“Would it have even been possible?” Sonny asked.
Wood nodded. “Marginally. It would, however, explain what happened to the Bertram later. She could have taken a sideswipe from the larger ship and opened a seam the two men were unaware of. It eventually got too big for the bilge pumps to handle and she began sinking. I think the bigger guy maybe fell overboard trying to get the Zodiac started, and the little guy fell in trying to help him. Or maybe the little guy got away in the Zodiac after all, but I’ve got a feeling about that.” The Chief looked smug.
“You look like you know something.” I smiled at him.
“I don’t know. But I think if anyone even tried to transship any goods that night, it must have been terribly important to them. I don’t believe the Bertram would have even left harbor in that weather to deliver a couple of dozen rifles and some ammo. I think they had one, maybe two, handheld anti-tank or surface-to-air rocket launchers and ten, maybe twelve missiles for them. Wherever they picked them up, disassembled they would have fit in the back of the Acura. They would have been manageable for two men to carry and they would have fit right into the cockpit of the Bertram. And they’d be worth a helluva lot to somebody.”
The Chief leaned forward earnestly. “They would also be a matter of great secrecy. I think whoever was behind this, told the captain of the larger ship to make sure the Bertram took some damage. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn—although we’ll never find her—that her bilge pumps were sabotaged. And I’d be willing to bet that Zodiac gas tank was dry from the get-go. I do not believe the two men were meant to return alive. I think they were both to disappear at sea.”
After a long silence, Sonny asked quietly. “What do you think we should do?”
The Chief took the last bite of his pie and carefully folded his napkin. “Well, outside of their robbery activities, which are not a federal problem, we don’t have the slightest proof of anything. I checked. The two ships are not on the Coast Guard or FBI watchlist, although a ship owned by the same company as the tanker did get involved with some Chinese illegal immigrants down in Baja.”
“Oh, yes,” I inserted brightly. “Sonny fears that sort of crime wave might happen right here in Provincetown.”
Sonny gave me a murderous glare. Chief Wood gave Sonny an amazed look and continued. “I think for now let’s leave it between us and not involve anyone officially, especially the Frozen Brains, Inc. I have a good friend in Customs. I’ll ask him to ask some of his friends across the Pond to give these two ships a close look when they dock, maybe think up some reason for a board-and-search before they dock. Customs people and coastal patrols all over are pretty good at finding things or traces of things, especially when they know what to be alert for. I’ll let you know.”
He looked at his watch and stood. “Jeanne, that pie was pure ambrosia. Just please don’t tell Martha I had it before my dinner.”
He patted me on the arm, and I said, “Give my best to Mrs. Wood and all the little splinters.”
The Chief, Mom and I all roared. Then Chief Wood chuckled, “I had forgotten all about that.”
Sonny looked bewildered and I explained. “When I was about six, two friends and I heard that phrase on TV or somewhere and thought it terribly funny. We called the Chief’s wife on several occasions, and when she would answer the phone, we would say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Wood. How are you and all the little splinters?’ Then we would collapse, howling with our cleverness.”
I looked at Mom. “Of course, we were caught. We were grounded, and our allowances were docked so we could buy Mrs. Wood a bouquet at the supermarket. We had to walk all the way out to their house to deliver the flowers and our apologies. She accepted both and then, angel that she is, took us all to Dairy Queen before she drove us home.”
“Very nice of her,” Sonny agreed. “And she hasn’t changed a bit over the years. Neither, I might add, have you, Alex.”
Following that note of brotherly love, Sonny announced. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go look over some notes. I’m in court tomorrow morning on a hit-run case.” He gave a surprisingly graceful Elizabethan courtier’s bow and made his exit.
Chief Wood kissed Mom lightly, gave me a two-finger salute and left, grinning.
I turned to Mom. “Here, let me give you a hand clearing up. Then I better mosey along, too.”
But she sat down at Sonny’s place, propped her elbows on the table, laced her fingers and gave me an impish grin.
“Not so fast, young lady. Now just who is Janet?”
I folded back into my chair, laughing helplessly. She was my Mom. I told her.
Chapter 11
Some facts in life are incontrovertible. All baby animals are adorable, even the ugly ones—maybe especially the ugly ones. The person sitting behind you in the theatre will be a compulsive talker. The person standing ahead of you in any line will encounter a problem. The person sitting beside you in the plane will have a heavy cold. Big snowflakes falling in a still night are magic. A goodly portion of Sunday belongs to the New York Times.
There are several reasons that make it worthwhile paying an outrageous price for the pleasure of lugging home a four-pound newspaper. It’s not simply the news coverage. It’s the Arts & Leisure section. It’s the Book Review and the Travel section, which never fails to amaze me with all the places I do not care to visit. And, there’s my personal favorite—the Magazine section.
I usually enjoy at least one of the main articles, and the fashion and home decorating pages are always good for a deep chortle of disbelief. Behind them comes Food. Usually a terribly artistic photo, which of course I find of interest, and three or four remarkable recipes. The only recipe I ever tried—scallop cakes—fell apart. Still, I love to read it. It’s probably the only place in the world where you read things like, “Separate one dozen eggs and whisk the yolks lightly by hand.” And recipes call for things like lemon curd and marmite, things I wouldn’t know where to find, nor recognize if located.
The penultimate pleasures of the Magazine Section are the upscale real estate ads for properties around the globe, most with intriguing blurry little photos. Every week I reward myself by ‘buying’ the property of my choice. Last week I skipped quickly over a ‘$5.1 mil’ penthouse overlooking Central Park and went for a ‘$3.8 mil’ 50-acre farm outside Charlottesville, with horse barn, tennis court, guest cottage, small lake and 12-room colonial brick house. I don’t play tennis—but, hell, I could always plant geraniums. This week I feel European. We’ll see.
And, finally, on the next-to-last page, the piece de resistance! The Crossword Puzzle. A guaranteed hour and a half of the witty, the obscure, the obvious, the frustrating, tormenting, challenging, sweat-provoking, humiliating—pure delight.
With all those treats in mind, I saddled up Fargo and we set off for the only store in town that sells both the Times and homemade pastry. Fortunately, it was not terribly far away. The Times really could get heavy. We were early, but still encountered a few other people on the way.
One older woman gave us a fearful glance and stepped into the street to avoid passing within reach of Fargo. A balding man approached, head down, threw us a furtive look and crossed the street, glancing back and muttering. I wondered what his problem was. Fargo grumbled in his throat and I tightened his lead, which just made him all the grumpier. Obviously he didn’t like the man’s looks either. A good-looking young man smiled at us and said, “Hello there, sweet thing.” I assumed he meant the dog but smiled back and said good morning anyway.
At the store I picked up the paper, a French cruller and an almond croissant to die for and a rawhide for Himself. I nodded to a real estate agent who should probably be in jail for gross misrepresentation and said “Hi” to a young woman who worked in the bank, whose name, I remembered belatedly, was Florence.
The social hour completed, Fargo and I walked home via the bayside beach. The fog was still heavy, but the sun was trying and in an hour or so would succeed. For now the air was
dank and chill and hushed. Even the water was barely moving, just giving the occasional, almost silent nudge to remind the shore it was still there. We were joined for a few minutes by the frenetic little dachshund, whose name I had learned was Toby. We were both rather relieved when he turned his short bantam legs for home, his fat little bottom bouncing saucily across the sand.
Arriving home slightly damp and hungry, we settled in. I shared my pastry. Fargo made no offer to share his rawhide. I was deep into the puzzle when Sonny called.
“Sorry to bother you early, But Bob Reynolds just called me from Plymouth. Much as I hate to admit it, this Irish thing gets curiouser and curiouser.”
“What happened?”
“Well, Bob checked around the area. Neither of the McKinneys hangs out at the Irish pubs, or belongs to any Irish clubs—I’m sure they are above all that. But just on a hunch, Bob talked to a couple of travel agents and with one he struck oil. About five years ago the McKinneys both went on a tour of Wales and King Arthur country, whatever that may be. About halfway through, they left the tour and took a ferry from Wales to Ireland. It’s about a six-hour sail, which is one hell of a long ride, but of course ferries are pretty anonymous in case you should be looking for that. Or maybe there’s just a limit to the charms of Wales, who knows.”
He sneezed. “I hope I’m not getting something. Anyway, three years later Mrs. McKinney joined a tour to London without her husband. Something called Dinner and Drama, where you go to a different restaurant and see a different play or opera every night. No wonder McKinney stayed home. Well, after three nights, Mrs. McK. pulled out and flew to Dublin. The travel agent remembers both incidents because she was also the tour guide.”
I took the last crumb of cruller. “Mrs. McKinney must have told the tour guide some reason for leaving.”
“All the guide remembered was it was something about family. And here’s a note that makes it even more interesting. Since the ferry and the plane trip were within the British Isles, it’s considered domestic travel, like going from Massachusetts to New Hampshire. It does not show on your passport, so theoretically nobody knows you went there if you come back and leave the country from a regular international airport like Heathrow. Intriguing, what?”
‘Sonny, do you think you should go to the FBI with this?
“I’m not sure. We have a day or so before those ships dock, although an offshore rendezvous could happen anytime, I guess. I’m going down to Connecticut in a little while to talk to O’Malley’s mother. I can’t believe she’s as nutty as they say. If I get zilch, I guess we call the Fibbies. I can’t make up my mind. This feels like a Jack Higgins novel to me. Anyway, I’ll be in touch.”
I looked at my watch and was surprised at how early it still was. It occurred to me that a certain straightening of the house was probably in order, since Janet would almost certainly be coming over at some point. It also occurred to me I had been doing a helluva lot of straightening and cleaning and changing of linens of late. Not that Janet wasn’t worth it. Of course she was, but it might be nice to go to her place once in a while. I’d have to work on that. However, I did the housework, minimally, and told myself I didn’t mind. The hell I didn’t. The place did look better and smelled fresher and I did prefer it that way. I just didn’t like the process of making it that way.
A beer was definitely in order, but in view of the early hour I sat down at the kitchen table to another coffee and one of the allowed cigarettes (I was still under five for the day, so buzz off). I checked my watch again and had an absolutely brilliant idea. According to the early morning weather forecast, today would become unseasonably warm ahead of a cold front due to move through the area tonight. Sunny and unseasonably warm—sounded like perfect picnic weather to me!
Janet was supposed to call me around eleven. God, I wished she’d get her phone in. The lack of it was becoming a real nuisance. She was going to get one ordered for her apartment this week, she said. I hoped there’d be no delay in installing it. Anyway, with luck I could have everything put together for the picnic and be at her apartment well before eleven. The fact that a picnic on the beach would not involve ruining the recent and unaccustomed neatness of my own house had absolutely nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing. Sometimes my subtle cleverness amazed even me! I headed for the shower and fresh clothes, hopefully without holes.
I dragged out the cooler and put in a six pack of Bud plus two bottles of claret—an unassuming, sound little wine with overtones of a thoroughbred . . . well, no time for that. I put the cooler in the car, along with an old beach blanket. I called the Lazy Dog Cafe and asked them to put up an order of their fresh, lush lobster salad and macaroni salad (which is actually al dente, rather than the consistency of oatmeal, as you find in most restaurants), four of their little cucumber and water cress sandwiches on dark, dark pumpernickel bread and four giant date and walnut cookies. Then I put cooler, blanket, Fargo’s water, a thermos of coffee, Fargo and me into the car and raced for the A&P.
There I pushed the cart swiftly up and down, purchasing a bag of ice, a chunk of Brie, crackers and six big, gorgeous peaches imported from Israel that were so expensive I didn’t even worry about it. I even picked up a bunch of early daffodils to make Janet smile on this early spring day. On to The Lazy Dog Restaurant, where my order awaited me, and finally to Janet’s place went Chef Peres and her trusty helper Le Fargo.
Janet saw me pull into the driveway and came out to meet me. I handed her the flowers, which indeed made her smile and touch my cheek lightly, and explained my genius idea for a picnic.
She was delighted until she looked into the cooler. “My God, Alex, are we going somewhere to stay for a week? If we have to carry that cooler more than six feet we’ll both have permanent back damage. Let’s see if we can’t lighten it a little.”
She rummaged through all my goodies and made a little pile of what she thought we could spare. “Four beers and one bottle of wine should be plenty unless we plan to get plastered. And we can save the peaches and Brie and crackers to have later this evening, can’t we? Okay, that should help at least a little.”
We carried the overage into the apartment and I put the beers and cheese in the fridge and the wine on the counter. I stepped into the central room and looked around. The apartment had been formed by the simple expedient of putting up a wall to block off the other half of the garage. There was the minute kitchen, a door leading no doubt to an equally-sized bathroom and what looked like a sizeable closet. That was it.
The furnishings were typical of inexpensive rentals all over town: a studio couch, easy chair, coffee table, a minuscule old escritoire with a wobbly little chair, a table in front of the big window with three straight chairs. But the covers on the furniture were crisp and clean, the walls newly painted. Aside from a really ghastly sailing ship struggling on an angry, lurid sea, it was a pleasant place.
At Janet’s hands the flowers had gone quickly into a tall glass and onto the low table. The peaches then appeared on the window table in a large bowl. She put her fists on her hips and looked around. “That’s better. At least there’s something a little individual in here now. Before, it looked more impersonal than military quarters.”
“Didn’t you have your own quarters in the CG?” I asked. I was still curious about what happened during her stint with them.
“Oh, sure, after I got a few stripes. But it was still government-issue furniture, light beige walls . . . you know. I didn’t have many things of my own, so it was a bit bare.”
“But you were content enough?” I pursued.
“Oh, yeah. I guess so. Hush about the CG, Alex. We’re going on a picnic!” She grabbed my hand and we ran down the driveway. We were on our way.
As we drove up Route 6 to Truro, I told Janet of Chief Wood’s visit and the possibilities it opened up, particularly when combined with the information from Sonny’s call this morning. She seemed quite excited by the news. She was glad the police weren’t sitting on th
eir collective duffs. She was pleased Chief Wood had been helpful, hoped his contacts with Customs agents would be the same. She was speaking fast, and her eyes seem so bright as to be almost feverish. I hoped she and Sonny were not coming down with something. I’d be almost sure to follow, after all.
We turned off the main road toward the lighthouse and ocean, angling left of the lighthouse and down a road that dead-ended at a fairly high bluff with steps leading down to the beach. Janet took the blanket, I picked up the thermos and we both grabbed a handle of the cooler. It was still heavy, but we managed the steps and staggered a few hundred feet around a curve in the beach to a small inlet. We immediately collapsed onto the blanket and opened two of the beers.
It was a perfect day with startlingly warm sun and almost no wind. The ocean sparkled with telegraphic dots of sunshine on the few whitecaps way off shore. Just enough surf kah-wooshed at our feet to let us know the Atlantic really was still an ocean. Not surprisingly, our mood turned amorous and we began to make love.
I think it’s always exciting to make love in a strange place—I mean someplace other than your own bed. And today my excitement was augmented by that little frisson of concern that at any moment a hiker could appear around the bend or a boat come sailing into the cove. The feeling of the moment obviously affected Janet, too. She gave of herself avidly, with almost aggressive responses and was eagerly demanding in her turn. Finally we crossed a finish line that left us both panting and exhausted. We lay on the blanket, barely touching, and the mild breeze felt welcome on my overheated body.
Minutes later she propped up on her elbow and her fingers gently stroked my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes in pure sensuous enjoyment of the moment. “I love you, Alex.”
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