We found the right driveway, and came to the locked gate.
“Now what?” asked Zee.
“Observe.” I punched the button on the gadget I’d gotten from Thomas Decker the night before, and the gate swung open. We drove through and another button punch swung the gate shut behind us.
“Magic,” said Zee. “What is that? Some sort of a garage door opener?”
“I’m a trusted employee. This is like the key to the executive washroom.”
We drove up to the house, passing a couple of frowning groundskeepers who were clearly unused to seeing as old and rusty a vehicle as my Land Cruiser on the estate. As we passed, one of them took a transmitter from his belt and spoke into it. Two other men were walking toward us when we stopped in front of the door.
As we got out, Thomas Decker came from the house. He gestured at the two men, and they turned and went away.
“Security,” he said. “Next time, they’ll know you. Come in.” He nodded to Zee. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Jackson.”
Zee was always nice to see. We followed him into the house and there was Angela Marcus. She was wearing old clothes and had a floppy straw hat on her head.
“Welcome back,” she said, shaking our hands and smiling. “I’m just on my way out to my garden, Zee, and you’re welcome to join me if you’d like. It bores me to listen to men talk about business.”
Zee didn’t hesitate. “I’d love to see your garden.”
I followed Decker down a hall to a closed door. He knocked, and we went in. Luciano Marcus sat behind a large desk. We exchanged handshakes and greetings and he waved us into chairs.
“What can I do for you?”
I got right to it. “I need to know as much as I can about you and your business. You don’t have to tell me about how much money you make or how you make it if you don’t want to, but it will help me to know about anyone who might think that you’re ripping him off. I also want to know if there’s anybody in your past or present who might have it in for you personally. People usually don’t try to shoot other people without a reason. If I can find the reason, I might be able to find the people who are mad at you.”
Marcus looked at me without expression. “That is perfectly sensible thinking, and I will tell you what I can. My business concerns are fairly extensive and complex, and Thomas will brief you on them. Meanwhile, as to people who might, as you say, have it in for me, I will tell you that no businessman is without enemies, and I have made my share. However, I am, for all practical purposes, nearly retired, and cannot imagine any business enemy deciding now to take revenge upon me for past actions.” He paused. “As for personal animosity toward me, when I was younger I made my share of enemies, but for many years now I have lived a very private life.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I can think of no one who knows me well enough personally to hate me.” He frowned. “Except for some Wampanoags, that is.”
A lot of haters don’t know their victims at all. And vice versa. I thought, but did not speak, of John Lennon and other casualties of fame. I said: “Most violence involves booze, dope, hormones, or stupidity, or some combination of the same. Can you think of any way any of that could make somebody try to kill you?”
Marcus looked at me steadily. “Personally, I like a drink and I have my annual cigar. When I was younger, my hormones were more active than they are now. I suspect that there are a good many people my age and younger who have tried, at least experimentally, illegal drugs and chemicals, but I’ve never dealt with them personally or professionally. I try not to be stupid or to employ or associate with stupid people. Does that answer your question?”
“Two other reasons to kill people are revenge and defense. People want to get you for what you did, or to prevent you from doing something.”
“My doing to others is pretty much in the distant past, as I’ve told you. And I have no future plans other than to become increasingly retired, which I cannot see as a threat to anyone.”
“Can you think of anyone who suffered an injury from you long ago, but who’s been prevented until now from getting back at you? Someone who’s been in jail, maybe, and has only recently gotten out. Or someone who’s been out of the country for a long time, and has just returned. Someone like that, with a long memory and a grudge.”
Marcus’s eyes widened, but he shook his head. “I can’t think of any such person. Thomas?”
“No,” said Decker, after a moment of thought.
“No,” echoed Marcus.
“Another question, then. Who knew you were going to attend the opera that afternoon?”
Marcus’s eyes were cold. “Thomas and I have wondered about that. It was no secret, but at the same time it wasn’t knowledge that was widespread.”
“Who knew?”
He spread his hands. “Thomas; the staff here at the house; Angela, of course; the people in Boston who sold me the tickets. My family, friends, and acquaintances know I enjoy opera, but I don’t recall telling any of them about my plans to see that production of Carmen.” He looked at me. “I’m afraid I haven’t been of much help to you.”
“You never know,” I said. “One last question. Why do you have a bodyguard?”
The cold eyes stared at me. “I will tell you what I told the Boston Police when they asked me the same question. I’m a wealthy man. When I travel, I sometimes have large amounts of money with me. Thomas travels with me to give protection to my person and property.”
I tried to read his enigmatic face. It was possible that he was telling me the truth. I looked at Decker. “I guess it’s time you and I discussed the business end of things.”
“I’ll leave you alone, then,” said Marcus, rising. “These days I prefer my books to matters of business. We’ll all have a drink before you leave.” He went out into the hall, and shut the door behind him.
“He trusts you a great deal,” I said to Decker.
“And not without cause,” said Decker, walking around to the other side of the desk, sitting in Marcus’s chair, and taking a folder from a side drawer. “Here. He trusts you a great deal, too. This is a summary of his business interests. I’ll answer any questions that I can.”
An hour later, I looked at the last page of the folder. Marcus had not exaggerated when he’d said his business interests were extensive. They ranged from Marcus Import and Export, headquartered in New York City, to holdings in a variety of companies and businesses. He owned trawlers in New Bedford and Provincetown, a South Carolina trucking firm, a considerable interest in a Gloucester canning factory, shares in several newspapers, a paper mill, and a dozen other enterprises. I handed the folder back to Decker.
“He’s got an eye for business. Not many losers listed here. He’s had most of this stuff for a long time.”
He nodded. “The canning factory up on the north shore is new for him. And the fishing fleet. He didn’t really get interested in that business until he got his own boat and found out he liked to fish himself. And after he got the trawlers, he thought he should have a canning factory, too, to process the fish he caught with his boats. The rest of the businesses he’s had for years. He likes to be in things for the long haul, and he’s got enough money that he can ride out slumps and wait for things to get better. So far, they always have. Nowadays he’s got managers running things, and his two boys are taking over more and more. If they do as well as their father did, things will be fine.”
“And as far as you know, none of these businesses has generated an enemy mad enough to take a shot at your boss.”
“Your boss, too,” said Decker. “No, not that I know of. As you learned yesterday, we have private detective agencies investigating that possibility. So far, they haven’t come up with anything. If they do, we’ll let you know.”
“Fine. There’s another thing. I thought I’d ask you first, and Luciano second, if I need to.”
His eyes became hooded. “Ask.”
“Cherchez la loot,” I said. “Look for the money. Who b
enefits if Luciano dies? Who inherits?”
He stared at me.
“You usually don’t get killed by strangers,” I said. “Your friends and your family members are more likely to do it, and one big reason they do it is because they want your money.”
Decker leaned forward. “Look. I’ve been with Luciano for a long time. I owe him, and I do what he says, and I take care of him. He trusts you, but that doesn’t mean I do. You want to talk about who’s in his will, you talk to Luciano, not to me.” His voice was like the ice in his eyes.
For a while we stared at each other. No one blinked. Dueling eyeballs. “You talk with him about it first,” I said, “and I’ll come back later to hear what you both have to say.” I got up.
Decker took a breath and sat back. “What will you do now?”
“See if I can find Joe Begay. Luciano seems to think he’s surrounded by hostile Indians, so I thought I’d go have a talk with some of them.”
“Ah,” said Decker. He put away the folder, and we went upstairs.
9
Gay Head is not the easiest place to locate people, but when I stopped at the police station and asked where I could find Joe Begay, a young cop told me where he lived. They apparently didn’t get many six-foot Navajos in Gay Head, so Begay had attracted some attention among the locals.
“He just got married to Toni Vanderbeck,” the young cop explained. “I been out with her sister, Maggie, once or twice. Before Toni got married, her and Maggie lived together. Of course, now Maggie’s got her own place.” The idea seemed to please him.
I thanked him and drove until we found the right house. It was down a short, sandy driveway, not far from the sea. The house was a smallish cedar-shingled structure, with gray-painted window frames and eaves. There was a garage out back. In the yard were two cars: a middle-aged Plymouth sedan and a newish Dodge four-by-four with this year’s Arizona plates. Joe Begay hadn’t gotten around to registering his truck in Massachusetts yet.
I parked beside the Dodge, and we got out. The smell of the ocean washed over us, fresh and clean, blown ashore by the southwest wind coming around the cliffs.
The door of the house opened and a bronzed young woman stepped onto the porch, and looked at us, smiling. “Hello.”
She was the woman I’d seen through the binoculars yesterday.
“Mrs. Begay?”
She smiled some more. “Yes. I’m Toni Begay.”
“I know your sister,” said Zee, as we came up to the porch. “I’m Zee Jackson. I work at the hospital. This is my husband, Jeff.”
“How do you do?”
“I’m well,” I said. “I’m looking for your husband.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” said his wife. “Come in.”
We went in, and there was Joe Begay.
He flowed up from the chair he’d been sitting in, no less lithe than I remembered him from two decades before.
There was a faint scar on his forehead, a souvenir of that last patrol we’d taken, and there were lines on his face that had not been there before. But the bones of his face still had that chiseled look, his deep-set eyes still hid under black brows, and his hair was as black and straight as before.
“Young Mr. Jackson,” he said. “And Mrs. Jackson.” He shook my hand. “You’ve filled out a little in the last twenty years.”
“You’ve added a pound or two yourself, Sarge.”
He slapped his belly. “Solid muscle. Mostly.” He turned to Zee. “As you no doubt know, Mrs. Jackson, I stopped briefly at your wedding. Your husband is a most fortunate man.”
“Thank you. You should have stayed for the dancing.”
“I didn’t have an invitation. I just went by to see if the J. W. Jackson my sister-in-law said was marrying her friend Zee Madieras was the same J. W. Jackson who saved my ass in Nam. Once I saw that it was, I pulled out.”
She shook his hand. “Jeff told me that you were the one who saved his life, not the other way around. Which one of you is the real hero?”
Begay and I looked at each other. “Probably neither one,” said Begay.
Zee looked at Toni Begay. “Did he ever tell you what actually happened on that patrol?”
“No,” said Toni, frowning at her husband. “He’s never talked about the war. I did find some medals in a shoe box he brought with him from Arizona, but he said they were nothing.”
“I think you’re in trouble,” I said to Begay.
“Speak for yourself,” said Zee. “I found some medals in the back of that drawer where you keep the socks and underwear that you think are too new to wear. I think it’s time you guys try to tell us the truth, for a change.”
“See what you’ve done,” said Begay, giving me a wry look. “You get me in trouble in Nam, and now you get me in trouble in my own house.”
“Never mind that,” said Toni Begay. “We want to know the truth, and we want to know now. So sit down and talk. No, wait until I get us something to drink.”
“Beer,” said Begay, looking at her fondly.
Zee and I nodded, and Toni Begay brought out a half-gallon bottle of Ipswich Ale and four glasses. She poured, and I tasted. Not bad!
“I know a guy up on the north shore,” said Begay. “He brings me a case of this stuff when he comes down.”
“I’ve been through Ipswich,” I said. “But I didn’t know they had a brewery. Now that I do, maybe I’ll go back.”
“Enough beer talk,” said Zee. “Who saved who?”
Begay looked at the floor. His wife looked at me.
“Well,” I said, “like I told Zee, I met Sarge when I landed in Nam. How many tours had you had by then, Sarge, three? Anyway…”
I told her about how, on that last patrol, we were dropped off in the bush, and how very soon we’d come under fire from mortar men or artillerymen who seemed to be waiting for us and who put shells right on top of us. As I talked, things I’d forgotten came back to me.
The noise was what had surprised me the most. Nobody had told me about that part of an action. It was amazing noise that rattled your brain. Lucky Joe Begay was an early casualty, taking shrapnel in his head.
“I was blind as a bat,” said Begay, touching the scar on his broad forehead. “There were three men dead, and everybody else was hit, including the kid here. His legs looked like hamburger. How old were you, then? You looked like you’d never shaved in your life.”
I shook my head. “Seventeen. I lied about my age. Anything to get out of Somerville. Teenage stupid.”
“Amen to that,” said Begay. “Anyway, Mrs. Jackson, your hubby here crawled to the radio and called in the gunships, and they blasted away at the area the fire seemed to be coming from long enough for us to get back to where the choppers could pick us up. And that was about it, wouldn’t you say, J. W.?”
“Yeah, that’s about it.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Toni Begay. “You’re leaving things out. What about those medals?”
“I should have thrown them out long ago,” said Begay. “Medals don’t mean anything, Toni. They give them away by the ton. All you have to do to get a medal is show up.”
“None of that talk,” said his wife. “You tell Zee and me what happened.”
Begay looked at me, then back at her. “Well, hell. It was just that J. W. couldn’t walk, and I couldn’t see, so he was the eyes and I was the legs. He told me where to go, and I sort of dragged him along in front of the others until we got out of there. That’s all there is to it.”
The women looked at each other, and then at us. “So you saved each other,” said Zee. “And the rest of the men. That’s why you got those medals.”
“After they got us to a hospital, they made a joke,” I said. “Who has four arms, two legs, and one head? Mr. Jackson Begay.”
“OR humor,” nodded Zee.
“They could have added no brains,” said Begay. “It seemed fairly humorous at the time. Then they split us up, and we didn’t see each other anymore.
They worked me over, and after a while I could see again as well as ever.” He looked at me. “And I guess they got most of the metal out of you. How are the legs?”
“They won’t win any prizes for looks, but they work okay. A little iron oozes out every now and then, but nothing serious.” I spread my hands. “And there you have it, ladies. Now let’s forget it. It all happened a long time ago.”
Zee shook her head. “You two.”
“So,” I said, changing the subject to one women seem to enjoy talking about. “How long have you folks been married?”
Toni, who had been studying her husband, now smiled at me. “Six months, almost!” And she happily told us how it had all happened.
It was the strong bones and flat planes of his face that had first caught her attention when they’d met in Santa Fe. He had looked the way she had always thought an Indian should look: as though he could cross the desert without water, or walk so softly that he could catch birds as they perched on twigs and sang. She had seen all of that in his face before she really even looked at the rest of him. When she did look at his body, it went with his face so naturally that she didn’t even have to think about it. He was a whole person, so whole that she wondered if she’d ever seen one before.
Then Begay told his side of it. He had seen a girl from the East. Tawny-skinned, dark-eyed, Indian maybe, maybe not. Pretty, clean, slender. Staring at him, then looking away, then looking back.
They had been at the Governor’s Palace, two more tourists looking at the jewelry and pottery spread out on the blankets. But when they saw each other, they had stopped looking at the arts and crafts, even though their eyes still seemed to be focused on them. They had moved toward one another, and when they were finally standing side by side, both were nervous but neither was surprised.
They had gone to a café and had coffee. She learned that he was from Arizona and was on vacation, and he learned that she was a Wampanoag from Martha’s Vineyard, out West for the first time, on a buying trip for her shop on the Gay Head cliffs. They had spent the afternoon together, and had found talking easy although, had she noticed it, he learned much more of her than she did of him.
Death on a Vineyard Beach Page 7