Third Strike

by Philip R. Craig

  “Tell Mary he’s asleep,” I said. “Tell her that he feels fine and will see her later.”

  “I want you to help Gloria,” said Zee.

  I was startled, because Zee usually doesn’t approve of my getting involved in matters that might include a component of violence.

  “How?”

  Zee’s dark eyes lifted and looked into mine. “Gloria’s heard the speculation about Eduardo, that he killed himself when he set off that explosion on the Trident. She says he never would have tried to blow up a boat, that he was a pacifist. She says it’s hateful for people to be saying such bad things. She says she can live knowing that he’s dead, but that she can’t stand the things people are suggesting. I want you to find out what really happened so she can find some peace.”

  Other people, knowing that I’d once been a policeman, had sometimes asked me to make informal investigations for them. But Zee never had. I said, “I doubt I can learn anything that the police can’t learn.”

  Usually, that was an argument that Zee used when I was tempted to stick my nose in other people’s business. But this time, she shook her head.

  “Gloria says he wasn’t the kind of man who would ever damage anyone or anything. I believe her. I want you to find out the truth.”

  “The police will be looking for that,” I said. “Detectives will come down from the mainland to help. They’ll want to know everything—who did it, where the explosives came from, why. Everything.”

  “I believe Gloria,” said Zee. “I want you to help her.”

  I looked at her and saw suffering in her face. She was a nurse, and though she was tough enough to calmly tend terrible wounds that would paralyze most of us with horror, she had the classic characteristic of her profession—she was a born caregiver. She couldn’t look at human or animal pain without trying to do something about it. As with most of our strengths, her tenderness also made her vulnerable.

  I tried one last argument before giving in to her sorrow and concern. “Look,” I said, “if I go out there, there’s no telling what I’ll find. I may find out that Eduardo Alvarez wasn’t the saint his wife seems to think he was. What then? Do you think Gloria Alvarez is going to feel better knowing that her husband was just what people think he was—a guy who got blown up by his own bomb?”

  “That’s not what you’ll find.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Gloria is sure of Eduardo,” she said, “and I’m sure of Gloria.” She looked at me, and my will was drawn into her eyes like Breachan into Corryvreckan.

  “All right,” I said. “But I have to have some place to start. I need to talk with Gloria.”

  She put out a hand and took mine. “I told her that you’d want to do that. She’s expecting you.”

  “You know me better than I do,” I said, and I felt a rueful little smile flit across my face. “Tell me where she lives.”

  Gloria Alvarez lived in a small house off Wing Road in Oak Bluffs. In spite of the mansionizing that’s happening all over the Vineyard, there are still lots of small houses in every town. Most of them are getting along in years, but a few are still being built. The Alvarez house was one of the aging ones, but it was neatly kept and its yard was well-tended. There was a wooden swing set beside the one-car garage and a middle-aged Ford sedan in the driveway. Another car of similar age was parked at the curb.

  I parked mine behind the Ford and went to the door. The woman who opened it was too old to be Gloria Alvarez. Sadness seemed to ooze out around her, seeping from the house like an invisible fog.

  “I’m J.W. Jackson,” I said. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Alvarez.”

  “I’m Sarah Martinez,” said the woman. “Gloria is very tired. Are you a friend?”

  “My wife is her friend. Mrs. Alvarez is expecting me.”

  “She’s had a terrible shock.”

  “I know.”

  She paused, then nodded and stepped back. “I hope you can be brief. This is a terrible day for all of us. George and I have known Eduardo and Gloria for years.”

  I went in and followed her to a small living room. The windows let in a lot of sunlight, but the room seemed dark. A young woman sat on a couch with a girl about Diana’s age. The girl had yellow hair and brown eyes.

  “Mr. Jackson is here,” said the older woman.

  The woman on the couch lifted her eyes to me. “Zeolinda said you’d come. Thank you.” Her voice was exhausted by sorrow.

  “I don’t know if I can be of any help,” I said. “But I’ll try. I need to know where to start asking questions, so I’ll need some information.” I nodded toward the girl. “Should we talk in private?”

  The child put her arm around her mother’s arm and pulled herself closer.

  Her mother looked down at her and said, “No, we can talk here.”

  I looked into the girl’s angry, confused eyes. “Perhaps Mrs. Martinez can take Mary for a walk.”

  Gloria shook her head. “No. Mary wants to stay here.”

  “All right. Tell me about your husband. I know he was a union man, working on the ferries, and I know you don’t think he caused the explosion on the Trident.”

  Gloria’s voice was small but firm. “He would never have done such a thing. He didn’t like all this fighting and trouble. He wanted the strike to end quickly so he could go back to work with George and the others. Something bad happened. Someone blew up that boat, but it wasn’t my Eduardo.”

  “Why do you think he was there, then?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I don’t know. He was supposed to be working in the restaurant.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “The Wheelhouse, in Edgartown,” she said. “He got a job there in the kitchen to bring in some money while the union was on strike. He cleaned pans and cleared tables. The college boys had quit and they needed help, so Eduardo worked there nights.”

  It was a familiar phenomenon for college kids to get summer jobs and swear they’d stay until Labor Day but then bail out in mid-August so they could have a couple of weeks of party time before heading back to school.

  “What work did your husband do on the boats?” I said. “Was he an engineer? Did he work on the engines?”

  “No. He knew nothing about engines. He was an able-bodied seaman. He worked hard.”

  “Did he have any conflicts with his boss, or anyone else he worked with?”

  She shook her head. “No. He was on strike, but even the managers liked him. He was a very gentle man.” She touched a damp kerchief to her eyes, but it did little to block the tears.

  I pushed on. “Did he have any special friends? I’d like to talk to them, if he did.”

  “My husband was his friend,” said Mrs. Martinez. “George worked with Eduardo for years.”

  “Your husband is a union man?”

  She nodded. “Yes, and proud of it. He’s a bosun, but it’s the same union.”

  “So he’s on strike, too. I’d like to talk with him later.”

  “He had nothing to do with this explosion business,” said Mrs. Martinez, “so you’ll be wasting your time if you want him to talk about that.”

  I turned back to Gloria Alvarez. “Did your husband have any enemies? Was he on bad terms with anyone?”

  “No,” she said. “I told you. Eduardo had no enemies. He was too sweet for his own good, in fact. He was a pacifist. Did you know that? He was a conscientious objector. He didn’t believe in fighting.”

  “Zee mentioned that he was a pacifist,” I said. “Did he have any friends who might not be pacifists? Anyone who might know how he happened to be on the Trident last night?”

  “He was everyone’s friend. Everyone loved him. He’s in heaven, but I’m in hell because of what people are thinking of him.” More tears ran down her cheeks.

  St. Eduardo.

  “Did he have a favorite tavern?” I said. “A place where he could meet friends and talk?”

  “Eduardo didn’t drink alcohol or smoke. He didn�
�t go to taverns.”

  “Did he go to church?”

  “Every week, yes.”

  “Who is his minister, his priest?”

  “Father Zapata,” she said. “Why do you ask? I’m sure Father Zapata can tell you nothing about last night.”

  “You’re probably right.” I looked at Mrs. Martinez. “Is there a place where the union members meet, do you know? Some pub or coffee shop?”

  “They’re men,” said Mrs. Martinez. “They like coffee and beer. George goes to the Fireside sometimes. I think he sees his friends there, and a lot of his friends belong to the union.”

  I wasn’t getting much help from Gloria, but I tried another couple of questions. “Did your husband gamble? Did he argue with anyone enough to make that person angry?”

  “No,” said his widow, wiping her tears. “He wasn’t a gambler. He would argue, but never so as to anger anyone. He was a good man. A very good man. No one would want to hurt him, and he would never hurt anyone.”

  And yet somehow Eduardo, like Jesus, had managed to get himself more than just hurt.

  I thanked both women for their time, got Sarah Martinez’s phone number, and departed. I didn’t have much more to go on than when I’d left home, but I had some.

  First, though, I drove to the Vineyard Haven police station. The station, which fronts the Stop and Shop parking lot, is pretty impressive from the outside and is a contender, with the Edgartown station, for the best-looking police station on the island. It almost overlooks the site of the explosion.

  Inside, I asked a couple of questions and soon found myself sitting in an office across from Sergeant John Sylvester, a man about my age who looked to be fifty or sixty pounds over fighting weight. I’d seen him around town, but I didn’t know him.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  I told him the nature of my quest, and when I was through he said, “We won’t know for sure until we get the ME’s report, but everything we have now makes it look like Alvarez got himself killed when his own explosive blew up on him.” He shrugged. “This strike is getting rougher every day. There are hotheads on both sides, so something like this isn’t a big surprise. That said, I think you should call it a day, go home, and leave the driving to us.” He smiled.

  “Are you treating his death like a homicide?”

  “Until they rule otherwise,” Sylvester said, “it’s a state-police case.” The way he said it made me think that he, like a lot of town cops, resented the idea that in Massachusetts the state police were responsible for investigating all homicides, or suspected homicides.

  “Are you considering the possibility that Alvarez was a victim? That he didn’t set the explosive?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “We’re considering all of the possibilities.”

  “Mrs. Alvarez says her husband would never have blown up a boat.”

  “Al Capone’s mother probably thought her baby boy was just misunderstood.”

  True enough.

  “If you find out anything,” I said, “will you let me know?”

  His smile returned to his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You can read about it in the papers.”

  I walked down to the harbor and looked at the Trident. She was a small, double-ended trimaran ferry boat such as I’d seen in photographs. The only sign of an engine explosion was a blackened area astern around a hatch. She was tied to a pier, and men were standing on the pier with their hands in their pockets looking at her.

  I joined them.

  “God damned strikers,” a man was saying. “They ought to be shot.”

  His companion nodded. “This here boat carried eight cars at a time. Two, three trips a day. I guess they didn’t want that happening. Served the guy right, killing himself like that, maybe. Bad business, though. I don’t like it.”

  “Where’d this boat come from?” I asked.

  They both looked at me, as though wondering who I was and whether they should like me or not.

  “Down in Connecticut,” said the man who’d damned the strikers. “Normally runs out to some little island down there. Came up here to make some real money. Now this happens. Damned shame.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said, and thereby seemed to make myself his friend.

  He shared another nasty remark or two about the union and nodded knowingly as I left.

  I was weary already, and I hadn’t even really started to work. Tomorrow seemed soon enough, so I went home.

  “Well?” said Zee.

  “I told Mrs. Alvarez I’d try to help,” I said. “I’ll start in the morning. I have some leads, or at least a few places to begin asking questions.”

  She stood on her toes and kissed me. “Good. Go see what the kids are up to and I’ll fix us some martinis. You can meet me on the deck.”

  I went out to the beech tree and looked up through the leaves. Joshua and Diana and Jim Duarte were all up there, still alive after the earlier attack of the leopard men.

  “Come up, Pa!” yelled Diana.

  “All right.”

  I climbed up the ladder, passed through the trap-door in the floor of the porch of the main room, and found a good limb to sit on. The three children were pleased. I moved carefully after them through the branches, glad that we had a tree house where I could escape from the world where Eduardo Alvarez had lived and died.

  Zee called to me from the balcony, inviting me to join her for a little something. The balcony was a big people’s place where children were not allowed. The rule had its benefits. While Zee and I sat there, sipping Luksusowa on the rocks and nibbling on crackers and bluefish pâté, I told her what I’d heard from Sergeant Sylvester and the guys on the pier.

  “No surprise, I guess,” she said. “But it makes me glad that you’re going to find out what really happened.”

  We looked in silence out toward Nantucket Sound, where the sails were white against the blue water and under the blue sky. The colors reminded me of those in paintings of the Virgin Mary.

  “Hey, Pa!” It was Joshua’s voice coming out of the beech tree.

  “What?”

  “When you finish your little something, will you come back and play with us some more before Jim has to go home?”

  “Sure.”

  I had returned to the tree when Zee called to me and said that Brady Coyne was on the phone. I told the kids that I’d be back and swung down to the ground on the rope hung for that purpose.

  Brady, unable to get a reservation on Cape Air, was coming to the Vineyard the next day but figured the boat strike might strand him in Woods Hole. I told him I’d try to find somebody to bring him across and that I’d call him back.

  After I’d wasted more than an hour trying to do that, Zee said, “Why don’t you just take the Shirley J. over and bring him back yourself? Take the kids with you, so I can shoot with Manny without having any distractions. We’ll stick Brady in the guest room and loan him a car and take him fishing when he’s through doing whatever work he’s going to be doing.”

  I had planned to start asking questions the next morning, but the thought of a good sail was very appealing. I hesitated.

  “The boat needs exercising,” said Zee, eyeing me with wifely sagacity.

  And Eduardo Alvarez was already dead, and he’d stay that way whether I learned why tomorrow morning, or later, or never.

  “You can talk about the case with Brady on the way home,” said Zee. “He may have some ideas that will help you.”

  Good old Zee, giving me reasons to do what she knew I wanted to do anyway.

  I called Brady, told him I’d pick him up in Woods Hole at noon, and went back to the tree house. When Joshua and Diana heard my sailing plans, they invited themselves to join me. Jim looked sad, so I invited him too, if it was okay with his folks. Only Zee, who would be shooting with Manny, would be missing from our merry band.

  I took Jim home and arranged to pick him up again in the morning.

  “You’re sure h
e won’t be a bother?” said Mrs. Duarte.

  “If he gives me any trouble,” I said, looking down at him, “I’ll toss him overboard.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  At eight the next morning, I made sure that all of our life vests were on securely, then hoisted the Shirley J.’s big mainsail and cast her off her stake between the yacht club and the Reading Room. We eased out of Edgartown harbor, pushed by a light west wind, passed the lighthouse, and reached for East Chop on a port tack. The wind rose a bit with the sun and carried us over a mild sea toward the mainland.

  I helped the children handle the tiller and showed them how to change the set of the sail just a bit when we could see Woods Hole on the far side of Vineyard Sound. The tide was perfect for our purposes, falling and helping us on our way, then slowly flattening out as we fetched Woods Hole. The sound was alive with boats.

  Brady Coyne, overnight case in his hand, was waiting for us. He put his bag on the dock and caught the line I threw. He got into the life vest I tossed to him, and a few moments later we were headed back to the island, with the wind on our starboard beam and a now-rising tide pushing us home.

  “‘A capital ship on an ocean trip was the Walloping Window Blind,’” chanted Brady to the children. “‘No wind that blew dismayed the crew or troubled the captain’s mind.’”

  They liked the poem so much that they asked him to recite the whole thing. To my surprise, he could and did.

  “I thought all you read were law books and fishing magazines,” I said when the clapping stopped.

  “Shows what you know,” said Brady. “What’s the news with the strike? I hear somebody got blown up on a boat. You know anything about that?”

  “Not much, but I hope to know more soon. You want to take the helm?”

  “Sure.” He took the tiller.

  “Just clear the point of West Chop,” I said, pointing ahead.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  He sailed a course making a straight wake, and as he did I told him about the job I’d taken and the people I’d talked to. He listened without interruption, and I had the impression, not for the first time, that Brady had some sort of storage unit in his brain where he kept everything he heard just in case he might need to remember it sometime.