by JC Simmons
The sky was still overcast. Low, rain-laden clouds blew swiftly out of the north, indicating frontal passage had already occurred. I estimated the wind at twenty knots. The rain had stopped. Here and there breaks appeared in the overcast. If the wind didn't lay as Chamberlain predicted, it would be a rough crossing to Monhegan Island. Assuming that young Captain Barstein decided to go and wasn't somewhere counting four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cold cash.
When we got to the small hamlet of Tenant's Harbor, J.L. pulled into the East Wind Inn.
"They serve a breakfast buffet here that I think you'll like,” he said as we parked under a huge water oak.
"I've eaten lunch here a couple of times." Unbuckling by seat belt, I got out and looked across the ruffled bay at the small island.
"I know,” J.L. said. "Once with Sandy, once alone."
I had forgotten about Betty Anders, spry, ex-nurse, and mother of the owner of the East Wind Inn. Kathleen Chamberlain's cousin.
"Is there anything that goes on in this county that you don't know about?" I asked, as we walked upon the porch.
"Not much,” he answered, opening the screen door. "I even know where you spent last night."
This stopped me in my tracks. "But how..."
Chamberlain kept on walking. Over his shoulder he said, "Officer Bowers, our Desk Sergeant, has been trying for two years to get Mabel to go out with him. She won't give him the time of day."
Chamberlain walked on into the dinning room. Hurrying, I tried to catch up.
"He drives by her house on his way home every night. Seems your car was still there when he came back to work this morning. He's heartbroken."
Small towns...
* * *
We arrived at the Port Clyde dock at ten-thirty. The ferry, the MOMA C., was tied alongside the pier. Several people milled around, waiting to board. As Chamberlain predicted, the wind was down to around ten knots. Overcast skies had given way to a scattered-to-broken layer. The temperature was still cool, but warming. I brought my old, worn, leather flight jacket. Chamberlain suggested I bring it, as the temperature on the island might be a bit cool. I followed his advice.
We saw Captain Barstein emerge from the rear of the chandlery. Chamberlain headed for him. Deciding not to follow, I watched them meet, then go aboard the ship into the wheelhouse. There was no way for anyone to hear their conversation, but with the animation coming from Chamberlain and the head bowing of Barstein, I imagined it would have been interesting.
After about ten minutes Chamberlain stuck his head out of the wheelhouse door, searched the dock with his eyes until he spotted me, and waved for me to come aboard.
Upon entering the small, cramped space Chamberlain said to me, "I understand you've met Captain Barstein. He's invited us to sail across in the wheelhouse, keep him company."
We shook hands. Barstein remembered me from the other day. It was hard to tell if he was mad at me for informing Chamberlain he had seen Rinaldi. If he was, to his credit, he didn't show it. Barstein signaled one of the two deck hands, who began boarding the few passengers. A small amount of freight was loaded and secured on the aft deck.
Barstein started the big twin diesel engines. They created a muffled rumble somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship. On a silent hand signal from a deck hand, he expertly maneuvered away from the dock, turned the vessel around on its own axis, and headed out of the harbor and the open sea.
"What's the length of the MOMA C.?" I asked Barstein after he had settled onto a heading out of the harbor.
Without diverting his eyes from the bow, he said, "Ninety-six on the waterline, one hundred ten overall. Draws twelve feet when loaded. She's an ex-supply ship. Named her after my Ma. Her paint may not look good, but she's well founded and sea worthy. I take care of her personally."
I looked at young Captain Barstein, intense in his concentration on getting the ship safely out to sea, remembering the long, jagged scar running from just below his right eye all the way across the face, ending below his chin. He was a serious man, six feet tall, slenderly built. Coal black hair stuck out from under a wool seaman's cap. His arms were thick and powerful looking. Not a big man, but I imagined strong and quick enough to take care of himself. I thought the thick scar on his face might be proof of it.
"How long you been running to Monhegan?" I asked, wanting to draw him out a little.
"Ten years," he said, still without moving his eyes. "All with the MOMA C."
Chamberlain sat on a small bench inside the wheelhouse, his eyes closed. He seemed unconcerned with our conversation or the trip across. Not me. Any sojourn to sea gets me excited, even after thirty years of sailing small boats in the Gulf of Mexico.
As we cleared the harbor, Barstein eased his ship around to a heading of one hundred and eighty degrees.
He turned abruptly to me, his face a scant few inches from mine. His eyes were startling, wide, round, and jet-black. "You said you were a sailor of sorts. Let us see. Here, take the wheel, steer one eight zero till clearing the Georges Islands up ahead on the starboard side, then two two zero till Monhegan."
He stepped away from the wheel. Taking over, I was as delighted as a kid.
"It's illegal for you to do this when we have passengers aboard,” he said, his dancing eyes twinkling. "But we'll keep a sharp lookout for any law enforcement."
Chamberlain did not respond. His eyes were still closed, his head bobbing back and forth with the roll of the ship.
Wondering if he were really asleep, I thought not.
The MOMA C. began to feel the North Atlantic. The swells were running six to eight feet, but she handled them easily. Made love to them. All I had to do was let her have her head. She would climb a wave, roll off to one side, then the other, as she climbed up the next one, always coming back on course. Barstein was right, she was a well-founded vessel. I was having the time of my life.
Barstein stood, silent, behind me for about ten minutes. When he was satisfied I would not founder his ship, he disappeared from the wheelhouse.
At the first movement of the Moma C. answering the ocean waves, I felt a familiar gnawing of seasickness. It passed quickly with my newfound responsibility.
On passing abeam the Georges Islands, I eased the MOMA C. around to a heading of two hundred and twenty degrees. The water turned from the shallow, inshore shades of green to a deep, bluish-purple. A flock of birds, too far away to identify, headed toward the mainland, flying in a vee pattern, their wings out of sync and fluttering in the broken sunlight like waves crashing on a beach.
Off in the distance Monhegan rose out of the sea, stark and majestic. It was an island I looked forward to visiting for many reasons, not the least of which was finding out who put a .9mm pistol to the back of Nat Rinaldi's head and scrambled his brain.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Young Captain Barstein reappeared in the wheelhouse and took command of the MOMA C.
Chamberlain stirred, stood and looked out at Monhegan Island. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes, even more than I imagined."
"You going to have any trouble docking?" Chamberlain asked Barstein.
"It'll be a little tricky, but we'll make it. Wouldn't want to delay local law enforcement from their appointed rounds." There was no animosity in the statement. He turned and grinned at Chamberlain.
Nothing else was said among us. To my utmost admiration, Barstein laid the MOMA C. alongside the pier on the first attempt. He was good.
When the engines were shut down, Chamberlain told Barstein we would be aboard this afternoon for the four- thirty return trip. Barstein, with another scar-faced grin, said that he would save us a seat.
Chamberlain and I walked ashore. The island was a ruggedly beautiful place. The harbor, formed by Monhegan and the nearby island of Manana, is dotted along its shoreline with colorful summer cottages and homes of the fishermen who live here year-round. This is one of the finest fishing and lobstering grounds on the East Coast. The land slope
d gently up toward forest of tall spruce.
"Come on,” Chamberlain said. "I want to see the owner of the Monhegan Store. He's a friend. Maybe he can tell us who had the Kent Collection here on the island. We'll have to walk, there are no cars."
"There was a truck at the dock."
"Belongs to the Monhegan Truckers. They carry luggage, goods for the few hotels, restaurants and general store, but you gotta walk."
Following along behind Chamberlain, I admired the beauty of this place. The sky was clear. Spruce trees and rocks formed an interesting contrast of colors against the azure blue waters and pale horizon. The wind blew, and I was glad Chamberlain had encouraged me to bring my jacket.
"If we have time, I'll take you to the other side of the island. There is a path through the forest, a shortcut. The headlands are worth the effort."
"I'm game."
Chamberlain and the owner of the Monhegan Store greeted each other like long lost brothers with a lot of handshaking and backslapping.
Introducing me, Chamberlain said, "Jay, this is Shorty Williams, one of my oldest and best friends." We shook hands. "Shorty taught me everything I know about the sea."
"Yeah,” Shorty nodded. "He still can't get from here to Rockland without getting lost." We all laughed.
Chamberlain told Shorty we would like to go into his office and discuss some private police business with him.
In a small, cluttered room at the rear of the store, Chamberlain explained the situation to Shorty, surprisingly telling him everything. I hoped he knew what he was doing.
When he was through, Shorty sat silent, rubbing his wrinkled, weather-beaten face. It was hard to tell his age. He was a lot older than Chamberlain with a thin, lanky frame, and a small head. His hair was gray and receding. He had quick, jerky movements, which seemed to echo his black, dancing eyes. A wide grin made him seem eternal, like the purple sea pounding on the rock a hundred yards from where we stood.
Finally, rubbing his gnarled and weather-beaten hands, he said, "J.L., an old couple, Barnes, they were big Kent lovers. Live in one of the houses he built. I think they are related to him in some way. The old man, Ben, ain't been around in several months, but his wife comes in every once in awhile. She has seemed rather out of sorts the last few times, come to think of it."
"Where do they live, Shorty?"
"Way up the hill, yonder." He pointed toward the tree line. "In the gray house at the end of the path, bordering the preserve. You can't miss it."
Chamberlain later explained to me that two-thirds of the island is held by the Monhegan Associates to be kept forever wild.
"One other thing you might be interested in,” Shorty continued. "There was a helicopter made a couple of trips up near their house a few days ago. Don't know if it's important or not."
Yes, I said to myself. A helicopter, of course. Why didn't I think of that? Nat Rinaldi could have chartered a chopper to bring him to the island when the ferry didn't run. Anastasio's men could have done the same thing.
"Well, Shorty, we'll walk up and pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes."
"When you get back,” Shorty said, grinning, "I'll feed you two some of that smoked cod you like so well."
"Deal." Chamberlain slapped Shorty on the back.
We followed the old storekeeper through the narrow aisles to the front of the building. The similarity of the merchandise to that of the chandlery in Port Clyde was amazing. Pausing, I looked at some of the caps, gloves, coats, and boots. Things fishermen would need. There was the usual junk for the tourists who crowded the small island during the summer. For some unknown reason, I had a gnawing sensation about this collection of goods. Memory mechanisms deep down in the recesses of my brain were trying to tell me something. Dismissing them, I followed J.L. and Shorty outside.
We stood in front of the Monhegan Store. Shorty pointed out the lane leading to the gray house belonging to the Barnes couple. The house was hidden among the tall spruce trees.
"Shorty seems like a nice sort,” I said to Chamberlain as we negotiated the narrow road up the hill, which soon turned from pitted stretches of paving brick into a gravel lane, our steps crunching in the silence, sharp and even, like the cracks of a radial piston engine. "He seems to be someone I would like to have as a friend."
"He's one of the good people, Jay. Born to the sea. Toiled all his life in a lobster boat right here on Monhegan Island. He got old, his heart went sour." J.L. paused, turned, looked back down the gentle slope toward the store. "Bill had to force him to go down to Portland for the inevitable triple bypass. He wasn't able to convince him until his heart stopped beating, and he resuscitated him, bringing him back from the dead."
"Seems like he's doing okay, now."
"Bill says he'll probably outlive the both of us. He hates being landlocked, though."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Yeah." J.L. continued up the hill.
We rounded a sharp curve in the now three foot wide path. Almost hidden in the trees was the small gray house. I had expected something bigger. This one was about eight hundred square feet. Big enough, I guess.
J.L. knocked on the front door. We waited, no one came. He knocked again, louder.
"Ain't no tourist allowed,” a hollow voice said from behind the door.
"This is Detective Chamberlain from the Rockland Police Department. Need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. Shorty Williams told us where you live."
The front door opened a crack. "You got some I.D., young man?" Asked a female voice.
It was funny, her calling Chamberlain young.
"Yes, Ma'am." J.L. held up his badge case to the crack in the door.
"What's this about?"
"Could we please come in, Ma'am? We want to talk with you about some artwork. A Rockwell Kent collection."
The door opened, we walked inside. The house was small, but immaculately kept. The curtains were drawn. When the front door closed it was completely dark inside.
"Please have a seat,” the woman said, opening the drapes, flooding the room with light. "I'll get my husband." She disappeared down a narrow, dark hallway.
Looking around the small living room made me feel like being back in the nineteen twenties. The furnishings were spartan, but comfortable. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen. An old, battery operated radio sat in one corner of the room. A fireplace took up one wall; a small, hand-carved writing desk next to a tiny window took up another. A sofa and two wooden chairs with cushions completed the furnishings.
Moments later the woman returned with her husband. We all stood for a few awkward seconds, looking at each other. Finally the woman said, "This is my husband, Ben. He's not feeling well. I'm Betty Barnes."
We introduced ourselves.
The man, Ben Barnes, stood erect and proud. He appeared near eighty years old, and was balding with gray veins lacing his shiny scalp. As he spoke one could see that he had but one canine tooth left in his mouth. The arms were bony, with long delicate fingers. His skin was so thin it seemed transparent. Dressed in a clean, wool shirt, he wore blue khaki pants with the zipper half open, as if forgotten from his last trip to the bathroom. On his feet were brown leather slippers, no socks. His handshake was frail and weak.
He did not offer us a chair; instead he walked over to the writing table, opened a drawer, and took out a white bottle painted with blue birds. Turning to his wife and holding up the bottle, he said, "Mother..."
She disappeared, returning in seconds with four small shot glasses.
Carefully pouring a tiny amount of a purple liquid into the glasses, he handed one to each of us. Raising his glass in a salute he said, "Welcome to our home."
It was solemn and sincere. We handled it that way.
"Please be seated, Gentlemen,” he said, as his wife took the glasses away. "I've been expecting you."
Chamberlain and I looked at each other in surprise.
Tasting the thick, sweet liquid, I did not have the faintest idea what it was.
Probably something homemade and precious to this old couple.
The wife, a tall, slim, proud lady, returned and sat by her husband. Her age appeared to equal his, but her energy and vitality were strong, his was gone. She had the thin, scraggly hair of the aged, but not a single strand was out of place. The color was a beautiful silver-gray. The face was wrinkled, the skin, brownish and spotted. Her eyes were green and full of life, though.
"Why were you expecting us?" Chamberlain asked.
"Because they stole our Kent collection,” the old man said. "I heard over the wireless about the two men being killed." He pointed towards the radio. "We listen to the news every day."
"Now, Daddy,” his wife spoke up. "Don't be saying crazy things." She fidgeted with a small, white handkerchief in her lap and tried to smile. Then she said to J.L., "Aren't you the one who married Mac and Lucy Delaney's daughter, Kathleen?"
"Yes, Ma'am,” he answered, leaning forward and placing both elbows on his knees.
"The Delaney's that owned the ship dock and marina?" The old man asked his wife. She nodded. "Well, I'll be. She's a fine young girl. How's she doing?"
"Pretty as ever,” Chamberlain said with great patience.
Breaking in, I said, "Mr. Barnes, you said someone stole your art collection. What did you mean by that?"
Betty Barnes bowed her head, worked the handkerchief around her fingers.
Chamberlain gave me a sharp glance. If he wanted to handle this, he should have said something. Shrugging my shoulders at him, I said nothing else.
"You tell them, mother,” Ben Barnes said with a vacant, faraway stare in his dead eyes. "You tell them how I ruined our lives."
Betty Barnes went to the window. She stooped over her folded arms as she walked. Staring straight ahead, she looked out across the Atlantic Ocean. No one could know what she saw. Wearing a freshly cleaned and ironed blue dress with little red and white deer patterned throughout the material, she had on no makeup or jewelry, only a thin, worn, gold wedding band.
Ben Barnes stared vacantly at the back of her head. His mouth hung loose, the single tooth shining in the dim light of the room.
Betty Barnes turned, holding the handkerchief as a crutch. There was something in her eyes which I knew she did not want to be there. "We had a grandson, Mr. Chamberlain. He did not turn out so good."