First Light

by Philip R. Craig

  “Because he would have mentioned the letters if he’d seen them, and he didn’t. So you were writing to each other.”

  “Yes. Mom didn’t want Dad to know anything about where she was or what she was doing. She was deciding whether to leave him. My dad is a nerd. All he does is work.”

  There are worse faults in a man, I thought, and soon enough she’d surely find out about them.

  “But the letters stopped coming last August,” I said.

  “Yes. She wrote the last one just before Labor Day. She used to write every week. When her letters stopped, I wrote to her, but I didn’t hear from her anymore. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what happened to her. Do you know? Tell me, if you do.”

  “I don’t know, but I’m trying to find out. I need information from you. Was she seeing anyone here on the island? A man, maybe? Someone she might have gone off with.”

  “She said she was dating, but I can’t remember any names. She wanted me to burn her letters so Dad wouldn’t find them. I’m sorry now that I did.”

  “Was there anybody in particular? Especially toward the end of the summer.”

  “She never said anything that made me think she was going away with anybody, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Maybe just some guy she was dating and liked.”

  “Well, in one of her last letters she said she was playing tennis with a guy. She must have liked him if she’d do that, because she’d never played tennis in her life and always said it was boring. I guess she really was playing, because there was a tennis racket in the box we got from that lady.”

  “Elsie Cohen?”

  “Maybe that was her name. I don’t remember.”

  “What did your mother say about this guy?”

  “Just that she liked him and he was good-looking and he made her feel young. She got married right out of high school and never got a chance to be a single woman for a while first. She always told me not to make that mistake, and her letters made me think she was trying to make up for things that she missed because she married my clunky dad.”

  “Think hard. Can you remember the man’s name?”

  “No. I don’t think she ever told it to me.”

  “Can you remember anything more she said about him? Looks or habits? Where they went, where they played tennis? Did they go dancing? Did they have a favorite place to eat? Anything.”

  “I don’t remember anything like that. They played tennis and had dinner and went to his beach, but I don’t think she ever said where. I wish I’d never burned those letters.”

  Amen to that, but it was spilled milk. “Did this man live on the island year-round?”

  She paused for a minute. “I don’t know. I don’t think she ever said.”

  “Does your father know about the letters?”

  “No! She didn’t want him to know. I’ve never told anyone. Oh, my gosh! Are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I think you probably should. You may think he’s a nerd, and he may be just that, but he loves you and he loves your mother as best he can.”

  “He doesn’t love anything but his work.”

  “Does your father use a cologne called Enchanté?”

  “Good grief, no. He only uses Old Spice. I should know. It’s the only thing he ever wants for Christmas.”

  She had given me a little, but I didn’t think she had much more to offer. “I think you’re wrong about your father only loving his work,” I said. “Let me give you my telephone number. I want you to call me if you think of anything that might help me.”

  “Let me find a pen… . Okay.”

  I gave her the number, promised to let her know if I learned anything, and rang off.

  I was glad I wasn’t eighteen anymore. Once was enough.

  Chapter Eight

  Brady

  On Monday morning I drove Sarah’s Range Rover to my meeting with the Isle of Dreams Development Corporation’s lawyer in Oak Bluffs to hear their pitch for building a golf course on the Fairchild property. We were scheduled for ten o’clock, which was the precise time that I got there. His name was Lawrence McKenney, and he had a suite of offices on the second floor over a souvenir store.

  I presented myself to McKenney’s secretary, a roundish woman with white hair and a dark scowl. “They’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Coyne,” she said in the same tone of voice she might’ve used if she’d caught me stealing magazines from her reception area.

  “They?” I said.

  “Mr. McKenney and the Isle of Dreams people, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, although my understanding had been that this first, preliminary discussion would be just between us lawyers.

  The secretary ushered me into a conference room. There was a big rectangular oak table with a dozen chairs around it, and five of the chairs were occupied. Four men, one woman.

  One of the occupants was Luis Martinez, the guy with the black mustache whom Eliza had been rubbing herself against the previous day.

  I pointed at Martinez. “Get him out of here,” I said to no one in particular. If Phil Fredrickson, the other guy who Eliza had brought around to lobby me, had been there, I’d have kicked him out, too.

  One of the other men stood up. “Mr. Martinez is—”

  “Out of here,” I repeated. “Him or me.”

  The man who had spoken had thinning reddish hair, pale skin, and large round glasses. I assumed he was Lawrence McKenney. He blinked at me for a moment, then nodded and turned to Martinez. “You better go,” he said.

  Martinez looked at the others sitting around the table. All of them shrugged.

  So he stood up, shoved his chair back so hard that it cracked against the wall, and came toward the door. When he got to me, he stopped, pushed his face close to mine, and whispered, “Bastard.”

  Then he went through the door and slammed it behind him.

  I looked around the room. “Gentlemen,” I said. “And lady,” I added, nodding at the woman, who was having trouble concealing her smile. “Let’s talk.”

  I let them do the talking. They’d drawn up aerial maps and sketches of the golf course and clubhouse and practice range and swimming pool and tennis courts they proposed for the Fairchild land, and indicated how they intended to abide by the various zoning and environmental regulations. They were flexible, they said, since they’d need only about half of the two hundred acres for the golf course itself. They wanted to build a few fairways near the ocean, but they were sensitive to environmental concerns.

  It wasn’t until we returned from lunch to resume the session that money was mentioned. Based on my research, their figure was more than fair. I didn’t tell them that. Money wasn’t Sarah’s main concern, but I didn’t tell them that, either. I asked some questions about how they intended to preserve the integrity of the parcel, reminded them that it had been in the Fairchild family for more than two hundred years, and told them that Sarah would never approve any plan that didn’t protect the nesting plovers and preserve the areas of wetland where waterfowl bred and endangered amphibians lived. Abiding by the letter of the environmental laws wouldn’t be enough, I told them. Sarah had her own concerns, and I pointed out some places on their proposed layout that looked like they’d need redesigning.

  McKenney, who did most of the talking for the group, said they’d need to discuss it, which was the response I would’ve given under the circumstances.

  We agreed we’d be in touch and get together again, and we adjourned around four in the afternoon. Just enough time for me to hustle back to the Fairchild house, catch a catnap, and get cleaned up for my date with Molly.

  I was just sliding the key into the door of Sarah’s Range Rover where I’d left it parked in front of the lawyer’s office when I felt a hand on my arm. I whirled around. It was Luis Martinez, and it’s a good thing I didn’t have a cigarette in my mouth, because his breath would’ve burst into flame.

  I figured he’d been drinking since I k
icked him out of our meeting about six hours earlier.

  I looked down at my arm where his hand gripped it until he let go. Then I opened the car door.

  “You trying to ruin me?” he said. He slurred it into one word: “Youtrynaroonme?”

  “I’m trying to go home,” I said as I slid into the front seat.

  He clenched his fist and cocked his arm, but I slammed the door. The window was rolled up, so I couldn’t hear what he said next. But I saw the snarl of his lips and the anger glittering in his eyes, and as I started up the engine, he smashed his fist down on the top of the car, then turned and lurched away.

  I got to the Navigator Room on the dot of six-thirty, the time Molly and I had agreed to. The hostess said that Molly had indeed made a reservation for two, that she’d phoned it in the previous evening, in fact, and that I could wait for her at the bar or at our table upstairs. I chose the table. It was near the corner with a good view of the harbor. I told the hostess I’d wait until Molly arrived before ordering a drink.

  I watched the boats mill around in the harbor, and fifteen or twenty minutes later a waitress came by and asked if I’d changed my mind about a drink. I told her maybe I’d have one after all.

  When I finished it, it was seven-fifteen, and Molly still hadn’t shown up. It was just about dark outside, and the boats were all showing their running lights. There was a party on a big yacht just outside the window. Laughter and shouts and music filtered up to me.

  I declined a second drink. Hmm. How long did you give somebody you’d just met before you acknowledged the obvious—that she’d stood you up?

  An hour, at least, I thought. That Honda Civic of hers hadn’t looked that new. A flat tire, a dead battery, anything could happen. If she’d gotten stranded on the road outside of town without a cell phone, it could take a while to get help.

  I decided to give her an hour and a half. That would make it eight o’clock. I wanted to be chivalrous. But I didn’t want to be some sad sack who’d wait forever for a lost cause.

  At a quarter of eight I went downstairs, found a pay phone, and called the Jacksons. Zee answered. I told her Molly had apparently stood me up, that I hadn’t eaten, and that if she didn’t appear soon I’d be over to go fishing. I hoped J.W. had some more of that blue-fish salad for a sandwich, because I was starved.

  “I’m surprised,” said Zee.

  “How well do you know her?” I said.

  “I haven’t known her long,” said Zee, “and I haven’t spent much time with her. But I like her. I know I like her. I wouldn’t like somebody who’d break a date without at least calling.”

  “She’s a widow,” I said. “She’s spooked. She changed her mind. I can understand that.”

  “I would’ve thought she’d call, at least,” said Zee.

  “Well, she didn’t. I’ll wait another half an hour. If she shows up, I’ll call you. Otherwise, I’ll be along.”

  I finally gave up on Molly a little after eight-thirty. I debated whether to be pissed or worried, and settled for being pissed. We’d lost a couple of good fishing hours while I was sitting in a restaurant declining food and looking at my watch.

  When I showed up at the Jacksons’ house it was close to nine o’clock. J.W. came out into the yard as I was getting out of Sarah’s Range Rover. “I’m not sure Zee’s up for fishing tonight,” he said. “She’s convinced something happened to Molly.”

  “Flat tire,” I said. “Or, more likely, cold feet.”

  “She tried calling. No answer.”

  “Well,” I said, “something better probably came along. What do you think?”

  I’d given him a good opportunity to nail me with an insult, but he declined. “I think my wife should retire from matchmaking,” he said. “And I think I should make you a sandwich.”

  I gobbled two of J.W.’s bluefish-salad sandwiches on thick slices of Portuguese bread at their kitchen table while Zee dithered about going fishing. I tried to assure her that I’d been stood up before, that it was a normal and predictable thing for a recent widow to do when facing a date with an irresistible hunk of man such as myself, and that an evening on the beach was just the thing to clear our heads.

  In the end, we trekked off to State Beach, which was on Nantucket Sound, just a ten-minute drive from the Jackson residence. We cast off the jetties and around the openings to the pond and along the beach itself, where Zee found a school of bluefish blitzing out beyond the range of my longest cast with a fly rod. She beached three of them before they moved along. I didn’t get a strike.

  Around midnight I noticed that Zee was sitting cross-legged on the sand staring out at the dark sea. “You’re not casting,” I said.

  “It’s Molly,” she said.

  “I’m sure Molly’s fine.” I sat down beside her. “And so am I. Honest. Don’t feel bad. It was a good try, and I appreciate it. She seems like a nice person. You can’t expect these things to work out every time.”

  She turned to me. “I wasn’t feeling bad about being a failed matchmaker,” she said. “In fact, I feel good about that. She liked you. I know she did. And I could tell you liked her.”

  “I did,” I said. “I do.”

  “So why didn’t she show up?”

  “A million possible reasons. She’ll probably call tomorrow full of apologies.”

  “I’m kinda worried,” said Zee.

  I figured it was her obligation as a woman and as a matchmaker to be worried, so I didn’t try to talk her out of it.

  In fact, once my annoyance at being stood up finally wore off, I began to worry a little myself.

  We sat there watching the water for a while, and then Zee said she really wanted to quit. The tide had filled the ponds, and she figured the fish would be hard to find, and anyway, she had to work the next day.

  I understood. Her heart wasn’t in it. For Zee to want to quit early, she really had to be upset.

  Chapter Nine

  J.W.

  The morning after her fishing trip with Brady, Zee was still unhappy and perplexed by Molly’s failure to show up for her date with him. I was more inclined to pass it off as nothing earthshaking.

  “I’m always hearing about how girls suffer while they wait for boys to phone or ask them out on dates,” I said, “but guys have to put up with girls rolling their eyes and saying no thanks, or saying yes, then standing them up. It happens all the time.”

  “But Molly isn’t the type to do that.”

  “Every woman is the type. I asked you to marry me for years before you finally said yes.”

  She lifted her chin. “Maybe I should have put it off longer.”

  “Too late.”

  “It’s never too late for a girl to go home to her mother.”

  “Ha! I can just see you living with your mother.”

  I had her there. “I feel sorry for Brady,” she said with a sigh.

  “Brady’s a grown man,” I said. “Grown men don’t need to have people feeling sorry for them, they can feel sorry for themselves. Look at me. Don’t make too much of this. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

  “I wish I knew what it was.” She fussed with her food.

  “All will be revealed in time.” I stacked my dishes in the sink. “Since you’re going to be home this morning, I’m going to use the time to talk with some more people about Kathy Bannerman.”

  I started with Shrink Williams. Dr. Cotton Williams lived on West Chop not far from the spiffy new Vineyard Haven Library. His office was attached to his house and had two doors—one for going in and one for going out. I didn’t know if many psychiatrists made a practice of having separate exit doors for their patients, but Shrink did. The theory, apparently, was that a patient would just as soon not have the next patient know that the first patient was one, too.

  Shrink’s office hours started at ten, and I was the first one through the door, edging out a nervous woman who came mincing along the sidewalk right behind me. Inside, Shrink’s receptionist, an
efficient-looking woman pushing sixty, frowned at her day-book and told me that I didn’t have an appointment.

  “My name’s Jackson,” I said. “I have a badge in my pocket if you’d care to look at it, but I’d just as soon keep this informal. I only need to talk with the doctor for a moment. I’d like his advice on a case.” I showed her my best Joe Friday face.

  I actually did have my old Boston PD shield with me, if it came to that, which I hoped it wouldn’t, since there are laws against pretending to be a police officer. Luck, in her willy-nilly way, chose to smile upon me.

  “Just a moment, please.” The woman went out of sight and came back. “This way, please.” I followed her into an office, where she left me with Shrink.

  He was about my age and didn’t look like the ladies’ man he was reputed to be. But who knows what women like, besides shoes?

  “How can I help you, Officer Jackson?” Then he frowned. “Haven’t we met before?”

  “Briefly, some time ago. I’m looking into the disappearance of a woman named Katherine Bannerman. She was here on the island last August, but hasn’t been seen since then. I’ve been told that you dated her, and I’m hoping that you can give me information that might be useful in locating her.” I showed him my photograph of Kathy Bannerman.

  Shrink assumed a professional air. “If Mrs. Bannerman had been a client, of course our conversations would be confidential. Even so, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you because I only saw her socially for a short time.”

  “When was that?”

  His brow furrowed. “It would have been in late July of last year. We only went out a half dozen times.”

  “Did she ever talk about leaving the island, or suggest someplace she might be planning to go?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  “Did she mention going back to her family?”

  “No. She told me she was living apart from her husband and her daughter, but never said anything about going back to them. Although she did speak fondly of her daughter.”

  “Did she seem happy or unhappy?”