Death on a Vineyard Beach

by Philip R. Craig

  “Or even consider. You’re a grown-up person. You get to decide what to do with your life.”

  We sat and looked up at the stars through the screen that held the mosquitoes at bay. The fireflies sparked and gleamed in the darkness.

  “I think you should know,” said Zee, “that sometimes I want to be given wise advice. Sometimes I probably even want to be told what to do.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “And I guess I want you to be the one to do that, sometimes.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I want you to do, too, sometimes.”

  She took my arm and put her cheek on my shoulder. “Of course, I reserve the right to ignore your advice whenever I want to.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “And to tell you what I think about things whether you want me to or not.”

  “I’m sure that was in our wedding vows somewhere. An ancient, sacred, wifely right.”

  “I distinctly remember it because there wasn’t any corresponding ancient, sacred, husbandly right.”

  “I think I noticed that, too.”

  I was in a good mood when we went to bed, but before I got to sleep Freddy Souza slipped into my head, and I found myself listening for odd night sounds and sometimes thinking I heard some. I made myself stay in bed, and finally got to sleep.

  I had plans for the next day, but as the poet noted, the best-laid schemes gang aft a-gley. As I was right in the middle of washing the breakfast dishes next morning, the pump in the well stopped working and I was abruptly waterless. I tracked the problem down to the switch on the pump itself, which was ancient and had long since been functioning more because of the grace of the water gods than my maintenance efforts over the years. So things go in the investigation biz, as in all other work. Instead of solving the riddle of who wanted Luciano Marcus dead, I went to Vineyard Haven to buy a new switch.

  I found one at a plumber’s supply place, then drove down to the Dock Street Coffee Shop in Edgartown to have a coffee and Danish to build up the strength I’d need to do the repairwork. I had just come out onto the street again when the chief met me. He pointed at my rusty Land Cruiser, which was parked in the lot across the street in a spot that had miraculously opened up just as I’d arrived.

  “You know, there’s a petition being circulated to prevent you from parking that bucket of bolts inside of city limits between May and October. The argument is that the tourists take one look at it and cancel their hotel and restaurant reservations and go vacation on Nantucket instead.”

  “And property values plummet. I’ve heard it all before.”

  We looked across the parking lot. Out in the harbor beyond the yacht club, boats were hoisting sail, catching the morning wind, and heading out of the harbor. At dockside the charter fishing boats were loading clients aboard for the day’s excursions to the bluefish and bass fishing grounds, and a couple of pot fishermen were already unloading their catches.

  The streets were crowded with brightly dressed tourists who didn’t seem to understand that these were actually real streets and not just wide sidewalks, and the summer cops were doing their best to keep them from being run over by the cars that a lot of walkers apparently thought were just make-believe. Overhead, the blue sky was clear and bright, and the sun was golden and warm.

  The chief was looking at the boats unloading conchs. He shook his head.

  “Hell of a way to make a living. Makes me almost glad I’m a cop.”

  Actually, the chief liked being a cop. Like most cops, it made him feel good when he was able to do something that helped people out. But like most cops, too, he had to put up with a lot of grief from the very people he was paid to serve. I’d liked the helping part, too, but the grief had become too much for me, so I’d become a civilian again.

  The chief was still going on. “Boats that leak, pots lost, cranky engines, bad weather, bad prices; you name the trouble, they have it. It’s a wonder more of them don’t give it up.”

  “Why don’t you give one of them your job?” I asked. “A lot of people here in town think you should have retired years ago. You’re too grouchy, and all you do is drive around in that cruiser and give people like me a hard time.”

  “It won’t be long,” said the chief. “I’m going to hang up this badge and go to Nova Scotia every summer. Get away from these damned crowds. Come back down in time for scallop season. Live like a human being for a change.”

  “Sure. How long have you been threatening to do that? You’re all talk.”

  He nodded at the boats. “Jimmy Souza, there. Drunk already.”

  I looked and saw Jimmy helping Albert Enos unload his catch. Jimmy swayed while he worked.

  “He’s a nipper,” said the chief. “Keeps nips of vodka in his pockets. Expensive way to drink, but he thinks the vodka isn’t on his breath and that if he sticks to nips nobody will ever know he’s drinking at all.”

  Over on the dock, Jimmy Souza tried to swing a gunnysack of conchs up into Albert’s truck, but couldn’t manage it. He dropped the sack and swayed toward the water. Albert caught him and put him into the passenger’s seat of the truck, then put the sack of conchs into the back.

  “Jimmy used to be a good man,” I said.

  “Maybe he will be again. Meantime, though, his house is up for sale and his kid can’t afford to stay in college. Booze is bad for some families.”

  I decided not to comment on that one. “While you’re here,” I said, “tell me more about that stolen shotgun. I’d guess it wasn’t sawed off when it left the island. Who did it belong to?”

  “Guy named John Dings. Lives off Lambert’s Cove Road. Somebody got in to his place last spring, when he and his wife were out for the evening. Didn’t steal anything but that shotgun. They figure thieves came in a back window that was open. They didn’t take a lot of stuff that a pro would have gotten, and they didn’t vandalize the place, either. Odd case.”

  “Didn’t take the CD player or the family silver?”

  The chief shook his head. “Just this shotgun that ended up in Boston. I hear that Dings was pretty upset when he learned that somebody had cut his favorite 12-gauge in two. Bad enough to have it stolen, but sacrilege to have it sawed off like that.”

  “Any idea about who did the job?”

  Again the shake of his head. “Happened before most of the summer people get down, so I’d guess it was probably some island guys. We got our share of that kind. Kept an eye on his place, and when he and the wife went out, they went in. Something like that. So far, nobody’s talked about it, but usually, sooner or later, somebody will. When they do, we might be able to nail them. You were a cop. You know how it is.”

  I did. If criminals could learn to keep their mouths shut about their work, cops would catch a lot fewer of them. Instead, they just can’t keep from confessing or bragging, and sooner or later they do it to the wrong person, and that person tells it to somebody who tells the cops. It’s a fact that criminals, as a class, are not too bright.

  “Maybe I’ll go talk with John Dings,” I said.

  “Why would you want to do that?” asked the chief, looking up Main Street.

  I told him about the job with Luciano Marcus. He sighed. “You don’t have any PI license that I know about.”

  “If I did, you’d probably try to take it away from me.”

  “I’d be doing everybody a favor, if I could. Just make sure you don’t get yourself tangled up in the official investigation. You might get in trouble.”

  “I don’t know of any laws that keep honest, upright citizens from asking questions.”

  “I don’t even know many honest, upright citizens,” said the chief. “Look up there. That lad at the four corners was doing real well when we started talking. Now he’s got traffic backed up beyond the courthouse. I’ve got to go save him and the citizens. You find out anything about this shooting business, you let me know. And be careful.” He walked up toward the traffic jam.

  Across the parking lot,
Albert Enos had finished loading his sacks of conchs into his truck. He got into the driver’s seat beside Jimmy Souza, and pulled out of his parking spot. He paused when he came alongside of me. Beside him, Jimmy was bleary-eyed and smelled of vodka.

  “I’m taking him home and paying him off,” said Albert. “Gotta find myself a new crew.”

  “Things don’t always work out,” I said. “But you have to do what you have to do.”

  “No, you don’t,” whimpered Jimmy.

  “Yeah, you do,” said Albert. He drove away, looking unhappy.

  I went home, and while I replaced the old switch with the new one and got the water running again, I thought about poor, ruined Jimmy, and angry Fred, and listened to the sound of gunfire coming from the Rod and Gun Club. Some shooters besides Manny and Zee were burning powder. They were still at it when I finished the morning’s dishes, and still at it when I made ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch. I was on my second Sam Adams when the shooting finally stopped. I took the sandwiches and beer out to the table on the lawn, set Jimmy’s troubles and his son’s threats aside, and worked on my beer while I thought about other things. When the beer and sandwiches were gone, I drove to Vineyard Haven for the second time that day.

  John Dings lived at the end of one of those narrow dirt driveways that leads from the lower part of Lambert’s Cove Road off toward Tashmoo Pond. It was a modest house with a million-dollar view, looking across the pond. There were two cars in the yard, and a dock at the foot of a flight of wooden steps leading from the back of the house down to the water. Tied to the dock was an outboard motorboat about twenty feet long. You see boats like that all around the island. In anything like decent weather, their owners go out and fish just off shore. John Dings, I guessed, went after cod, blues, and bass out in Vineyard Sound.

  I knocked on the door and a woman opened it. She looked to be about forty years old.

  “Mrs. Dings?”

  “Yes, I’m Sandy Dings.” She looked at the Land Cruiser, then back at me.

  I told her my name, then put on my winning smile, and said: “I just talked to the chief of police down in Edgartown. He told me that a shotgun recently used in an attempted crime in Boston was stolen from your husband last spring. I’d like to talk with you about the theft.”

  She hesitated. “Are you a policeman?”

  “No. But I’m investigating the incident for a client.”

  “What client? Are you a private detective?”

  “No, but I’m making inquiries. My client has a considerable interest in the case. You may be able to help us.”

  She looked doubtful. “Just a minute,” she said. She turned and said in a loud voice. “Jean! Jean, you’re going to be late to work! Hurry up!” She turned back to me. “That girl. She’ll be late for her own funeral, I swear. She’s late for classes, her dates have to wait for her, and she’d be late for work every day if I didn’t build a fire under her.”

  A college-aged girl appeared in the door behind her. She was wearing a waitress’s uniform. “Here I am, Mom. Who’s this?”

  Mom had already forgotten my name.

  “J. W Jackson,” I said. “I’m making an unofficial investigation of a shooting in Boston that involved a shotgun that was stolen from this house last spring. I’m hoping that you folks can be of some help.”

  “You won’t get any from me,” said the girl. “I was out that night. When I got back, it was all over.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. “Mom, I’ve got to run! Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson.” She went out to one of the cars, got in, and drove away, throwing up gravel and dust behind her.

  Her mother looked after her, and sighed. “She’s always been like this. If she’s an hour late, she thinks she can still make it up in the last half mile.”

  “Well,” I said. “She hasn’t been fired yet, so they must like her.”

  “Oh, she’s a sweet girl. And she’s got to work to help put herself through UMass,” said Sandy Dings. “College costs so much these days.”

  “Yes.” It was true. I didn’t know how anybody could afford to go to college anymore. It had been bad enough when I’d gone, and I had the GI Bill to help out.

  Sandy Dings abruptly pulled the door open. “Well, come in, Mr. Jackson. I don’t know what I can tell you, but I’ll do my best.”

  We went in and sat down. It was a comfortable, middle-class sort of house, clean and modest, and unassuming. Mid-century Sears Roebuck decor.

  “If my husband were here,” said Sandy Dings, “he could tell you more about the shotgun. I’m afraid I don’t know much about them except that the one they stole was his favorite, the one he used when he and Jimmy went duck and goose hunting. I guess it had sentimental value, too. If a gun can have sentimental value.”

  She looked at me in sudden irritation. “You know what the worst thing about it is? It’s not that they stole the shotgun, although that’s maddening, too; it’s the feeling you have of being violated! It’s almost like being raped! Somebody comes right into your house and takes your things! It’s scary and it makes you mad! You think that if it happened once, it can happen again. You begin to wonder who it was, and if you know them, and if they know you.”

  “Where did they get in?”

  “Probably a back window. It was open a crack so the wind would bring in some fresh air. There was a northeast wind that night, and I wanted to air out the house. I don’t even leave any windows unlocked anymore unless somebody’s here. That’s what a thing like this does to you.”

  I got up and looked out the window. It offered a nice view of the pond. Not far from the window there was a back door that led out onto a deck. I went out the door and walked to the railing on the far side.

  To my left I could see the opening where the pond was tied to Vineyard Sound. On the far side of the sound was Cape Cod. On the water, about halfway across, one of the island ferries was headed toward Woods Hole.

  On the other side of the pond there were houses with docks. There were small boats on moorings, and others pulled up on the shore. It was a peaceful scene.

  Sandy Dings came out and stood beside me.

  “It’s very beautiful.” I said.

  “Yes. We love it.” She pointed across the pond at a house almost hidden in the trees. “That’s where we were that night. At my sister Lillian’s place, playing cards. And while we were there, they were here.” She shook her head.

  “Your daughter said she was out that night, too.”

  “Yes. She and my sister’s boy and some of their friends were down for the weekend. All of them from UMass Boston, you know. It was such a pretty April, they all came down a couple weekends that month. Anyway, they went down to Edgartown together, I think. You want to hear something ironic? It’s that I told Jean that since we were going to be out, she and her friends could have their party here at the house. If they’d done that, there wouldn’t have been any robbery. But they already had plans to go to Edgartown, so that’s where they went.”

  “Where did your husband keep the shotgun? Did he have a gun cabinet?”

  “Oh no. He just kept it in the hall closet. He only used it to hunt duck and geese, and when he was through shooting, he’d clean it and put it back in the closet.”

  She led me into the hall and showed me the closet.

  “Who knew it was there?”

  “The police asked us that, too. I don’t know who knew. Anybody, I imagine. It wasn’t a secret, or anything like that. I imagine there are a lot of guns in closets here on the island. Wouldn’t you think so? I mean, if I was looking for a gun, I’d look in the closet. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess I would. Is Jean your only child?”

  “The only one still more or less at home. Her brother lives in Pittsfield with his girlfriend.” The way she said “girlfriend” suggested that she did not approve of the alliance. Then she clarified her meaning: “I wish they’d get married. I just don’t understand these young people these days. When I was her age, John an
d I got married. What’s wrong with that?”

  I showed her my wedding ring, pleaded ignorance, and left, wondering if I’d learned anything useful.

  At home I decided that reheated pork saté would be just fine for supper, set the table, and waited for Zee to get out of work. She drove down our long, sandy driveway about half past five, gave me a kiss, declined my offer of a pre-target-practice martini, changed clothes, got her paper bag of gun, ammo, glasses, and earplugs, and asked if I wanted to go watch her and Manny shoot.

  I said yes, and we drove off to the Rod and Gun Club. There, while I watched, she and Manny talked and shot and talked and shot some more. I stayed out of it. Finally, they were done.

  She and Manny had a last chat while they packed up their gear, and then we went home. While Zee cleaned her Beretta, I fixed up martinis, cheese, crackers, and bluefish pâté. We then went up onto the balcony. There, for a time, there was little talk. The night came gently down.

  “You seemed to be popping away pretty well tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Zee. She sipped her drink. “Manny Fonseca loves to shoot. He really knows what he’s doing.” She paused, then gave me a long look from under her dark lashes. “It’s a funny thing,” she said. “You know how I don’t like guns…”

  “Yes.” Zee was a nurse, a healer.

  “Well, I don’t know how to explain this, but… I like shooting with Manny. At targets. I didn’t like the idea of doing it, and I expected to hate it, and I would never have done it if I hadn’t known that you wanted me to, even though I knew you wouldn’t ever talk about it again. But yesterday, when Manny showed me how the pistol worked and taught me how to hold it and aim it and shoot it, like you might teach somebody else how to hold and shoot a basketball, or hit or pitch a baseball… it was exciting to shoot and hit what I aimed at. To feel that I was the master—not yet, not really, but some day, maybe—that I was the master of the pistol, and that it would do what I wanted it to do. I’m not a rider, but I’ve seen women on horses, and I’ve thought that part of the reason they love riding is that they’re mastering a huge, powerful, dangerous, beautiful animal. That they have all that power and beauty and danger under their control. That’s what, all of a sudden, when I was finally honest with myself, I felt yesterday when I started to shoot the pistol pretty well. Last night I thought about it, and it worried me, and I didn’t know what it meant and wondered if it would happen again. I didn’t know whether to hope it would, or hope it wouldn’t, but I had to find out, so I phoned Manny, and this evening I felt it again. It was like I felt the first time I helped with an open heart surgery: like I was doing something powerful and beautiful, that didn’t need any justification because it was right in itself.”