“I’m Jean Eppers. My husband’s in the study. Have we met?”
I suspected that she would have remembered if we had. “No,” I said, “nor have I met your husband.”
She noted that I had no car. “Are you a journalist, Mr. Jackson?”
“No. I’m more or less retired.”
“You’re rather young to be retired.”
“Your husband and I have mutual acquaintances. I’d like to talk with him about some interests we may have in common.”
“Ken is retired,” she said, emphasizing the is. “He’s no longer involved with his previous career.”
“Yes, I know.”
I waited. Her eyes flicked over me.
“Are you living in Washington, Mr. Jackson?”
“No. I live here on the island. In Edgartown. I won’t take up much of your husband’s time, Mrs. Eppers. I told my wife I wouldn’t be gone more than an hour.”
“Where’s your car, Mr. Jackson?”
“My wife dropped me off and went on to Menemsha to pick up some swordfish and visit a friend. She’ll pick me up down on the road on her way home.”
Jean Eppers’s smile had never gone away. I couldn’t tell if it was real or practiced. I imagined that having lived in Washington for many years, she’d mastered hiding her true feelings.
She stepped back from the door. “What a busybody I am, Mr. Jackson. Please come in. The study is right down the hall. I’ll get Ken.”
She led me into a waiting room furnished with simple, comfortable chairs and small tables. On the polished oak floor was an ornate but worn Oriental rug. Prints of hunting and fishing scenes hung on the walls.
“He might prefer to talk with me in the study,” I said.
She held her smile. “Ah. Then I’ll tell him you’re here. Make yourself comfortable.”
How many times in the past, I wondered, had Jean Eppers led unknown people to her husband so that they might speak together about unidentified common interests?
I looked down the hall and watched her come out of a side room and walk, smiling, to me.
“Ken says to come right down, Mr. Jackson.” She touched my arm. “And don’t let him keep you too long. He’s supposed to be writing his memoirs, but he’ll do almost anything to get away from his word processor!”
“I won’t take up much of his time, Mrs. Eppers. If I’m not down at the road when my wife comes by, I may have to walk home.”
She gave me a chuckle that almost sounded real, and waved me down the hall.
I walked along an Oriental hall carpet and turned into the study.
The walls were lined ceiling high with bookshelves filled with books that actually looked as though they had been read. Between bookcases on three walls were alcoves containing shelves of miscellany: statuary, photographs, folk art from several continents—objects collected over a lifetime. Above the shelves were portraits of people I presumed were ancestors. On the fourth wall, the shelves were interrupted by large windows looking north toward Vineyard Sound. In front of one of them was a large, worn desk topped by stacks of papers and a computer. Behind the desk sat a man who rose as I came in.
He didn’t look like anyone you’d nickname Horrors, but then, Buckingham probably thought John Felton looked pretty innocent, too.
— 21 —
Kenneth Eppers was a slight, balding man who at first glance looked like a part-time clerk in a ma-and-pa grocery store. He had rimless glasses set on a thin nose and was wearing an open white short-sleeve shirt over chinos. Only the slippers on his feet and the Rolex on his wrist belied his otherwise clerkish image.
Until I looked at his eyes.
They were watery blue and surrounded by fine lines, but they were not the eyes of a grocery clerk.
“Mr. Jackson.” He came around the desk and shook my big hand within his smallish one. “I’m Ken Eppers.” He gestured to a leather chair and took one himself. “My wife tells me that you believe we have some interests in common. What can I do for you?”
I saw no reason to make an elliptical approach to the issue.
“I’m hoping that you can tell me something useful about the letters threatening Cricket Callahan.”
The watery eyes became ice, but his voice was unchanged. “My wife told me that you claim to have no connection with any government agencies, Mr. Jackson. Did you deceive her?”
“No. I don’t work for anybody, in government or out. My interest is personal. Cricket Callahan and I are cousins of a kind. I don’t want to have anything happen to her.”
He stared at me. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Jackson. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started to rise. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to work.”
I stayed where I was. “Yes. Your memoirs. I’ll be interested in reading your version of what happened when that girl got her face blown away.”
A flicker of emotion touched his face, and he looked at his watch as though to hide his expression. “A most unfortunate incident.”
“Particularly since you and Barbara Miller planned the business and lost your jobs as a result.”
He stared at me with his arctic eyes, then sat down again. “I was thinking of the girl and the others with her, not of my job.”
“You’ve been with one Washington agency or another for a long time,” I said. “You’d made it to deputy director of operations for the IRS. That was the acme of a lifetime in the business. And Barbara Miller was your prize dog, the pick of the litter. The plan that went wrong was her baby, and yours, and was supposed to be a crowning achievement for you both. Who knows, maybe you’d even make director of the agency someday, and Barbara would make deputy. What a powerhouse pair that would be. But instead, both of your heads went rolling. I find it difficult to believe that losing your jobs meant nothing to you, and that Horrors Eppers is only sorry for the girl and the others, and not for himself.”
Eppers’s mouth twitched. “You seem fairly well informed for someone with no Washington connections, Mr. Jackson. I thought the ‘Horrors’ title was strictly internal, though I suppose I should have known better.”
“I’m told you earned it.”
He sank into his chair, then dug into a pants pocket and came up with a battered briar and an ornate Zippo lighter decorated with a seal and glittering stones. He tamped the pipe with a finger I now noticed was tobacco stained and lit up, exhaling small puffs of smoke as he got the pipe going. He looked at me, noted my eyes on the lighter, and passed it across. The seal and the language of what appeared to be an inscription were unfamiliar to me, but the inset gems looked real enough. I passed it back.
“The gift of a grateful and still friendly government, which shall be nameless for the moment,” he said, returning the lighter to his pocket.
I said, “I used to smoke a pipe myself, and I had a Zippo, too. But mine wasn’t decorated with diamonds or rubies.”
“A reward,” he replied with irony, “for one of those operations which gave Horrors his name.” He gestured at the items that adorned the study. “There are other such items here. I keep them to remind me of the nature of the work I do. Or, I should say, the work I used to do.”
I was surprised by a tone I thought I heard in his voice. Not pride, or indifference, or scorn, but a sadness.
“Were you ever in a war?” he asked.
“Briefly.”
“Vietnam? Combat?”
“A very short tour.”
“I was in the Korean War,” he said. “The Police Action, as they called it. After that I went to work in Washington. Having been in combat yourself, perhaps you’ll understand me when I say that in many ways the battles have never stopped. Whatever motivates nations and men to fight official wars also motivates them to fight unofficial ones. My jobs have had to do with the unofficial ones. The operation you’re interested in was one of my failures.” He paused. “Not the first, either.”
“But the last.”
He puffed his pipe a
nd nodded. “Yes. That last operation was well intended, if there is such a thing as good political intent, which is, I imagine, arguable. The object, in any event, was to ensure a victory for a national faction that was probably more democratic than its principal rivals.
“The purpose of the operation was to weaken the leadership of the most powerful rival faction, but at the last moment things went awry, as can happen. . . .” His voice drifted to a stop as he drew on his pipe.
I could hear the sarcasm in my voice when I said, “And the explosives intended for the rival leadership went off in a public market instead.”
“The particulars are in files that will be unavailable to the public for at least fifty years,” said Eppers with a thin smile. “People in my business are very reluctant to have the details of their activities and the line of command—responsibility, that is—known to anyone, especially taxpayers and critics in powerful places.”
“Always in the national interest, of course.”
“Of course. We have secrets that are so secret that even their classifications are secret. You may recall that when the Iron Curtain fell and previously secret Soviet documents began to be made public, a lot of people in Washington got very worried for fear that secrets the Soviets had stolen from us would now become known to our citizens. Bad enough that our enemies should know what we’ve been up to, but incredibly worse if our own people should. Even the secret keepers are aware of the irony, by the way. Some of them, anyway.”
Eppers was, at any rate. I said, “But now we have these letters threatening the president’s daughter. The logical suspects are people morally offended by that last failed operation, or people who suffered as a consequence. You’re in the latter category: a man whose career was cut off because of it. Do you know anything about the letters?”
Eppers’s cold eyes sparkled. “The Secret Service, the FBI, and some other people have asked me the same. I told them no, and I’m telling you the same.” He drew on his pipe and blew a puff of smoke. “Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Jackson?”
“No.” I wondered if my face somehow showed that I was actually feeling a bit poor of late.
“Well, I am,” said Eppers. “I am what is known as old New England money. A lot of people like me have been involved in the intelligence business, going back to World War II and even before that. You might have heard of the OSS, for instance. We’re well educated, well connected, influential, and patriotic. And we know other wealthy, connected, influential people much like ourselves in other countries. A lot of us went to the same prep schools and universities. We sometimes married one another’s sisters or brothers. We are, in short, volunteers who have the time and talents to do the work because we don’t really have to earn a living. We’re the old-boy network you’ve heard so much about, and we’ve done a lot of good work for our countries, along with the bad that gets publicized sometimes.” He looked at me through the smoke of his pipe. “Do you follow me, Mr. Jackson?”
“I think so.”
“Then you may understand this, too. We work and we win some and lose some, but eventually quitting time comes. Maybe we just get old, or tired, or bored; or maybe something happens that makes us decide to retire. The last straw, as it were. It might be something big, or it might be something little, but it’s the last straw.” He contemplated his pipe, then raised his eyes again. “For me the girl’s face was the last straw. I submitted my resignation immediately and came here. I feel ten years younger.”
I studied his face, trying to penetrate behind those watery eyes that now seemed to have lost their icy sheen.
“Are you saying that you harbor no ill feeling toward the president and his family?”
That little smile flickered across his mouth. It struck me as a disguise for pain. “For what? For okaying an operation that my staff and I designed? The president did not get my vote in the last election, but he’s in no way to blame for the failure of the plan. If anyone is responsible, it’s myself.”
The smile that had flitted across his lips reminded me of Byron’s phrase: “And if I laugh at any mortal thing, it is that I may not weep.” I was also reminded of why I’d left the Boston PD. After being shot by and then shooting to death the robber I’d met in that alley, I had hung up my badge and come to the Vineyard to retire. Maybe Eppers and I had more in common than might be guessed.
“What about Barbara Miller?” I asked. “I’m told that she was the agent in the field. Does she feel the same way as you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t speak for Barbara,” replied Eppers.
“Do you think she might be the letter writer?”
His eyes cooled. “I think not.”
I looked at my watch and got up. “I have to go. Thanks for your time.”
He stood. “I hope I’ve been helpful.”
“I know more than when I came in,” I said. Then, somewhat to my own surprise, I added, “I wish you a happy retirement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
“I look forward to reading your memoirs.”
He smiled. “If I ever get them written.”
“Your wife will see to it that you do.”
“She will certainly try.”
We shook hands and I left the house. At the turn of the drive that would lead me out of sight, I turned and waved. Horrors Eppers and his wife were on the porch looking after me. They waved back, and I went on down the driveway.
Zee was glad to see me. “I was almost ready to phone the cops, my dear.”
“No need.” I slid into the passenger seat and gave her a kiss. Lips sweeter than wine.
“Well?”
“Wind up the machine, and we’ll talk while we drive.”
“Where away, Captain?”
“Lambert’s Cove Road. The Miller residence, if you please, Jeeves.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” She started the engine and we drove up to Beetlebung Corner, took a sharp right toward Menemsha, then another right onto North Road. As we headed back down-island, I told her about my conversation with Eppers.
“And do you believe him?” asked Zee, when I was done.
I had been wondering about that myself. “I think I do,” I said. “But I’ve believed liars before.”
“Mmmm, me, too. But sometimes you’ve got to trust your instincts.”
“Yes,” I said. Sometimes, I thought.
We drove east till we got to the upper end of Lambert’s Cove Road, and took the left turn onto that lovely, narrow, wandering lane. Lambert’s Cove Road and the Middle Road are two of the Vineyard’s prettiest byways, and I wondered if there was some irony involved in Horrors Eppers and Barbara Miller having chosen such lovely sites for their homes. I suspected that there might be some Beauty and the Beast metaphor involved, but couldn’t make it out. Did beasts love beauty? Did beauties love beasts? Were beauty and the beast one and the same? I gave up.
There are a lot of houses pretty close to Lambert’s Cove Road, but a lot more that are off at the ends of narrow dirt roads fronted by lines of mailboxes. The island’s most famous pop singer lived up there somewhere, as did a lot of other celebrity types who liked their privacy. Since I like mine, too, we all got along very well.
“Here we are,” said Zee, slowing. “Joe Begay gives good directions. I still wonder how he knows the things he knows.”
“He’s a manly man, like me. We manly men know all kinds of stuff.”
“Save me, Lord!”
We were passing one of the dirt roads, this one fronted by four mailboxes, one of which was adorned with the name Miller.
“Same process as before,” I said. “We’ll find a place to pull off the road, and I’ll walk up to the house.”
We found a place to pull off. “Same process as before,” said Zee. “If you’re not back in an hour, I’m calling the cops, then driving up to find you.”
“Make it an hour and a half,” I said. “That might be a long dirt road.”
“One hour,” said Zee.
“Gi
ve me a kiss.”
She did that, and I got out and trotted back to the driveway. As I did, it occurred to me that some such kisses are the last that partners ever exchange. They casually kiss each other good-bye, and later that day he looks the wrong way and steps in front of a car, or she feels an unexpected chest pain and falls before she can reach a phone.
Such thoughts made me want to forget Barbara Miller and go back to Zee and take her in my arms and never leave her.
But I kept going.
— 22 —
About a quarter of a mile up the winding driveway, a little hand-painted sign saying MILLER pointed to a side road. I followed along and soon came to the house.
It was a large wooden building with several wings, about twice as big as Eppers’s place, all in all. There was a three-car garage and a small barn, and everything was new in spite of its attempts to look old. I thought it looked just like a summer place for an international banker, although I couldn’t remember having seen any bankers’ summer places before. Everything was neat and tidy.
There was a flower garden beside the house, and a woman wearing a straw hat and cotton gloves was working in it. She was on her knees, and there was a basket beside her containing hand tools for digging and cultivating. She looked about forty years old. Not far from my own age. The prime of life.
She looked up as I approached.
“My name is J. W. Jackson,” I said. “I’m looking for Barbara Miller.”
She got to her feet. “I’m Barbara Miller.”
Her face was just shy of horsey, but she had the sharp, ironic eyes that homely women sometimes have, indicating that they know perfectly well that they’re not beautiful, but have decided that they’re going to live busy, active, interesting lives anyway, and do just that.
I liked her immediately, in spite of an instant, simultaneous inner warning not to. I try not to trust my intuitions because even though they’re usually pretty dependable, sometimes they’re not.
Now she looked at me with those intelligent eyes, and waited.
“Nice flowers,” I said. “My main garden is mostly vegetables, but some of it’s flowers, and I have flower boxes on the fence and hanging baskets and pots. At the moment I’m trying to get my new hydrangeas just the right shade of blue. I like those orange begonias over there.”
A Deadly Vineyard Holiday Page 18