why people lived on the island all year-round. The wind coupled with my damp clothes was enough to convince me not to be a hero but to duck into the Brotherhood, where I had dinner the night before.
The Ivory Soap girl walked over to me. She was wearing blue jeans and a black sweater that gave me a good idea about her curves. They were in all the right places, and I couldn’t find fault with any of them. She was wearing heavy, square-toed, leather boots that clunked on the floor as she led me to a table by the fireplace.
“You look like you could use some drying out in front of the fire.” She smiled, and I was pretty sure she could have sold toothpaste for a living.
“Thanks, you mean I look like a drowned rat.” I was pretty sure that my hair, which was too long, was a soggy mess.
“More like one of those stray tomcats that gets caught in the rain. The kind that has been living outside on its own for so long that he doesn’t realize there is something to be said for living inside and having someone take care of him.” Her smile curled a little bit at the corner of her mouth with the cruel playfulness that all women have. I was pretty sure that in this game of cat and mouse that, no matter what she said, I wasn’t the cat.
“That sounds about right.”
“Can I get you a drink? You look like you could use a hot toddy even more than you did last night.”
“Please. It is nasty out there.” She put a menu down in front of me and left to get my much-needed drink. I took off my coat and hung it over the chair by the fire. I sat and stared alternately at the fire and at the rain splashing outside the window. The waitress came back and put the steaming toddy down in front of me.
“Well, what are you having, Mr. Tomcat?” She smiled again and I felt like I was about ten years old. I ordered a cup of soup and half a sandwich from the menu. I watched her ponytail swish from side to side as she walked away.
I was not sure what the best way to go about the business of figuring out where Charlie Hammond was. There wasn’t an
y way that I could see to finesse the situation. I could stake out the caretaker’s cottage, but that could take days, and I was pretty sure that would draw a lot of attention. I was sure that Mrs. Swift’s patience was not infinite. The only way I could see to do things was just to drive out there under some pretense and figure it out as I went along.
My soup and sandwich came with a smile and some gentle banter but not much else. It was good, and between that, the pretty waitress, and the toddy, I started to feel warm again. I was starting to see why people would live on the island year-round. When I was done, I slid some money down on the check, leaving a larger tip than I should have, but I am a sucker for a pretty smile and some witty conversation.
Chapter 15
I walked up the street and to the back of the hotel, where the Ghia was parked in the lot. I lit the pipe and sat slowly puffing on it as the mist cleared from the windshield and the wipers beat the rain away from it. I turned the radio on and eased out of the parking lot. I had to box my way around several blocks because of all of the one-way streets but eventually made my way to Orange Street. The Ghia slid up the hill, and I put a Steely Dan cassette into the tape player. Their mellowness went well with the pipe and the rain.
I followed Orange Street out of town past the densely packed houses that had been there for two centuries. I passed a package store, a bakery, a convenience store, a gas station that was also a package store, and just beyond that, a pizza joint and the Island Home for the Aged before I came to the rotary. I went around the rotary, past a bored-looking cop sitting in his cruiser in a parking lot, and turned onto Milestone Road. The houses and businesses fell away, and the road was bordered on both sides by scrub pines and telephone poles. Every mile or so there was a white-painted stone marker that gave the road its name. I followed the road out of town and up a hill, one of the few on the island, and at the top I could see the bogs below me and off to the north.
The wind was pushing the Ghia around like it was a toy, and between that and the rain it was taking a little effort to keep her on the road. I came down off of the hill, and the wind eased up a little bit, but the rain had picked up noticeably. Steely Dan was nice and mellow, and the inside of the Ghia was filled with pleasant-smelling pipe smoke.
I passed the road that I wanted to turn onto twice before I realized where it was. The Ghia bumped over the tarmac that was cracked from a few hard winters and a tight budget. The day was dark enough, but the road was darker still because of a wall of scrub pines, beach plums, and grapevines that were growing on either side of the narrow road. I slowed the Ghia down to a crawl, looking for the next road that I had to turn down. I didn’t like the idea of having to turn around on the narrow road.
The road that I wanted was a dirt road. Dirt was misleading; like all of the roads in the area, it was actually white packed sand. The Ghia turned off of the tar and onto the sand with a bump. I shifted into a lower gear and nudged the old girl down the road. The rear end of the Ghia occasionally slewed a little in a patch of soft sand but would right itself. The road couldn’t have been more than half a mile long but seemed to take a long time. I came around a corner and found myself in the driveway and front yard of a small house. I cut the wheel hard to the side and hit the brakes in order to stay in the driveway and not plow into the house or the shed. The Ghia and I bumped to a stop faced the way we had initially come in. I let out a small oath and shut off the car.
I stepped out into the rain and looked at what I had almost hit. The shed was small—bigger than a tool shed but much smaller than a barn. It turned out to be an old two-car garage, the kind with double wooden doors that open out and a series of small windows across the top, instead of the standard garage door that rolls up. The shed had one wall with fishing nets and lobster pot buoys hanging on it. There was a pile of lobster pots stacked up against the shed.
The house was a small Cape with the low roof facing north. It had smallish windows and a solid wooden front door. It was small and looked like a warm, good place to be on a cold, wet, early-November afternoon. Both the garage and the house were covered in cedar shingles that had weathered silver gray. The house had gray trim, and a redbrick chimney rose over the center of it. There was a light by the front door, but it was turned off.
There was a faint smell of wood smoke, but nothing was coming out of the chimney. It was quiet except for the sound of the Ghia’s engine cooling and the rain bouncing off of the car. I went to the front door and knocked. I couldn’t hear anything as I waited. I knocked again, and again nothing. The windows had curtains drawn, and I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked over to the garage, but the doors were locked, and I couldn’t see anything through the window on the side.
Rain was making its way down my collar, and I was getting colder. I was also in a pickle. I could find my way inside the house or the garage, but that was risky. The caretaker could come home at any time and wonder why some armed stranger was in his house. Then the police might take interest, and I could find myself without a license. For a missing person case, that just didn’t seem worth it. Also, I would end up tracking mud everywhere, which didn’t strike me as the subtlest way of going about it. It was too soon to snoop, too soon to run amok.
Instead I went and sat in the Ghia. With engine on and the smell of my now-long-cold pipe, it was warm and pleasant. Steely Dan sang songs to me, and I wondered how long I would wait for the caretaker to come home. I smacked the ashes from the pipe into my palm and left them in the yard, where they washed away. In the end, it wasn’t long.
I was damp, chilled, and uncomfortable. It was getting darker, and tomorrow was another day. I decided to head into town to see if I could find somewhere to buy dry shoes and maybe a sweater. I took the dirt road slower and then bumped over the uneven tar until I got back to Milestone Road. The Steely Dan tape had come to its end, and I turned on the radio to find Jim Morrison and The Doors screaming at me from one of their concerts. It was discordant and jangled at me and reminded me of Southeast Asia, the euphemism that we all now used for the dirty word . . . Vietnam.
I headed back into town feeling like I had just missed a pop fly in a Little League game. I wasn’t sure why, but it just felt like I had blown an opportunity. As I passed the houses, I could catch glimpses of dark gray skies, salt marshes, and a bit of the harbor. I parked the Ghia in front of a store that looked like it would have what I wanted. I went inside and in record time bought work boots, a chamois shirt, a khaki shirt, and a fishermen’s cable knit sweater. I paid twice what I would have on the mainland, but I was cold and wet. Next to the clothing store was a liquor store, where I bought the world’s most expensive bottle of Cutty Sark scotch. I also stopped at the hardware store around the corner and bought a bottle of sewing machine oil and a couple of bandanas.
I made my way back to the hotel and parked in the lot behind it. There were no messages at the desk and nothing new. I went upstairs with my already sodden paper bags and let myself into the room. I hung my jacket over the back of a chair near the radiator in some vain hope that it would dry out. From there I went into a hot shower.
When I came out, I could hear the rain beating against my window. I poured myself a belt of the Cutty Sark and took a sip. The fire made its way down to the center of me, and I was starting to feel warm. I took the Colt out of its holster and slid the magazine out of the heel of the pistol, then flicked off the safety and racked the round out of the chamber. I slid the rounds out of the magazine and sat them upright on the desktop. I did the same with the spare magazine. I took the pistol apart and wiped as much of the moisture off of it as I could with one of the bandanas. I put some oil on the other bandana and wiped it onto the pistol.
It was methodical work that I had done thousands of times in my life. After a while it becomes muscle memory, and you don’t think about what you are doing. It was the same with a missing person case . . . maybe I had just been going through the motions but not really thinking about them. Once I was satisfied
the gun was well oiled, I put it together again. I wiped out the magazines, oiled and reloaded them. When it was all done, I put one in the pistol and chambered a round. Maybe I needed to take another look at this case. I slid the magazine out and topped it off.
It felt comforting to clean the pistol. It was repetitive, and I was able to clear my head. Now I found that something was nagging me. I was beginning to wonder if I had missed something. I pulled out the case file and the yellow legal pad with my scribbled notes and started to skim through them. I pulled out a fresh legal pad to make notes on. I was curious about the neighborhoods that Charlie Hammond had lived in, or at least where the checks went.
I came up with a list of questions related to the time that he was in each city. They amounted to: What was the neighborhood like? What type of people lived there? Were there any case reports from the specific addresses, with the exceptions of the mailboxes? Was there anything that stood out in particular?
I picked up the phone and was lucky to get Danny on the first try.
“Tell me you found the guy?” he asked halfheartedly.
“Nope, not yet.” I caught myself shrugging as I said it.
“Please tell me you don’t need more money. I am getting calls daily from Swift’s people asking me for progress reports.” He sounded a little harried.
“No, the money is fine. Actually, I was hoping that your assistant could make a few calls for me and ask some questions.” It was actually worse than asking him for money.
“I thought you were the investigator who gets paid to investigate?” He definitely sounded pissed off.
“I am, and I do. I have some legwork that I need done, and for me to do it will take time and money that you don’t seem to think I have. On the other hand, you have an assistant and a couple of underpaid paralegals . . .” I trailed off, hoping he would get the drift.
“Okay, who do you need called?” He didn’t like giving in, even for something small like this. Danny hated to lose any contest. It had been like that when we were little kids. Losing a marble or two would have him in a funk for the rest of the day. He got to be such a pain in the ass I would let him win them back every time we played.