The sun-worshippers miss Gert’s, too, preferring to crawl bumper-to-bumper along Route 128 on a steamy Saturday for the dubious pleasure of lying cheek to thigh with similarly minded strangers on the glimmering sands of Crane’s or Wingaersheek or Good Harbor or Singing Beach, in a mindless race to see who can contract the first case of skin cancer.
The folks who live hard by the ocean go about their business, tolerant in their taciturn Yankee way of the strange people who drive long distances to broil under the sun on their beaches. They’re happy to sell them old pieces of furniture and ice cream cones and gasoline along the way, and if they think it’s damn foolishness, they keep it to themselves.
Gert knows what to do with bluefish and wine, and she performs saintly miracles with fresh ground pepper and lemon slices and striped bass. The halibut and the sole and the scrod she buys directly off the boats, and she gets the fillets into her ovens under a layer of breadcrumb and butter and bits of shrimp and crab before the fish realizes it’s dead. She serves Gloucester lobsters and Ipswich clams. For those who prefer, Gert keeps in her head a portfolio of recipes inherited from her mother, who must have been a Neapolitan wizard. Gert’s veal scallopine with mushrooms and peppers and a carafe of her musty house red remains my second favorite way of accomplishing sensual ecstasy.
The crushed-stone parking area alongside the rambling, cedar-shingled building was nearly full when I arrived at Gert’s. It was about noon on Tuesday. I got there at lunch time, needing directions to The Ruggles School and having had no breakfast. I hadn’t exactly planned it that way, at least not consciously, but it worked out just the way I wanted.
The dining room was crowded—local people, mostly men, some in shirt and tie, their jackets thrown over the backs of their chairs, and others in work clothes. Bankers and insurance salesmen, electricians and plumbers, clerks and a few young secretaries.
I was led to a small table with a checked tablecloth against a side wall. The place was noisy. The patrons all seemed to know each other, and laughter bubbled up frequently as the diners conversed, the men and women twisting in their chairs to talk with friends at adjacent tables.
My waitress was a hefty girl in her twenties. She dumped a pile of silverware in front of me, then straightened, pencil poised over pad.
“Help ya?” she asked. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. The armpits of her white uniform, which she was jammed into like a fat sausage, were stained.
“Busy, eh?” I offered.
“Special today is fish chowder,” she said, digging into her beehive hairdo with the eraser end of the pencil.
“What kind of fish?”
“Fresh cod. Off the boat this morning.”
“Fine. I’ll have a bowl. And a bottle of Beck’s.”
Then she smiled, and her round face was momentarily beautiful before she waddled away.
The chowder was delicious. Chunks of flaky white fish, hunks of potato, and slivers of transparent onion swam in a peppery, thick broth which I knew was pure cream. Bits of crisp bacon were sprinkled on top. I devoured it, and sat back with a sigh to sip my beer.
My waitress—Alice, the black plate pinned above her left bosom said—returned and plucked up the empty bowl.
“’Nother beer?”
“Please. And tell me, how do I get to The Ruggles School?”
“’Bout a mile and a half north on one-twenty-seven, take a left at the second set of lights. You’ll see it on your right.” She seemed to study me for a moment. “You a cop?”
“Me?” I laughed. “No. I’m not a cop.”
“Oh. There was lots of cops around last week. The guy, what’s-his-name there at the school who killed himself. Big hoop-de-do. Glad that’s all over with. Next thing you know, all the tourists will be comin’ to take pictures of Charity’s Point, havin’ picnics up there.” She snorted. “Who needs ’em?”
I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner. “I’m not a tourist, either,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’m an attorney.”
Alice looked disgusted. “Attorney, cop, same difference. I’ll get your beer.”
CHAPTER 4
I ALMOST MISSED THE Ruggles School, although Alice’s directions were perfect. The driveway was bounded by two stone pillars. The modest sign on one of them announced “The Ruggles School, est. 1923.” The driveway wound under a canopy of giant maples. Along either side, green lawns rolled gently among the ancient shade trees. Pathways intersected the grassy slopes, and perennial borders sparkled with late spring bulbs and splashes of pot-o’-gold and low pink phlox. I drove slowly, minding the sign that ordered “15 MPH.” Here and there, young people strolled the pathways or lay sprawled in the sunny patches, some on their bellies, chins propped in hands, feet waving in the air, open books in front of them, and others stretched out flat on their backs squinting at the spring sky. The girls looked fresh and healthy. The boys looked young.
The driveway ended at a cluster of brick buildings, constructed, I judged, some sixty years ago when the school was founded. They were solid, square, functional. I parked directly in front of a sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” I had an appointment. I supposed that made me authorized.
I entered into a cool, dark corridor. The interior walls were brick, the floor a worn, checked tile. From somewhere inside came the reedy voice of Buddy Holly. “It’s so easy to fall in love,” he sang. “So doggone easy.”
It comforted me to hear Buddy Holly still singing in the corridors of The Ruggles School.
I found an open door and peeked in. A girl—a student, I assumed—smiled up at me from behind a sleek, incongruously modern desk.
“May I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Elliott. I have an appointment.”
“This is Mr. Elliott’s office.” She consulted a book. “Are you Mr. Coyne?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Come right this way, please. He’s expecting you.”
She got up from behind the desk and led me to a closed door. The girl wore stockings and high heels, used old-fashioned words like “sir” and “please,” and I concluded that there was something to be said for private education after all.
There were two people in Headmaster Elliott’s office. I took in Elliott at a glance: tall, beaked nose, thinning gray hair combed straight back and curled at the nape of his neck. Deerfield ’44, Princeton ’48. Something like that. The old school tie. Stroke for the lightweight crew. Number three man on the subvarsity squash team. Gentlemanly C’s. English major. Thesis on Alexander Pope.
Just like his Daddy.
And now he exemplified Dr. Peter’s well-known principle as he drifted around the sedate, vine-covered campus of a distinguished New England prep school. He would comfort the trustees, cajole the alumni, amuse the faculty, and fool none of the students with his vague banalities.
He extended his hand to me. “Mr. Coyne. Bartley Elliott. A pleasure, sir. So regrettable, the sadness of this occasion.” The Headmaster cleared his throat habitually as he spoke, as if phlegm were bubbling up there. He inclined his head toward the other person in the room, a slim young Oriental man wearing a corduroy jacket and a plaid flannel shirt opened at the collar. “This is Mr. Alexander Binh. The Dean of the Faculty. Mr. Binh is also a member of the History Department. Your secretary indicated, Mr. Coyne, that you’d like to talk to some of our people. Mr. Binh can help arrange that, I believe.”
I took the hand that Alexander Binh offered me. His grip was hard, practiced, impersonal. He slipped his hand from mine quickly and bowed his head in acknowledgement of Bartley Elliott’s introduction. “Happy to help out in any way I can,” he said in a soft, flat voice.
“Seated, seated,” commanded Elliott, waving his arms around. I sat.
“I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Florence Gresham,” I began, “as I believe my secretary indicated. She’s George Gresham’s beneficiary. His mother. You know, of course, that his death has been ruled a suicide.
We are exploring an appeal of that verdict. Mrs. Gresham has retained me to investigate and to advise her whether or not to proceed with this appeal. Anything you and your staff can tell me to shed light on this question would be appreciated.”
“Do you doubt it was suicide?” asked Binh.
“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Binh. I’m trying to reserve judgment.”
Mr. Binh nodded. His little smile seemed to say, “That’s bullshit.”
“George Gresham,” said Elliott. “A fine, fine man. Hard to believe. Suicide, that is. Scholar, George. Real scholar. Even-tempered, mild-mannered man. Loved the books, George. Personal friend, I might add. Real shock to us all, Mr. Coyne.”
“I’m looking for clues, Mr. Elliott. I’d like to try to understand Mr. Gresham’s state of mind at the time of his death. For example, did he seem depressed recently? Did he have any financial problems that you were aware of? Or maybe a personal relationship that wasn’t going well for him? Did you notice any changes in his patterns of behavior, anything at all that might, looking back on it, make his suicide understandable?”
“I told the police. Nothing. Goes to show. Think you know a man, and…”
“What about his work?” I went on. “Was it going well for him?”
“George was the bulwark of the History Department. Could have taught in college. Had offers. Should have, maybe. But he said he preferred it here. Loved his books, the students, the place. No pressure. That was important to him. No. A credit to his school. Credit to his profession. Published, too. Distinguished man.”
I looked at Alexander Binh. “What about you, Mr. Binh?”
He shrugged in what I was tempted to interpret as an effort at inscrutability. “I agree with Mr. Elliott,” he said.
“Did you know George Gresham well?”
“As well as anybody, I suppose. We were colleagues. We both taught history. I’d say I knew him professionally, but not personally. I don’t believe I can tell you anything that will help you.”
“Well, okay,” I said. “Did his suicide surprise you?”
Binh gave me that “bullshit” little smile of his, and said, “His death surprised me. That’s all.”
I gave up with him. I turned to Elliott. “Perhaps if I could speak with some of your staff…”
Elliott stood up, as if he were grateful for the opportunity to usher me out. “Of course. Mr. Binh, if you will be so kind…”
Binh inclined his head slightly, rose, and moved toward the door. I shook hands with Bartley Elliott and followed the young Dean of the Faculty. He was, I noticed, much taller than he had seemed, and he moved with the smooth grace of an ice skater.
He led me outside the old building into the May sunlight. He walked along a pathway leading away from the quadrangle of grass onto which the cluster of buildings faced. I had to quicken my pace to keep up with him. He spoke without looking at me.
“Warren Baker. The baseball coach. Also teaches math,” said Binh over his shoulder, his words popping out in rhythm with his steps. “Been here about as long as George. Knew him as well as anybody, I suppose.”
The path led us around the back of a square brick building. Before us lay an enormous flat expanse of playing fields, with what looked like hundreds of figures flitting across them. There were girls in shorts and tee shirts, others in little skirts and knee socks. There were young people of indistinguishable gender in sweat suits jogging in groups of three and four. Several stood in small clusters. Shot putters, and discus and javelin throwers, I judged from the motions they made.
From the far end of the field came the sound of aluminum bat meeting baseball—not a crack, but a ping. I have never accustomed my ear to the sound, no matter how many of Billy’s games I’ve watched. Horsehide and ash, that’s what I wanted to hear. But, hell, I don’t like the designated hitter rule, and I’d rather see a stolen base than a home run, so I guess I’m an anachronism.
Binh led me to the baseball diamond. A compactly built black man wearing a nylon windbreaker with a cap yanked low over his forehead was whacking fungoes to his infield. “Get your goddamn tail down, McAllister. Stick your face in there, for crissake, or I can find a spot for your ass beside mine on the bench.”
His voice rasped, as if he smoked too many cigarettes and yelled too often. He smacked another grounder at McAllister, a skinny kid at third base. He smacked it hard. I was standing close enough to him now so that I could hear his umph! of effort when he swung the slender fungo bat. McAllister managed to keep his tail down, but his face shied away from the wicked ground ball. It glanced off the heel of his glove and caught the kid flush on the Adam’s apple. He collapsed in a heap.
“Barnett!” called Baker. “Where the hell is Barnett?”
A towheaded youngster playing catch off to our left came jogging towards us. “Barnett,” said Coach Baker, “you get your body out there at third base and see if you can keep it in front of a grounder, will you? McAllister,” he shouted at the boy who was now sitting on the ground where he had fallen, holding his throat, “get in here. Damn it, get in here now!”
The boy got up from the ground and walked slowly in toward the plate where his coach waited, leaning with one arm on the fungo bat.
Alexander Binh said to me, “Wait a minute, and I’ll introduce you.”
Baker glowered at young McAllister. “You wearing a cup, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“I suppose you ain’t got a jock on, either?”
McAllister looked at the ground and shook his head.
“Well, no wonder you’re afraid of the ball. Lucky you took it in the Adam’s apple and not your other apples. Go get yourself dressed for baseball, son.” Baker’s voice had softened, and the boy looked up at him.
“Now!” said Baker, more loudly. “Sprint, boy. You get back here, and I’m going to whack you in the crotch with this bat and it better ding like a bell.”
McAllister nodded, and took off toward a building at the far end of the playing fields.
Baker turned and seemed to notice us for the first time.
“Say, Brother,” he said to Binh.
“Hi, Token,” replied Binh. They touched palms up in front of their faces and grinned at each other. “This is Mr. Coyne. He’s George Gresham’s lawyer. Got a minute?”
Baker handed the fungo bat to Binh. “Do the infield for me. And don’t baby them.”
Alexander Binh allowed his eyes to smile quickly. He laid his corduroy jacket on the ground and rolled his shirt cuffs up his forearms, which I noticed, were corded and thickly veined.
Baker held out his hand to me, and we shook. “What can I do for you?”
I gave him what had become for me a set speech. “And so,” I concluded, “I guess I’m just trying to get a sense of what George had been feeling and thinking during the last few days of his life. To try to understand his suicide.”
Baker led me away from the baseball field toward a small tier of bleachers. We sat on the bottom bench. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered me one, and I shook my head and lit a Winston of my own.
“George was a tough man,” Baker began, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Exacting teacher. Demanded a little bit more of each of his students than they were capable of, if you understand me. Always pushed them to increase their limits. Would’ve made a hell of a coach.”
I squinted at him. “How does that relate to his death, Mr. Baker? I don’t get it.”
“Well, hell—he was the same way with himself, you know. That’s all. Maybe he discovered his own limits. Like the ballplayer who spends lots of years in the minors and finally finds himself twenty-eight, thirty years old and a two-fifty hitter and not good for much of anything. That could have been George. Would’ve been just like him. George couldn’t have lived with the idea of being a two-fifty minor-league hitter.”
Baker tilted his cap back to look intently at me.
“Would that lead him to commit suicide, do you think?”
I asked.
“Shit, I don’t know. Who can answer a question like that? You wanted to know what he was like, that’s what he was like. Two-fifty hitters don’t necessarily kill themselves.” He dragged on his Camel and looked out over the baseball diamond. “Some do, I expect.”
I nodded. “Were you aware of anything particular in his life that might have been different lately? A love affair, a gambling debt, illness—something like that?”
“Nah. I don’t think so.” Baker yanked the beak of his cap back down over his eyes. “Look,” he said. “I really gotta get back to my team. My Asian friend’ll have them thinking that all grounders come on three easy little hops. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”
“It’s okay. I appreciate your time,” I said. We stomped on our cigarette butts and walked back to the diamond.
“Okay, you guys,” Baker yelled, taking the bat from Binh. “Mr. Binh has given you a nice little rest. See if you remember anything. Knees bent, up on the balls of your feet, heads up, gloves down…”
Binh picked up his jacket and tossed it over his shoulder. We began to walk back toward the school buildings. “Warren Baker,” said Binh. “You never heard of him?”
“No,” I said. “Should I?”
“Halfback, West Point, class of sixty-three. Everyone said he could’ve made it in the pros. Football or baseball. But he owed Uncle Sam five years, and he spent one of them in Vietnam. Left two toes from his left foot over there. End of athletic career.” Binh looked at me. His eyes seemed warmer to me. “Baker’s a hell of a guy. We kid each other a lot, him a Vietnam veteran and me half Vietnamese. And he’s spent more time in the country of my origin than I have.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“I was born in Paris and educated here.” It took me a moment to realize that “here” meant The Ruggles School. “So I’m the token Oriental, and he’s the token black. At least, that’s what we tell each other, though the truth, I think, is that we’re both assets to this place. Warren’ll always be here. It’s his home, now. I’ve got better things to do.”
Death at Charity's Point Page 5