by JC Simmons
Chamberlain's eyes darted, his brain searching through memory, trying to place their grandson. Shifting position in the chair, he did not say anything.
Betty Barnes continued. "His name was Ansel. We raised him from a baby after his mother and father were killed in the boat accident over by Owl's Head. His mother was our daughter. We tried to raise him right, only we did something wrong. I don't know what. He left home when he was seventeen and went to Chicago. The only time he'd ever contact us was when he was in trouble, or needed money." She paused and looked back out to sea. She was a thin restless woman with delicate features that made her look beautiful for a few years of adulthood and never afterward.
Yeah, I thought to myself. How many times have I heard this same, sad lament from parents and grandparents?
"I remember the accident,” Chamberlain said. "An explosion caused by gas vapors in the bilge."
"Our grandson was killed when he was twenty-five years old,” she said, ignoring Chamberlain. "We don't know how he died. The police said he drowned in some canal in Chicago. We had the body shipped back and buried over in Port Clyde. That's where our family plot's located, over in Port Clyde."
"He was murdered,” the old man said suddenly. His stare still vacant and unfocused.
Betty Barnes said, "About six months after we buried Ansel, a man came to the house. He said Ansel owed his boss a great deal of money and he expected us to pay it. He said Ansel bragged that we were rich art collectors and would take care of the debt. My husband told him to leave. We wouldn't be paying any money. The man laughed and said we'd pay, one way or the other."
"When did all this happen?" Chamberlain asked, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his legs.
"It started about two years ago. They threatened us in every way possible. They wouldn't let us alone." She twisted the handkerchief into a tight spiral.
"They threatened to kill Mother and send her to me a piece at a time,” Ben Barnes said, shaking violently, spilling the dark, purple liquid on his shirt. "I got scared, Mr. Chamberlain. I'm a coward. I let Betty down. I gave in to them." Tears ran down the old man's cheeks.
"It's alright, Daddy,” his wife said, going over to his side, wiping the tears from his face and the wine from his shirt. "You did the best you could."
"Why didn't you go to the police, or call my office?" Chamberlain asked, his face reddening.
"Because they said if we contacted the authorities they would kill us both." Betty Barnes clasped her hands together. "No one could stop them. We were helpless, don't you understand? Helpless."
Chamberlain did not press the point. It was useless.
"We're not rich,” she continued. "We had enough saved to live out our lives comfortably here on Monhegan Island. We are not wealthy art collectors. All we had was Rockwell Kent's works. My mother was his aunt. When Rockwell's mother died, she left my mother all the things she had of her son. We ended up with it, and this house. Rockwell built it himself for his mother. We added to the collection during the years."
"How much were these people from Chicago trying to get out of you?" Chamberlain asked.
"All we had,” the old man said.
"It started with a hundred thousand,” Betty Barnes said. "Then the man told us the interest on the debt was doubling each week."
We know these extortionists, I wanted to scream. Instead, I let Chamberlain bring it out in his own way.
"What did you mean when you said you ruined your lives?" Chamberlain asked Ben Barnes.
He did not answer. Tears ran down his cheeks. His frail hands shook, his mouth quivered.
"He feels he failed because he couldn't protect us from these people,” his wife said, patting his shoulder. "That's nonsense. No one could have done anything about these vultures."
Yes, I wanted to shout. There is something you could have done.
"What finally happened?" Chamberlain asked.
"My husband offered them the art collection if they'd leave us alone."
"Who were they?"
"The one killed over in Port Clyde. The Bilotti man,” she said. "His boss had a funny name. I can't say it."
"Anastasio?" I asked.
"Yes, that's it." She looked up at me and nodded.
"What happened to the art collection?" Chamberlain asked.
"This Bilotti fellow, he took some of it to show his boss a few weeks ago. Then he came and got the rest of it the night he was killed."
"How did he move it?"
"He brought a man with him who crated it up. They flew it out in a helicopter. It took them three trips to get all forty-eight pieces hauled away."
Glancing over at Chamberlain, I said, "The helicopter has a small cabin and the paintings are bulky." He nodded. "Was the man that Bilotti brought with him named Rinaldi?" I asked.
"I don't know. We never heard his name."
"Nat," the old man said. "He called him Nat."
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I took out the photos of Nat Rinaldi and Tony Bilotti. "Are these the two?"
They both looked at the pictures, nodding in unison.
"You never saw or spoke to the boss, the one named Anastasio?" I asked.
"No, only the one called Bilotti,” Betty Barnes answered.
For some reason, I felt it necessary to explain to these two old people that Nat Rinaldi was not a member of a crime family.
"Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, I just want you both to understand that the man, Nat Rinaldi, did not work for Anastasio. He was a legitimate art dealer from New Orleans."
"Then why was he here working with this thug, Bilotti?" Betty Barnes asked, shaking her head.
It was a fair question. I explained how Anastasio was going to give the artwork to his wife. That it was the wrong artist. That Rinaldi was going to buy the entire collection from him.
"How much was Mr. Rinaldi going to pay?" She asked.
Another good question.
"A half million."
"Ha,” she muttered. "It was worth twice that amount."
"I gave it to them, sir,” the old man said to me, tears continuing to flow down his wrinkled, weathered face. "I just gave it all to them. Our entire investment we had worked so hard for. I've ruined everything." Heavy sobs wracked his entire body.
Betty Barnes stood beside her husband, patting his frail, drooping shoulder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chamberlain guided us through tall, old growth spruce trees, thick with animals and birds, to the edge of a steep, black rock precipice. The Monhegan Associates had indeed kept this part of the island in a pristine, natural state.
Out to sea, a quarter of a mile or so, the headlands, White Head and Black Head, rose more than one hundred and fifty feet out of the purple ocean. Nearby Gull Rock, one hundred feet high, stood stark and alone.
We were silent for a long time, looking, feeling, experiencing the moment. I thought that I would not mind having to look at this sight forever and that I would not mind never seeing it again. I would always have the memory. It had indeed been worth the trip.
"You know, J.L., maybe Anastasio is telling the truth. Bilotti could have been ripping the Barnes' off. Anastasio may have given him the money to pay them. At least some amount he thought fair after deducting their grandson's debt, plus interest. Maybe Bilotti pocketed the difference. Anastasio found out and whacked him."
"It's a thought."
"Yes, but why kill Rinaldi? Where's the art collection, the money? How was it all done? I want another face to face with Mr. Anastasio."
Chamberlain looked closely at me. A grin formed in one corner of his mouth, then spread across his entire face. "I was hoping you would."
Off in the distance we watched a ship working against the heavy running sea. She would climb a wave, fall off and almost disappear, only to emerge again, spray flying like sparkling diamonds across her bow.
Chamberlain pointed, "There's your ride, the MOMA C., and young Captain Barstein making another run. Come on, if we hurry we'll ha
ve time for some of Shorty's smoked cod before sailing for Port Clyde."
Returning through the forest was as interesting as it had been coming to the headland. Wind whistling through the tall spruce made a pleasant sound.
Shorty's smoked cod was outstanding. We washed it down with a bottle of red wine of unknown origin. It was not Domaine Romanee-Conti, but it was excellent with the hard bread and cod. When queried, Shorty said he had salvaged six cases of the wine from a shipwreck more than three decades ago. All the labels had washed off or fell away years before. The only word he remembered from one of the labels was Hermitage.
Could be, I thought. A wine from the Rhone Valley. The bottle was the right color and shape, but it could have been any one of hundreds.
"Thanks, Shorty,” Chamberlain said, as we were leaving. "Good to see you again. You need to come and see Kathleen. I would do it pretty soon."
"I don't know, J.L." He looked down, scratched the floor with his shoe. "I'm not too good at that sort of thing. Tell her I love her."
"I understand, old friend. I'll give her your love."
We shook hands. J.L. and I walked down to the dock where the MOMA C. was waiting.
Captain Barstein greeted us at the gangway. "Seas are running good, Gentlemen." There was a telling grin slanting downward from the ribbed scar. "You're welcome to ride in the wheelhouse."
"No,” Chamberlain answered. "We're going to go below. We have some things to talk about."
"Suit yourself,” Barstein muttered, disappearing forward.
Once away from the lee of the island, the MOMA C. rolled, pitched, and yawed violently in the heavy sea. It was making me a little queasy. Chamberlain seemed unaffected. There were six other people in the cabin with us who did not seem to notice the movement of the ship. My smoked cod began to have doubts about staying put.
"You look a little green around the gills,” Chamberlain said, smiling. "You going to be alright?"
"Yeah, always get a little queasy the first couple of days at sea. It's nothing serious."
"Any more thoughts about Anastasio?"
Steadying myself with an arm to keep from banging into the side of the bunk we were sitting in, I said,"We need to look seriously into Bilotti working his own extortion scam. Maybe Rinaldi was just an unlucky person."
"It doesn't explain the bodies being in two different places, though. They should have been shot together. Where is the art collection? I can see the money vanishing, but what does one do with the paintings, drawings, prints, and all the other works the Barnes' said Bilotti took. They had to make three helicopter trips to haul it off the island."
"It's got to be somewhere. Maybe Sandy can find out if any of it turns up on the market." Swallowing hard, I forced the cod out of my esophagus, back down into my stomach. "Surely there is some sort of a network in the fine arts world where things are bought and sold. I'll call her tonight."
"Good idea." Reaching an arm out, Chamberlain steadied himself as the ship fell off a wave and shuddered.
Suddenly I had another thought. "You know, J.L., Anastasio's airplane, the G-IV, is certainly big enough to carry the art collection. We've got to find out who the helicopter operator was that made all the flights to Monhegan, and where he took the cargo."
"There are only two helicopter operators in the area. They are not allowed to land on Monhegan."
"Yes, but a chopper could have been hired from anywhere, and ignored the regulations. It could have been Anastasio's own personal helicopter."
"You have a good investigative mind." The seat cushion squeaked slightly as Chamberlain repositioned himself.
"Thank you." I held on to the MOMA C., swallowing hard. "We might not see eye to eye on everything, J.L., but at least we're always looking at the same thing." Grinning, I stood and started for the head. The cod had won their battle for freedom.
* * *
As soon as the MOMA C. docked at Port Clyde we walked over to the chandlery so Chamberlain could phone to check on his wife. I browsed among the aisles while he called.
The lady who I met before was working, putting up canned goods on shelves along one side of an entire wall. Tables in the center of the building held all sorts of goods; pants, shirts, shoes, rain slickers. Seamen's gear. Picking up a wool cap, I thought about buying it.
"Get cold enough where you're from to wear wool?" Asked the woman, with a smile.
"Not often." I put the cap back and picked up a brightly colored scarf.
"You and J.L. find out anything more on what happened to those two dead guys?"
"We're working on it." Putting the scarf back on the table, I was suddenly alert to her question. "You wouldn't have heard anything, would you?"
"Nah." She shoved a case of Vienna sausage along the floor with her foot. "If I had, I would have called J.L."
"Yes, of course." I glanced around at the other merchandise. Unless you have a vested interest, I thought.
Chamberlain walked up. "Bill says Kathleen's doing fine. She's back at the house. You mind if we stop by on the way in? I'd like to check on her."
"Certainly not."
"Afternoon, Annie,” Chamberlain said to the woman. "How's your Mama doing these days?"
"She's fine, J.L. How's Kathleen?" She stacked the cans of Vienna sausage on the shelf beside the Spam.
"Holding her own, I guess. Business any better?"
"Mighty slow." She threw the empty cardboard box at a pile of other empties in the far corner behind the counter. "Season starts next month, thank goodness. I hope it's a good one. God knows, we need it."
"Yeah, don't we all. Well, we'll see you, Annie. Keep your husband in line, and say hello to your Mama for me."
"I will, J.L. The same to Kathleen."
We walked out to Chamberlain's car. "In case you didn't know,” he said, unlocking his door and flipping a switch to unlock mine. "Annie is young Captain Barstein's wife."
"No, I did not know. They failed to mention that fact the first time I was here." Annie and the Captain, I thought. A half a million in cash...
"Annie's Mama is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s." J.L. shook his head, and started the car. "That's rough."
Fastening my seat belt, I said, "Whatever else happens to me, I hope that I do not outlive my brain."
We drove in silence to Chamberlain's house. Kathleen was resting in one of the wooden rocking chairs on the wide front porch of Owl's Head. The wind was calm, but a chill was still in the air. She was wrapped in a blanket, head tilted to one side as if asleep. A gray-haired, elderly lady sat in a swing next to her, reading.
Kathleen stirred as we walked up on the porch. J.L. went to her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. She smiled weakly and held her hand up to touch his face. "How was your trip to Monhegan?"
"Fine, fine. We saw Shorty. He sends his love." J.L. embraced his wife tenderly.
"Oh, Mr. Leicester." Kathleen looked at me. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry I can't get up. I'm a little weak."
"I understand." Walking over, I took her hand in mine. "How are you feeling?"
"Besides being a little queasy, I'm fine. Bill gave me one of his magic potions." She attempted a smile. "J.L., please introduce Mr. Leicester to Nora."
Chamberlain introduced me to Nora Welsh as a close friend who stayed with Kathleen when he was away. She had a slender body; its lines long, fragile, and so exaggerated that she appeared unreal. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long slits, and a narrow, vicious mouth. There was an air of cold serenity about her.
Nora Welsh was reading a book titled, A HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE. I had an inscribed copy by the author, Ernest K. Gann.
"Great book,” I said to her.
"Yes." She held up the book as if seeing it for the first time. Her skin was clear, almost translucent, and transmitted a faintly crimsoned, peach-glow of health. "My husband knew Mr. Gann. They both flew for American Airlines, and for the Air Transport Command in World War Two. Wendall was killed then, Mr. Gann
was not."
"I'm sorry. We lost a lot of pilots in that war. I read recently where Mr. Gann died."
She looked strangely at me and smiled. It was not a happy smile; it was not a graceful one. It was a simple, easy smile and it was amused. "Yes, we all do, don't we?"
J.L. rescued me. "We've got to run into town. I'll be back in a couple of hours, Nora." He kissed Kathleen good-bye. We left.
"Strange woman, Nora Welsh."
J.L. laughed. "You don't know the half of it. I'll only say this about Nora; she's a true genius. A four page resume. Three degrees from MIT, speaks seven languages. Her field is Computer Science. She was a colleague of Admiral Grace Murray Hopper, the inventor of computer business language. They worked together building the first computer ever, for the Navy."
"She should make for an interesting evening of conversation."
"I used to leave the room when she and Kathleen got into one of their intellectual debates. Feelings of inadequacy would flow over me like a tidal wave. I was forced to leave, or be severely embarrassed."
"Let's stop by the airport,” I said, changing the subject before Chamberlain asked me what I knew about computers. "Maybe some of the local pilots could help us with this helicopter thing."
"Good idea. We can check with the two local helicopter operators later. They both fly from the docks, downtown."
The airport was strangely quiet in the dusk-dark of the late evening. There has always been something intriguing about lonely airports at night. I've never been quite sure what.
Chamberlain stopped in front of the FBO where Anastasio's G-IV had parked. We walked inside.
In the lobby of the brightly-lighted fixed-base operation an instructor and student were sitting at a table going over a flight plan. A lineman sat listening, obviously a student, also. They looked up as we entered. We were intruders in their world, a world I had been an intimate part of many years ago. A world I sometimes missed so desperately it ached.
"Hello, Gentlemen,” Chamberlain said. "This is Investigator Leicester. I'm Detective J.L. Chamberlain, Rockland Police Department. We want to ask you some questions about helicopter operations around here a week or so ago."
The three men looked at each other and laughed. It was puzzling. They seemed downright disrespectful.
Then the young lineman spoke up. "Oh, Mr. J.L., what you trying to pull with that formal sounding stuff? You helped raise all three of us, coached our Little League teams. Mr. Leicester, we know about him, the private investigator from down south, working with you on those two murders."