“Can you walk okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
He led her to a bench at the foot of the white lighthouse. In front of the bench, a grassy slope ended in a fringe of wild rosebushes at the top of a high bluff. Nobody was around. He perched beside her, watching her. She unfastened her helmet and laid it on the bench between them.
Mack looked down. “You skinned your knees,” he said. “I should’ve made you wear long pants.” He stood. “I’ll be right back with the first aid kit.”
“Don’t leave me,” she said.
Mack sat again.
The Sound spread out below them, dotted with fishing boats trailing long wakes and clouds of gulls. Sailboats heeled in the breeze. A cluster of small boats was drifting near the shoal, where a froth of fish broke water.
After a while, Linda spoke. “I’d buried it forever.”
“Meaning what?” Mack said.
She took a deep breath. “When my sister and I were growing up, my mother took a long vacation every summer, and we stayed with Uncle Jube. He had a rowboat, and my sister and I used to row out on the pond and just sit there, you know? Watching clouds and trailing our hands in the water. Uncle Jube didn’t have electricity, not until years later.”
“Yeah?” Mack shifted the helmet that lay between them and put his arm around her.
She was quiet for a long time.
“Yeah,” Mack said finally. He stroked her shoulder through her leather jacket.
“In the evening we used to sit around the table reading by the light of the kerosene lamp, all four of us. Uncle Jube was like our father. He’d play with us and tickle us like puppy dogs, and we’d roll in the grass laughing until my mother made him stop.”
“The funny uncle,” Mack said.
Linda shuddered once and looked up at him. “Yeah.”
Below them, the ferry whistled. They watched it round the point, pass in front of them, and become a white dot trailing a comet tail of wake.
“So, go on,” Mack said.
“Uncle Jube went from being warm and friendly to being scary, and I didn’t know how to stop him or what to do because it was my fault I had let him go so far and I couldn’t tell my mother because, after all, I’d let him, and…” Linda sucked in her breath with an asthmatic wheeze.
“Bastard,” Mack said. “And your goddamned mother, she should’ve known.”
Linda took a long breath and went on. “One night my mother came into my room to say good night, and that’s when she found out about Uncle Jube.”
“And you heard them fight, and that was the last time you were on the Island.”
“I hated him. I didn’t know why until…”
“You went into that house.”
“I came back to kill him.”
A breeze riffled the grass in front of them, bringing the scent of pine. A seagull flew over, heading for the Sound. A string of motorcycles roared by on the road behind the lighthouse.
“Somebody beat you to it.”
She shook her head. “I hate that house.”
“Can’t say as I blame you, girl.”
Linda turned on him. “Don’t call me ‘girl.’ I hate that!” She pounded her fist on his thigh.
He grabbed her fist. “Okay, okay, Linda. Sorry.”
“Everything about that house is rotten, from the floors to the roof. And all that garbage. I couldn’t stand being in it, even fixed up.”
“Cool it, Linda. There’s nothing you can do about the past. He’s gone.”
“That house, it’s not worth saving,” she said.
“I don’t know. It’s a real old house. Historical. Worth one hell of a lot of money.”
“Not to me, it isn’t.”
“Come on, Linda. When you get it cleaned up, all that shit can go in the rubbish. You can sell it to someone who never knew your uncle.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m going to kill that house. Like I killed him.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Do you love me, Mack?”
He tightened his arm around her.
“You said once you’d do anything for me.”
“I’ll say it again. I would. I’d do anything in the world for you, Linda.”
“I want to kill everything about that house.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Purify it. Burn it to the ground.”
Mack removed his arm from her shoulder and stood up. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s my place. Practically. I can do whatever I want with it.”
“That’s arson. You don’t torch a place because you don’t like it.”
“Will you help me or not?” Linda’s eyes were wide and as bright as the sky. “There are other guys, plenty of other guys, who’d be happy to help me. Especially knowing it’s my property. Especially knowing what it’s worth.”
He walked to the edge of the bluff, plucked off a bright red rose hip, tossed it toward the Sound, and returned to her. Linda sat huddled and fragile, small and vulnerable in his big leather coat. She watched him with her innocent blue eyes.
“Linda, whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
CHAPTER 28
From the study, where she sat at her computer the next morning, Elizabeth could look out the small-paned window at the Norway maple at the end of the driveway. Its branches hung low, almost hiding the pile of stacked firewood and the compost heap beyond. The tree had a faint tinge of yellow. Summer was almost gone.
When she heard Howland’s distinctive footsteps on the stairway, she glanced up.
“I’ll hook up my ZIP drive to your computer,” he said. “Then you can print out what we need.”
“I don’t know what a ZIP drive is.”
“It lets you copy a lot of data onto a small space in a short time. I’ll show you how. Without it, I’d have taken days to copy what’s on Burkhardt’s hard drive.”
Elizabeth gave him her seat. A short time later, she heard her grandmother’s shoes squeak on the painted stairs.
“I don’t suppose I can help?” Victoria asked.
“I’ll show you how to use the computer if you’d like,” Howland murmured with a faint smile. “It’s simple.”
Victoria moved a chair close to the desk where Howland was working. “Never mind.”
Elizabeth stood behind Howland, watching him work.
“He was well organized, I’ll say that for him,” Howland said when the screen finally showed lists of files and directories. “This is his word-processing program, an old one. Not many people use it these days.” He stood up. Elizabeth sat down and read off the list of files.
“Correspondence, Finances,” she said. “Legal, Personal, X. Shall I check the X-file?”
“We need to start somewhere. X is as good as any.”
Elizabeth tapped keys, and a list showed on the screen.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Elizabeth scrolled down. There were about fifty items on the list.
Howland leaned over and looked. “It’s coded,” he said. “Burkhardt probably encrypted those files. Try to get one up on the screen.”
Elizabeth tapped keys. PASSWORD, the screen demanded.
“Well, well, well.” Howland leaned over Elizabeth and tried another item on the list. PASSWORD, the screen read.
Victoria leaned forward to see the screen. “Is there any way to get around that?”
“There are three or four decoding methods I can try. If they don’t work, I can go to my Washington DEA experts, but that will take time.”
“Perhaps we can guess his password,” Victoria said.
Howland shrugged. “We can try. Most people use something simple, like their names or birth dates. Mother’s maiden name. Any thoughts, Victoria? An eight- or fewer-letter word.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “Try Burkhard, without the t. Or Jube. Try Engineer.”
Elizabeth typed the wo
rds into the space for PASSWORD. The computer beeped, and each time, the screen read: THIS ISN’T THE CORRECT PASSWORD.”
Howland straightened up and put his hands in his pockets. “We’re wasting time. Let’s check the other files. He could have used anything for a password.”
“Try ‘Mitchell,'“ Victoria said. “That was his mother’s maiden name, his house was the Mitchell place, and it’s eight letters.”
Elizabeth typed MITCHELL. A file popped up on the screen. She scrolled down, then back up again. “It’s nothing but gibberish.”
“He was certainly protecting whatever he’s got here.” Howland frowned. “That entry looks like a name. This,” he pointed, “is probably an address and phone number.”
“That might be a dollar amount,” said Victoria.
“I bet this is his blackmail list.” Elizabeth scrolled down. “There are a half-dozen entries with figures next to them.”
“He probably used a simple code he could access easily,” How-land said. “Print the entire file, Elizabeth. Two copies. One for Chief O’Neill, and we can attempt to decode the other.”
When the printing was finished, Elizabeth set the hard-copy pages of the X-file to one side.
“Now start from the beginning of the directory.” Howland pulled a chair next to Elizabeth. “We can make a quick run-through, then check everything later in detail.”
“Is there a file where he’d have stored his will?” Victoria said, examining the list of directories. “Or at least his attorney’s name. She or he would have the original executed will, I imagine.”
“Unless he drew it up himself,” Howland said.
They checked Correspondence. Letters to Sears, to a plumbing supply company. Nothing stood out except for a sizable file of letters to Smith College.
The directory titled Finances listed banks and financial institutions and was cross-referenced to an accounting program. They went on to Legal.
Elizabeth felt a surge of anticipation as she brought up the files in the legal directory. It was not a long list, perhaps a dozen files in all. Three lawyers’ names were listed, and in each file were letters of inquiry about real estate, fees, and Wampanoag rights.
One of the letters in the legal file, dated three years earlier, was to Montgomery Mausz, the attorney for the tribe. Burkhardt had asked his fee for preparing a will. Letters to other attorneys also requested their fees for preparing a will. Elizabeth printed the letters.
“Shopping around for a lawyer, all right,” Howland said. “But no will. Try Personal.”
Elizabeth brought up the directory labeled Personal and scrolled through the files. Letters to his nieces, mail orders for clothing, hardware, computer supplies, and at the end of the files Wills. “We got it!” Elizabeth tapped ENTER and the file appeared.
Victoria leaned forward.
“The first entry is dated two years ago,” said Elizabeth.
The morning sun streamed through the south window, reflected off the papers stacked on the windowsill. Elizabeth shaded the screen with her hand. Howland got up and pulled the shade partway down. Victoria moved her chair closer.
“A lot of legal stuff,” said Elizabeth. “He leaves everything in equal shares to Harriet and Linda.”
“Is there a more recent will?” asked Victoria.
Elizabeth continued to scroll down. “The next is dated a year ago, and he leaves everything to his niece Harriet. The one everyone calls Harley.” She kept scrolling down. “Here’s one dated three months later, and he leaves everything to his niece Linda.”
“Nice guy,” muttered Howland.
“Here’s another. Looks like the last one, dated three weeks ago. He leaves all his property, house, barn, and land, to the Conservation Trust, with a hundred dollars to each of his nieces.”
“Well!” said Howland.
“That’s it,” said Elizabeth.
“I’m glad this isn’t my problem,” said Howland.
Elizabeth, Victoria, and Howland looked at one another.
“Someone needs to find a signed, witnessed, notarized copy. It’s likely his attorney has it on file,” Howland said. “He probably lists his attorney in there somewhere.”
“What if he didn’t use an attorney,” said Victoria. “Anyone could have written the wills on his computer.”
Howland shrugged. “Anyone who had access to his computer and his password.”
“Whoever caused the ‘Fatal Error’ message?”
“The computer will have the dates they were written. I’ll print out copies of the wills for Casey and us.”
While the files were printing out, three motorcycles roared into the driveway and parked under the maple tree. One carried two people. The bikers got off and started toward the house.
“Looks as though we have callers,” said Victoria.
CHAPTER 29
“I’m fed up with all of you,” Bugs growled at the three bikers who stood before him in the shade of the pines at the field’s edge. The last Indian pipes had shriveled and turned black. “I’m sick of this whole nursery. Macho bikers? Horses’ asses, that’s what you all are.”
The tents behind them were dappled with circular spots of sunlight filtered through the trees.
“What happened to Mack and them?” Harley asked.
“They’re at the police station, doing one hell of a lot of explaining to Chief O’Neill, that’s what.”
Harley shifted her helmet from under her right arm to under her left. “You said you wanted to see me.”
Bugs took off his horn-rimmed glasses, put them in their case, and snapped it shut. He squinted at Harley while he took a pair of mirrored sunglasses out of his pocket and hooked the earpieces around his ears. Harley could see her reflection, her purple hair with metallic orange glints.
“You find your sister and talk to her, you understand?” Bugs said. “There’s stuff going on that you and she have to work out between you.”
“I tried to meet her, Bugs, honest I did. I hitched into Oak Bluffs early this morning to meet with her. She never showed.” Harley’s voice had a whiny edge. “She left me a message that she’d be at the Flying Horses.”
“How’d you get the message?” The bug-eyed mirrors turned on her. Wherever she looked, she saw her face, fat in the thick prescription lenses, with a halo of purple and orange.
“She left a note with somebody at Alley’s. He said he’d deliver it here to me, and he did.”
“All right. Go on.”
“That’s it, Bugs. Toby and I went by Victoria Trumbull’s house yesterday, you know, where my sister’s staying. Her car wasn’t there.”
Bugs stared down at her. “Put on your helmet and get on the back of my bike. We’re finding your sister if it takes us all day. Goddamned mother hen,” he muttered. “Mack doesn’t know where she is, and he’s got his own problems right now. He’ll spend eternity locked up in jail until someone straightens out that mess.” He put on his helmet. “What kind of car does she drive?” He fastened the strap under his chin as he spoke, one finger against his throat.
Harley swung her leather-trousered leg over the back of the Indian and seated herself behind Bugs. “A blue Ford. Small. I don’t know what kind it is.”
Bugs grunted. “Where’s she likely to be?”
“Who knows?”
“Did you know she had a thing going with Mack?” Bugs turned his head to look at her.
“No, I didn’t. Honest.” Harley sounded bitter. “Uncle Jube cuts me off for hanging around with a biker, and that sneak…”
“Would she go shopping? Bird-watching? The beach?”
“Shopping. Definitely.”
“We’ll try Vineyard Haven first. Then Oak Bluffs. Then Edgartown. Got your helmet fastened?” He kicked the motor into life and turned his head to check. The pipes spit out a puff of blue smoke.
Harley put her feet up on the footrests behind Bugs and held onto the backrest in front of her.
The engine was quiet enou
gh so that she could have heard Bugs above the noise, but neither of them said a word. The gang on Alley’s porch swiveled their heads in unison. Bugs snorted. A laugh, Harley guessed. They went past the Parsonage Pond and the cemetery, across the narrow bridge. Through Middletown. Down the hill past Tisbury Meadows, the Land Bank property. Into Vineyard Haven.
Bugs turned onto Main Street and cruised slowly past cars angled in to the curb. They looked up the streets that fed into Main Street—Center Street and Church Street. No small blue Ford. Bugs turned right onto Union Street toward the steamship wharf, and they wove through a crowd of people in the parking lot. He turned again onto Water Street and cruised through the Stop & Shop lot. No blue Ford.
He turned onto Beach Road, and they skirted the Vineyard Haven harbor. Harley could see two ferries passing, the Islander arriving from Woods Hole, trailing a curving white wake, and the Governor taking off for the mainland. They crossed Lagoon Pond bridge over the steel grating that hummed under their wheels.
They passed the hospital and drove down New York Avenue into Oak Bluffs. The road had been named New York Avenue a hundred and fifty years ago, when ships from New York docked at the foot of the street. The docks were long gone. They passed the Oak Bluffs harbor, humming with boats—cabin cruisers, outboard motorboats, Scarabs, sailboats under power. The water shimmered in the noon light. They drove past the Camp Meeting Grounds. Pastel-colored gingerbread houses circled the wrought-iron Tabernacle where revival meetings were once held. Now it was rock concerts. They drove slowly up Circuit Avenue and around the streets behind it where there were more shops. No small blue Ford. They turned right before they got to the Flying Horses, and Bugs gunned the motor. Harley felt the puff of hot exhaust from the pipes beneath her legs. They raced along the road that led to Edgartown, following the sweep of Nantucket Sound.
A flight of Canada geese flew in a tidy V low over Sengekontack- ett Pond to their right. Harley could hear them honk over the sound of the Indian’s motor. To their left, a long line of cars had parked along the bathing beach. Beyond the cars, banks of rugosa roses blanketed the low dunes. Narrow sand paths led through the thorny roses to the beach. Red and white flowers dotted the low green bushes, mingled with bright orange rose hips, fruit of early summer blossoming. Beyond the roses sunbathers lay on bright towels. In the water, close to shore, swimmers’ heads were shiny black dots, like muskrats or otters. No small blue Fords were parked along the long stretch of beach.
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