Death on a Vineyard Beach

by Philip R. Craig

Angela nodded. “But when Thomas met him and told him to leave, he did.”

  “Only after an argument!”

  “Not much of one,” said Decker. “I asked him to leave, and he left.”

  “But he came back!”

  “And left again.”

  Marcus’s face was red. He took a deep breath. “I know I get excited, but it makes me mad. All this stuff about my land. Who do these Wampanoags think they are, trying to take a man’s land away from him?”

  “Linda Vanderbeck says somebody took theirs away from them,” said Angela.

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” said her husband. He looked at me. “You know, when I think of what happened up in Boston, I wonder if it had anything to do with this cranberry business.”

  Thomas Decker didn’t look surprised at this notion, but Angela did. She opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  I put my glass on the table. “That wasn’t Joe Begay up in Boston. I just saw Joe Begay through Vinnie’s glasses. Begay is a big guy, and a grown-up. The kid up in Boston was only about five six or so.”

  Decker raised a brow. “The kid could have been a hired gun.”

  I thought about that. Were Wampanoag passions running so high that one of them would hire a killer to remove an obstacle standing between the tribe and the contested cranberry bog? I had no idea. On the other hand, since history began, and no doubt before that, people have regularly been killed over trifles—a casual word, a pair of shoes, a few pennies, an imagined slight. Or sometimes just for fun. ’Twas ever thus.

  “I don’t know much about hired guns,” I said. “The shooter up in Boston looked like one of those kids I read about in the Globe: hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, floppy sneakers. The only difference was that he used a sawed-off Remington 12-gauge instead of a Nine, which seems to be the weapon of choice among teenage hoodlums these days.”

  “What’s a Nine?” asked Zee, looking at me. “I meant to ask you about that up in Boston.”

  “You haven’t been keeping up on the latest street slang,” I said. “A Nine is a nine-millimeter pistol. If you read your Globe carefully every morning, you’d know these things.”

  “Some of us have to go to work in the morning, sweets. We don’t have time to read the Globe from end to end. We only have time to do the crossword puzzles and read the sports page.”

  Priscilla appeared and informed us that dinner was served, and we went inside.

  The dining room had a cathedral ceiling and a table that could be extended to seat at least a dozen people. Tonight, however, the table was sized for five, and adorned with an impressive amount of silverware, dishes, and wineglasses. We used all of them as we downed a many-coursed Mediterranean meal with a separate wine per course. Our host and hostess made small talk, and Zee and I, who normally concentrate on eating when face-to-face with fine food, did our best to reply in kind. When the coffee and dessert, a flan in the Spanish mode, were behind us, Marcus pushed back his chair.

  “I allow myself one or two cigars a year. I smoked Cuban before Castro, but now I have them made in Florida. Tonight I’ll have one, and I invite you to join me. Gentlemen, and you ladies, too, if the smell of cigars doesn’t offend you, let us retire to the library.”

  “I think I will pass on that offer,” said Angela. “Mrs. Jackson, please feel free to join the gentlemen.”

  “My name is Zeolinda,” said Zee. “Most people call me Zee. While the men have their cigars, perhaps you and I can have more coffee on the veranda.”

  “Excellent. You’re Zee and I’m Angela. Gentlemen, please join us later.”

  Decker and I followed Marcus.

  I had given up pipe and cigarettes long ago, and had never been a cigar smoker, but that night I accepted one as I settled into a leather chair and looked at the room. There was an oriental carpet on the floor, a desk, and there were other comfortable leather-covered chairs such as mine, and good reading lights. The walls were lined with shelves of leather-bound books, and, unlike other libraries I have seen, this one looked as if it really was used.

  From a cupboard Marcus produced a bottle of Italian brandy and poured. Priscilla brought in more coffee. Smoke rose and drifted toward the ceiling. My cigar was mild and sweet, and I felt sated and quite civilized. This was the way life should be. Or one of the ways, at least. Another, of course, was the way I usually lived.

  Marcus looked appreciatively at his cigar. “Forbidden fruit, Mr. Jackson. My doctor would not approve.”

  “I’m not up on the latest church rules,” I said. “But I doubt if an annual cigar is a mortal sin.”

  Beyond Marcus, Thomas Decker blew a set of perfect smoke rings. The desire to blow smoke rings was what had started me smoking when I was a kid. I tried one myself. Not as good as Decker’s, but not bad. Like riding a bicycle; you never forget how.

  “Mr. Jackson,” said Marcus, “I have a business proposition for you.”

  On Martha’s Vineyard, if you live the way I do, with no steady job, you’re always willing to consider new ways to make money. I supplement disability incomes from the federal government and the Boston PD by harvesting and selling fish and shellfish, by taking care of some houses over the winter, closing them up in the fall, and opening them in the spring, and by looking after some boats in the off-season. That had been fine in times past, but now I was a married man, and suspected that perhaps I should become more fiscally responsible.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “The incident in Boston was a deliberate attack. The gunman called my name before attempting to shoot me. If it hadn’t been for your prompt action, I would be a dead man now. I need to know who that gunman was and why he tried to kill me. I want to hire you as an investigator.”

  I let that sink in, then shook my head. “No, you don’t. The Boston Police are your best bet. They’re professionals, and it happened in their town.”

  “Overextended professionals, as you know. I have cooperated fully with them, and will continue to do so, but I am not content with that. I want a private investigation as well.”

  But I had come to Martha’s Vineyard to get away from the business of saving the world.

  “I’m not a private investigator. There are some good firms in the city. I recommend Thornberry Security. It’s a big outfit, and Thornberry is good at running it.”

  “You will be amused to know that I’ve already employed Thornberry Security. In fact, Mr. Jason Thornberry mentioned you, when I told him where I live and what I wanted. I’ve also employed a private investigator on Cape Cod. Perhaps you know him, too. A man named Aristotle Socarides.”

  “No.”

  “I have business interests in Provincetown that might be linked to the incident in Boston. Mr. Socarides is looking into that possibility, just as Thornberry Security is investigating my business interests in Boston. Some other people are making inquiries in New York City, where we have our winter home.”

  “You seem to have things pretty well covered.”

  He tapped the arm of his chair. “Not here. Not on Martha’s Vineyard. You saw Joe Begay, and I’ve told you of the Wampanoag interest in my land. I need someone to work for me here.”

  “Why me? You don’t even know me.”

  He lifted his glass. “Actually, I know a good deal about you. Thomas has been making inquiries. Thomas?”

  Decker took a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it until he came to the page he wanted. “You grew up in Somerville, where your father was a fireman. Your mother died when you were quite young. You have a sister living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. You lied about your age and joined the army when you were seventeen. You were in Vietnam at the very end of hostilities, were wounded, and received various citations. After you returned to America, you joined the Boston Police, where you served five years. During that time your father died when a wall collapsed during a warehouse fire; you married, and you graduated from Northeastern University. A month after your graduation you were shot during a robbery attempt
and subsequently took a disability retirement. Your marriage ended in divorce, and you came to Martha’s Vineyard.

  “You live in a house that you inherited from your father. Earlier this month, you married Zeolinda Madieras, who is a nurse at the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital. You were on your honeymoon when you saved Luciano’s life in Boston. You drive a, shall we say, rather elderly Toyota Land Cruiser, and you supplement your disability income by fishing and doing a variety of other jobs. You know the island very well, having vacationed here since you were a child and having lived here since leaving Somerville.” He looked up at me. “There’s more.”

  I pointed a finger at Decker. “There’s the man you should have doing your investigating.”

  “Not at all,” said Decker. “It’s all on public record. I just made a few phone calls.”

  “The important thing,” said Marcus, “is that you not only have experience as a police officer, but you know this island and its people. Thomas does not. He can make the sorts of inquiries he made about you, but he has no—what do you call it?—local knowledge. He doesn’t know the islanders. You do. I want to buy your experience and your knowledge. Moreover, you have already saved my life, and I am, therefore, certain that I can trust you. I am a wealthy man, Mr. Jackson. I can pay for my desires, and I desire your help.” He mentioned a sum, and I’m sure my eyebrows went up.

  The money he mentioned was considerable by my standards, and the bluefish were beginning to head north, away from Vineyard waters, as they always did at the end of July, which meant that I wouldn’t be spending as much time on the beach as I did when the fish were in. Still, I hedged. “I’d need to know as much as I can about your life and your business. You might not want me to know things I might want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “Who decides what that is? You, or me?”

  His voice was like iron covered with silk. “I suggest that we cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  I realized that I was tempted, but threw in one more caveat.

  “Some people are willing to work with people who tell them lies. I’ve done that myself, but I never liked doing it. If you don’t want to tell me something, just say so, and I’ll live with that or quit the job. But no lies.”

  “Fair enough.” He lifted his glass. “It’s a bargain, then. You please me, Mr. Jackson.”

  I think it was the idea of Joe Begay being on the island that decided me. Then there was the money, of course. And there was Luciano’s family. Like the Oblonskys, the Marcus household seemed unhappy in its own way, and that was interesting.

  “Call me J. W.,” I said. “All my friends do.”

  8

  “I like Angela,” said Zee, when we got home. “She invited me back to look at her gardens. She’s a very down-to-earth person.”

  “I have to go back myself,” I said. “Luciano gave me a job. He wants me to find out who tried to kill him, and why. He has several other people working on it, all on the mainland. I’m the island rep.”

  She was quiet for a while. Then she said, “I thought we had policemen to do that sort of thing.”

  “I have a reason for taking the job.” I pulled the reason out of my shirt pocket and handed it to her.

  “He must want you pretty badly,” said Zee, looking at the numbers written on the check.

  “Try to keep that astonished expression off your face. You’re not supposed to be so surprised that somebody would think I was worth that much.”

  “Oh dear, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’ve just got to train myself to keep a straight face.” She gave me a quick kiss. “Luciano must not be worrying about where his next meal is coming from.”

  “I guess not. I’ve got another reason, too. Luciano Marcus didn’t have any trouble finding out that we were the ones who helped him out up in Boston. I figure that if Luciano could do that, so can the guys who did the shooting. If they think that we can identify them, it’ll be better for me to find them before they have a chance to find us.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you really think it’s pretty unlikely that some kid in Boston is going to come down here to Martha’s Vineyard to try to kill two people who maybe can’t even identify him?”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “But I think we should keep the possibility in mind.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Zee. “If I see somebody in a hooded sweatshirt hanging around the island in August, I’ll keep a careful eye on him. How’s that?”

  “Good. But maybe the kid doesn’t have another sweatshirt. Maybe I got his only one. Anyway, while you’re keeping an eye out for him, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Oh no you won’t! I don’t need any husband of mine hanging around being my bodyguard. I can guard my own body!” Her eyes got fierce, the way they do when she’s irked.

  “All right, you can keep an eye on me, instead.”

  The fire died. “That’s better. I can do that with one hand tied behind me.” She gave me a prim smile. “Now tell me about Joe Begay.”

  I’d known that she’d ask me sooner or later.

  “It was in Vietnam,” I said. “At the very end of things there, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I was just a kid, and Joe Begay was my sergeant. On his third tour, I think. He was a sort of famous guy. They called him Lucky Joe Begay, the way they used to call Leif Eriksson Leif the Lucky, because he was very tough, very good, and he took very good care of his men. When the guys in camp heard I was going on patrol, they said I was lucky to be going with Joe Begay, and I was. We got nailed by Viet Cong mortar men, or maybe artillerymen, I never knew which, and he carried me back to where the choppers could pick us up and get us out of there. He saved my life.”

  She put her hand on my thigh. “And that was what the nightmare was about.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, we were in the same hospital for a while, but then they sent us in different directions. I never saw or heard of him again until the wedding, and I didn’t recognize him then until I had that dream on the boat.”

  “So now Joe Begay is on Martha’s Vineyard, and came to our wedding. Why?”

  “I don’t know. My new boss, Luciano Marcus, says he’s married to a Wampanoag woman up in Gay Head.” I told her about Luciano’s land dispute, and his anger with Linda Vanderbeck and her son-in-law, Joe Begay. “I want to talk with Luciano some more, anyway, so I plan to drive up to his place tomorrow. While I’m up at that end of the island, I think I might try to see Joe Begay, too.”

  “Linda Vanderbeck,” said Zee. “You remember Maggie Vanderbeck. You met her at the wedding. She volunteers at the hospital sometimes when she’s home from college. I think her mother’s named Linda. And she’s got an older sister named Toni, who has a shop up at the cliffs. Maybe that’s Joe Begay’s wife.”

  I got the Vineyard telephone book. There was no listing for any Joe Begay, but there was one for Toni Vanderbeck. There were a lot of other Vanderbecks in Gay Head, too, including Linda.

  “Maybe they haven’t been married long enough for their phone to be in his name,” said Zee. “Or maybe she kept her own name when they got married.”

  “I’ll ask him that when I see him.”

  “And I’ll go with you,” said Zee. “I want to meet the man who saved your life.”

  The telephone rang. It was the chief, from Edgartown. “Just a rumor,” he said, “but I thought you should know about it. Fred Souza apparently just found out that you own a piece of the Lucky Lil. He gave Albert Enos a shiner, you’ll recall, and there’s talk he may want to give you one, too.”

  As they say, if it ain’t one damn thing, it’s another. I thanked the chief, and gave Zee the message.

  “I don’t think it would be very smart of Fred Souza to try to give you a black eye,” said Zee. “He only comes up to about your shoulder.”

  “You don’t have to punch somebody’s lights out to hurt him,” I said. “There are other ways.”

  “For i
nstance?”

  “For instance, he might try to punch your lights out. You’re more his size.”

  “He’d better not try it.” She made a small fist.

  True. A thought appeared in my mind of what I might do if I ever heard that Fred Souza had taken a swing at Zee. The thought had a reddish glow to it. I pushed it away, but the glow lingered. I pushed again and it went out of sight. Barely.

  “He’s just a kid,” I said. “He probably blew his stack when he heard about my share of the boat, but calmed down later.”

  “Yes,” said Zee, who was not a good hater, and rightly figured most other people weren’t, either. I hoped she was right about Fred.

  The next day was Sunday, and we had breakfast and the Boston Globe spread out all over the living room when we got another phone call. Zee, who was closest, put down the crossword puzzle and picked up the receiver.

  “Yes. Speaking.” She listened for a minute, then said, “Just a moment, please.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and frowned at me. “It’s a reporter from the Boston Herald. He wants to talk to you about the shooting up in Boston. It seems that he’s dug up your name, and he wants to get your side of the story. I think he has in mind a heroic-citizen-prevents-murder piece. Do you want to talk to him?”

  Drat. “No. And ask him not to include our names in his story.”

  She did that, listened, then looked at me and shook her head. “He says he’s not the only one who’s got our names. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Tell him I just went fishing.”

  She spoke into the phone. “I’m sorry, but he just went fishing.” She paused and listened, then said, “I’m afraid not. No, no comment at all. Sorry. Good-bye,” and hung up.

  “Rats,” she said.

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” I said. “It was only a matter of time once some reporter got interested in the story.”

  “Maybe he’ll decide not to print our names.”

  “Maybe.” But I didn’t think I’d bet on it.

  After lunch, I called the Marcuses to let them know we were coming, and we drove west to Gay Head under white clouds and blue sky. Another Vineyard beach day, with about a fifteen-knot wind from the southwest in case you decided to go sailing instead.